sovay: (Viktor & Mordecai)
For Purim, I slept ten hours and dreamed of Alan Turing curled like a fossil into a scrape of the hillside in the Lake District, which feels as much as anything like a belated recognition of the half-centenary of Penda's Fen (1974). I have been similarly reminded that today is Don Lockwood's lucky day. Hestia lay in the windowsill and I took a walk before the sun rolled over into its present violet smog of sunset.



What with all the Akkadian going around my friendlist lately, it seemed an appropriate occasion to boost the link of Esther with Ištar, as attested by inscriptions in the catacombs of Beit She‘arim. From the second through the fourth centuries CE when the town became a rabbinic center in what had been designated Syria Palaestina following the crushing conclusion of the Jewish–Roman Wars, they functioned as a sort of destination necropolis, drawing their dead from all across the diaspora including the cities of the Phoenician coast and the Kingdom of Himyar; its inscriptions freely mix Greek with Hebrew, Aramaic, Himyarite, often rendering a name originally from one language in the alphabet of another or identifying the same person by both Greek and Semitic names. The name we know as Esther is variously rendered in Greek as Εἰσθήρ (Eisthḗr), Ἰσθήρ (Isthḗr), Ἀσθήρ (Asthḗr), and Ἀστήρ (Astḗr). That this last variation is the same as the Greek for star might be as niftily coincidental as hamantashn sounding like Haman except that one of the dual-named burials was of a woman identified as Ἰσθήρ ἡ κὲ Ἀμφαίθα—Isthḗr hē kè Amphaítha, "Esther also known as Amphaitha." Ἀμφαίνω is a poetic apocope for ἀναφαίνω, to shine forth, to give light. The complex of goddesses which includes Inanna, Ištar, ‘Aštart, Tanit, Aphrodite, and Venus is associated with the planet recognized in the ancient world as the morning and the evening star. In Biblical Hebrew it is called הֵילֵל (helel), the shining. Classical Greek referred to the morning aspect as Φωσφόρος (Phōsphóros), the light-bringer. It is accepted that the pairing of Esther and Amphaitha treats one name as the equivalent of the other, perhaps not so differently from modern traditions of secular and Hebrew names. A first-century Latin epitaph from Puteoli records the existence of a woman named Claudia Aster, taken as a captive in the sack of Jerusalem; in accordance with the evidence of other funerary inscriptions, her second name is agreed to have been originally Esther. These bright links are not merely the product of modern archaeology and linguistics. The Babylonian Talmud explains Esther's name by reference to the Venus-star; the same connection is made by Aramaic targumim. I fell down this research K-hole years ago for a friend who wanted to know why we transliterate אֶסְתֵּר‎ as Esther, to which the answer seemed to be the unsatisfying and plausible "out of a number of dialectally varied options without standard orthography, the Septuagint went with Ἐσθήρ and here we are." Would a random Carthaginian have vocalized the theonym written 𐤕𐤍𐤕 (tnt) as Tanit when the Greek of the Cirta stelae renders the name as Θινιθ (Thinith) or Θεννειθ (Thenneith) and even some of the Punic inscriptions employ the form 𐤕𐤉𐤍𐤕‎ (tynt)? For all the pain in the ass of the rebus of Akkadian, at least it put in the vowels.
sovay: (Lord Peter Wimsey: passion)
The afternoon's mail brought my contributor's copy of Not One of Us #78, containing my poem "Hagstone." It was prompted by a picture taken by a friend of [personal profile] ashlyme's and incorporates some of the cautionary attitude toward antiquities of M. R. James; it belongs to the train issue whose border-blurring motif extends through the stories and poems of Pamela Weis, Lynn Hardaker, Robert Beveridge, Marissa Lingen, Patricia Russo, and more. Please enjoy it to the accompaniment of Chris Smither's "Train Home."

It was a good day for music on WHRB, which introduced me to Lake Street Dive's "Making Do" (2021) and the Black Pumas' "Ice Cream (Pay Phone)" (2023) as I drove to pick up [personal profile] rushthatspeaks for a lovely evening which included sour cherry hamantashn from Mamaleh's and not actually watching any of the movies we talked about except for SNL's "Totino's." On the way home afterward it was Karyn Ellis' "Movie" (2005) and a spectacular assortment of Mexican rock. I am fortunate in the husbands I have in my life.

I have been cheered lately by this use of a kylix, this peat-preserved Bronze Ave village, and everything about this unnecessarily erudite exchange.
sovay: (Jeff Hartnett)
The funny thing about Detective Lieutenant Thomas J. Doyle of the NYPD is not that he was my undoubted introduction to Wendell Corey. The funny thing is that I didn't remember him for years. He should have been too weird to mislay.

To the child I was the first time I saw Rear Window (1954), he didn't look weird at all. He looked rational, which in my passionate identification with the terror and unfairness of not being believed I tuned out except as a stumbling block in the struggle of James Stewart's L. B. Jeffries to convince anyone with the slightest authority or even interest that murder had been committed one thunderous night across the courtyard of his summer-broiled block of Greenwich Village. Especially since his suspicions sat so well with the elegantly tenacious investigations of Grace Kelly's Lisa Fremont and the earthier opinions of Thelma Ritter's Stella, it never occurred to me that Jeff could be wrong—a stir-crazy shutterbug climbing with the heat wave into a fantasy as far-fetched as any of the globe-trotting adventures from which his plaster-cased leg has laid him up for six stultifying weeks. I was in the habit of taking narrators at their word. The relevance of Doyle was his failure to believe the hero, all the more infuriatingly because of the friendliness with which he appeared to hear out and then brush off each new hint of evidence. Whatever else he revealed about himself in the process of fulfilling his obstructive function did not stick with me.

As an adult, the first thing I can see about Doyle—beyond the Technicolor-saturated shock-blue of his eyes, so effective in low-lit scenes where they seem as luminous as Kelly's or Stewart's for that matter—is the deck stacked generically against him. Not only does he represent the law in a story of amateur detection, he's the conduit of sensible, skeptical objections in a film that started as one of the nightmare fictions of Cornell Woolrich, however wittily the screenplay by John Michael Hayes situates it within a snapshot of mid-century lives in New York. He's a sharp dresser, a second-nature kibitzer, and we understand him to have been a skilled reconnaissance pilot during WWII, but it would be a miracle of literary protocols were he to be right that the disappearance of one of the courtyard's residents is the result of a normal marital split rather than the kind which involves dismemberment. He's not a stopped clock, nonetheless. However sarcastically he explains it to Jeff, he's ethically as well as pragmatically right in refusing to search a citizen's apartment without a warrant in hopes of finding the evidence to justify one: "At the risk of sounding stuffy, I'd like to remind you of the Constitution . . . They'd throw the New York State Penal Code right in my face and it's six volumes." Challenged as to whether he can explain the mysterious movements of the murderer-elect, he retorts easily, "No; neither can you. That's a secret, private world you're looking into out there. People do a lot of things in private they couldn't possibly explain in public." On one of its numerous levels, as densely stratified as the infrastructure and architecture of the city it miniaturizes, the film turns on this question of whether Jeff has the right to breach the understood contract of urban living whereby neighbors exist cheek by jowl without getting into one another's business such as is constantly on display this very hot summer when everyone lives with their windows open and their shades up when not actually sleeping out on the fire escape, not alienated from one another like the myth of Kitty Genovese which seems to get its first airing in the accusations which follow the killing of a beloved small dog, but coexisting in the communal pretense of privacy from which Jeff shaving in his pajamas benefits as much as the dancer across the way who starts her exercises in the morning without putting her top on. To his mind, what he has seen through the windows of the Thorwald apartment entitles him to interfere; Doyle disagrees and the film really settles the question only with its second-story denouement in which all sorts of barriers real and imagined are broken, some literally and some ironically and some sweetly most of all. Until then, surely it must be baiting the audience when it reserves the possibility that the cynically experienced cop may have the truth of the situation, especially when he's such a horse's ass about it. "It'll wear off—along with the hallucinations."

Hitchcock prided himself on disconnecting audience sympathy from moral alignment and while Rear Window does not push the proposition as far as something like Psycho (1960) or Vertigo (1958) or even Notorious (1946), it's clever of the film to assign its most reasonable arguments to a character who is hardly a model of reason. However unreliable the photojournalist could turn out to be in his mix of neighborly obsession and nail-biting boredom, Doyle's even less the cool, disinterested observer than Jeff—breezily susceptible, conservatively stubborn, such an incorrigible wisenheimer that even a deserved and icy dismissal can't deter him from getting in the last word. His expert opinion entails a remarkable amount of hanging out at the expense of his old friend's liquor cabinet, occasionally losing the drift of the conversation to the terpsichorean scanties of "Miss Torso." His bland glance at an overnight case spilling over with peach-silky lingerie cogently underscores his point about private worlds, but a leapfrog of logic from Jeff nonplusses him into an incredible, Leo Rosten-ish "Hanh?" The night he intends to close the non-case of Lars Thorwald is a magnificent exposition of failing to read the room with needless cracks about feminine intuition and too obvious an impatience with armchair sleuths until the audience in solidarity with Jeff and Lisa hardens against his entirely plausible interpretation of events. He looks like a sophisticate in his summer suits and his cavalier gesture of trying to toss back a snifter of brandy like a shot leaves him mopping it off his lapels with a self-conscious grin that finds no more purchase on his unamused audience than his genial condescension of the moment before. However Corey landed the role—he had demonstrated a convincing rapport with Stewart in the otherwise inert Carbine Williams (1952)—it could have been tailored to his quick, wry, fallible repertoire, right down to the part where even after Doyle comes through in the crunch, only the authenticity of his concern for a man he's spent most of his screentime gently deriding keeps him from looking like a complete bozo. Jeff, of course, has his own amends to make for failing to see what's in front of him whether through the safely cropped distance of a telephoto lens or his own assumption-blinkered eyes: "Boy, you should've seen her!" Heroically in heels on the fire escape, flashing another woman's ring like a high sign behind her back, Lisa I remembered seeing. Jeff I remembered, too, across the decades he and his story took to come into focus. Doyle, frankly, fucks up so hard, I don't know what my excuse was.

If family memory can be trusted, I really did see Rear Window for the first time following its spoof on Square One TV (1987–92) as Mathnet's "A View from the Rear Terrace" (1988). I rewatched it courtesy of the Minuteman Library Network, but on account of being one of its director's most famous and well-loved productions, it is readily available wherever movies are sold, streamed, or pirated. Happy birthday, Wendell Corey, one hundred and ten years ago. Being forgotten from a formative age feels unfair to every single one of your characters I have met. I'm still yelling at the next dry stone wall I see in the Pioneer Valley on your account. This hallucination brought to you by my secret backers at Patreon.
sovay: (Haruspex: Autumn War)
For the eve of spring, I luxuriated in the poetry shared at [personal profile] radiantfracture's equinoctial salon, sang from Hadestown and read some Akkadian, and walked out with [personal profile] spatch to collect dinner from Guru the Caterer, after which we repaired to TCM for the delightful Ruritanian jazz musical Street Girl (1929). We cheered the second Ned Sparks appeared stonefaced behind his saxophone.

sovay: (Silver: against blue)
After failing to sleep for three nights in a row, I conked out last night well before two in the morning and remained that way for nine or ten hours, which was just as well because this afternoon I had to go to the dentist's. I consoled myself with high-rises on Bowdoin Street.



Reading just now that Edgar Wallace's The Calendar (1930) was novelized from the author's successful stage play of the previous year makes a lot of sense of its talkative, minimally descriptive style, but I nonetheless enjoyed its mix of romance and crime which often reads like proto-Dick Francis, not only because of its detailed setting in the world of British horse racing—even the premise of an owner trying to clear his name after being warned off the turf for a piece of cheating he'll need help proving he changed his mind about at the last minute—but because the plot revolves entirely around the rules and regulations of the Jockey Club. The bookmaker who is one of the protagonist's best friends may be my favorite character, although I really appreciate that the reader can see the protagonist's feelings changing toward the love interest before he can. I am intrigued that the original play was adapted for film twice, both times by Gainsborough. The 1948 version seems readily available on the internet. The problem is that the 1931 version is the one which stars Herbert Marshall, Edna Best, Gordon Harker, Alfred Drayton, Nigel Bruce etc. I hope it hasn't been lost. Trying to trace it under its American title of Bachelor's Folly, I found a 1932 profile of Marshall which attributes his romantic appeal essentially to hurt/comfort. "Show me the woman who can resist the appeal of a handsome, injured man . . ."

I hope it would please Stephen Sondheim that when I encounter an article about the manhunt for John Wilkes Booth, the first phrase to my mind is "C'mere and kill a president!"
sovay: (Claude Rains)
I don't know that I would call Stephen Fisher my favorite Hitchcock villain, but he has lingered with and troubled me for years, which makes him worth the contemplation.

On one level, he may be nothing more than a side effect of the shifting conditions of Foreign Correspondent (1940). Produced just as the phony war was turning into the real thing, the film undergoes a corresponding transformation over the course of its runtime from a pre-war light thriller in its director's own tradition to an urgent piece of up-to-the-minute propaganda as blunt as a broken fourth wall—thirty-nine steps to London after dark in two genre-jolting hours. The farther the eve of war ticks down to midnight, the more clearly the reality of Germany emerges from the Ruritanian static of Borovia, the MacGuffin of Clause 27 falls by the wayside of the headlines of September 1, 1939. As the seat-of-the-pants screwball of jungled umbrellas and prevailing windmills levels out into the cat-and-mouse of classically amateur espionage, the dialogue begins to admit the existence of blackouts and bomb shelters in London. So perhaps does Fisher clarify from an urbanely professional traitor to a deep-cover patriot, one more mask peeled off the depths to which we must recognize the enemy will keep sinking. His Universal Peace Party isn't merely a well-veneered campaign for appeasement, it's a front for strong-arm tactics as brutal as they are surreal, blasting a drugged and kidnapped man with photoflood lighting and big-band jazz. The crudity of personally arranging a murder dismays him as much as the necessity of participating in an interrogation and he sets to it as smoothly as he addresses the audiences who really believe in his conscientious objections. The warning he imparts to the American reporter unwittingly on his trail would give him away to anyone with an ear for double-speaking when he characterizes the hijackers of a prominent anti-fascist statesman as "cunning, unscrupulous—and inspired," but even his daughter who finally comes to suspect him of treason doesn't go so far as to imagine that he might never have owed his allegiance to the country they have lived in all her life. "I've just been worried," she confesses aboard the America-bound clipper they boarded narrowly ahead of the official declaration of war, "but I believed in you." Quick as if it hurts him, her father shakes his head: "You shouldn't."

A Hitchcock veteran if not a regular, Herbert Marshall had starred for the director as a conscience-stricken juror turned amateur detective in Murder! (1930) and lost none of his gentlemanly attraction over the intervening decade even as he eased out of the romance of a leading man; it puts his Fisher at first in a class with Professor Jordan of The 39 Steps (1935) or Phillip Vandamm of North by Northwest (1959), well-mannered, well-respected, well-connected men for whom the business of treason may require certain sacrifices at second hand but never compromise itself with such interference as personal feeling. Well after we've seen his duplicity in action, he remains courteous, humorous, never so controlled that he looks untouchable. His distaste for the harsher aspects of his work may be nothing more than squeamishness when he's willing to let other men bloody their hands with them. His reluctance to involve his daughter in his subversive activities does suggest more conscience than self-preservation when his right-hand man notes the additional difficulties of working around her, but even as he realizes she loves the man he's just sent off to meet with an unfortunate accident, he restrains himself from calling off the hit. Beyond the dramatic shock value and the careless-talk paranoia of wartime, it never made any sense to me that he should turn out to be ethnically German. Nothing about the mechanics of the plot would alter if Fisher were exactly what he seemed from the revelation of his perfidy, a well-bred Englishman whose Nazi sympathies have made it worth his while to promote a disingenuous pacifism while working with foreign agents to help them obtain "a piece of information that would be very valuable to the enemy in the war that breaks out tomorrow, weather permitting." All the twist adds is a dash of xenophobia and a strange complexity which there is barely time left to explore before the flying boat hits the water and the film its entreating epilogue. What I had missed was the previous war's phenomenon of spy fever as recently discussed by [personal profile] philomytha—the specter of German sleeper agents seeded throughout Britain in the most innocuous and naturalized guises which consumed not only popular literature but civilian imagination and official decisions as the country hurtled into World War I. It had not occurred to me that Foreign Correspondent could have been produced so near the outbreak of hostilities proper that it would draw more on the tropes of the older war because the newer ones had not yet been established. If it were still gearing up to the latest in propaganda, however, it would account for the otherwise curious sympathy the film extends to its not even honorable enemy with a generosity reminiscent of erstwhile war pictures as recent as Powell and Pressburger's The Spy in Black (1939) and unthinkable by the time Hitchcock returned to World War II with Saboteur (1942), whose Nazi agents really are the home-grown fifth columnists that Fisher only resembles. There's no percentage in it, nationalistically speaking. But there is a remarkable pain in the speech he makes to the daughter he loves more than anything else in his double life, the last illusions of which he is forced to disabuse her before they leave the charmed space of the air and the justice of the war-kindled earth catches up to him:

"Carol, I've got to talk to you. I don't want to, but I've got to. It's the hardest part of the whole thing, talking to you now. I don't mind about the rest, really . . . I'm to be arrested when we land. As a spy. Shipped back to London. That's quite all right, except just the one phase of it—you. That's why I've got to talk to you. I should like you to think of me a little from my own point of view. It might help you, afterwards. First about yourself, my deceiving you. I had to, you know, I didn't want you involved in any part of it because you're English—half English, anyway—I'm not, I'm just coated with an English accent. It's a very thin coat. I've fought for my country in my heart in a very difficult way because sometimes it's harder to fight dishonorably than nobly in the open. And I've used my country's methods because I was born with them. I don't intend making this sort of plea to the court-martial. I'm making it only to my daughter whom I've loved dearly and before whom I feel a little ashamed."

It is not an absolution. Even allowing for how much the divers hands of the screenplay would not have known about Nazism in 1940, Fisher remains off north of the moral compass by the sheer fact that whatever he may have done to his discredit, what he's sorriest about is the hurt he's caused his daughter by getting caught. Even so, just the way his sure-footed public speaker's voice suddenly stutters, stumbles as if in spite of itself into lines like a very thin coat suggests some more troubled history of assimilation and alienation than mere loyalty of blood and soil, neither the dispassionate mastermind nor the fanatical dupe; it takes him out of archetype and into his own unanswerable and problematic self without which he could not be let out of the film heroically, for his daughter to find strength in his memory even as she agrees to the publication of his crimes. "My father fought for his country his way. It wasn't a straight way, but it was a hard way. And I've got to fight for my country—the hard way." On the other side of the war, this figure of the Nazi's daughter will become the much more compromised heroine of Notorious (1946), shape-shifting herself to make up for her father's shame. Here at its beginning, he can still be saluted as much as watched out for, the enemy who is so very like ourselves.

Because the film changed so often in production as world-historical events around it did the same, I cannot tell without research if Fisher was always intended to take the shape he did, but the net result is that for all the vivid, often dream-logical images with which Foreign Correspondent supplies its viewer, from a lethal camera-flash to a rice-paper shatter of sea, the only character who holds up comparably in my memory is George Sanders' Scott ffolliott, the amiably ambiguous co-lead who can explicate the niceties of Tudor decapitalization during a car chase, essay an improvisation in counterterrorism as if he's filing copy, and launch himself out of a hotel window into an awning full of rain with the same aplomb with which he leaves instructions to cancel his rhumba lesson, none of which protects him from fear or embarrassment or danger of his life. It fits him into the chiaroscuro, off-kilter and no joke. The weird little not so lesser light that is Foreign Correspondent would be even stronger if the same could be said of Joel McCrea's Johnny Jones or Laraine Day's Carol Fisher. Their blatantly allegorical endgame is a mutual awakening from the sidelines of their innocence in order to exchange it for a common responsibility—fighting Nazis—but however sincerely they speedrun a romance or broadcast while the bombs fall, they never really pick up the ambivalence in which their shared ally thrives as much as their poignant antagonist, the signature of their split, startling world. If it was an accident of history, so much the better. It ends up feeling like the most real thing. Perhaps I return to Fisher simply because I can't explain him, as in life he never tried to explain himself. "Thanks," he dryly acknowledges a refusal to condemn him totally, seconds from the irony of enemy action that will overturn the state of play once again. "It's a minority report, but very welcome." This coat brought to you by my hard backers at Patreon.
sovay: (Silver: against blue)
In the late afternoon, [personal profile] spatch and I hared forth into the wilds of Lexington, by which I mean the part of the Battle Road Trail through the Minute Man Historical National Park that would bring us to the Bloody Bluff. I even knew about assorted earthquakes in Massachusetts and had no idea until late last fall that a fault zone ran through the town in which I partly grew up. It records the subduction of the Avalon terrane beneath the Nashoba terrane during the Silurian period, one of those geologically slow-motion collisions that can still be seen in the twisting contact of magmatic and metamorphic rocks. Apparently the local chances of a major earthquake within the next fifty years are only about two percent, which of course makes me think instantly of Elio annoyed with himself in the Annuate Palace of Time City while his hair drips with rain: "I weighed the odds . . . and decided against having a rain-shield function on any of our belts. My calculation was that we would be outside in only two percent of the year's rainfall. What I forgot is that two percent is as wet as any other rain."

En route we stopped in Lexington Center so that I could collect my copy of Ernest K. Gann's The High and the Mighty (1953) from the library. I had become curious about the novel after encountering the 1954 film which I had not realized was so much the parent and original of the star-studded disaster flick and specifically the reason Robert Stack ended up in Airplane! (1980). We ended up perusing the perpetual book sale on the second floor and coming away with Howard Padwee and Valerie Moolman's The Cat Who Couldn't See in the Dark (1997) and Alan Bennett's House Arrest: Pandemic Diaries (2022) after hitting up the Theatre Pharmacy for 100 Grand and Charleston Chew bars—I had previously discovered them selling the Big Cherry Milkshake, the closest thing I have seen to a Cherry Mash since the days of the Big Broadcasts.

After a concerted effort on the part of Rob's phone to misdirect us into the wilds of Bedford, we attained our destination.

We're all riders round the sun. )

We collected the car before sunset and returned home with the first barbecue I have eaten in nine months. I admit I was less than thrilled to see as soon as I turned on the internet that J.K. Rowling has moved right down the pipeline to Holocaust denial, especially when it includes the claim that gender-affirming care was an invention of the Nazis as opposed to Magnus Hirschfeld—I suppose it makes a change from the Jews turning your children trans—and then the next piece of news after the cat pictures was the death of Michael Culver. I will have to find something to watch in his memory. He will always look like Prior Robert or Captain Needa to me. Fortunately, the burnt ends and collards were delicious and further poking at the internet revealed that [personal profile] moon_custafer has written some most excellent pre-slash starring the young Marcus Brody. Hestia kneaded a little in the blanket at my feet. I still think of her paws as so small and delicate and she uses them mercilessly to rabbit-kick the catnip pickle. I definitely feel better when I get out into the world.
sovay: (Viktor & Mordecai)
It is the tenth birthday of Hestia Hermia Linsky-Noyes; lhude sing meaw. I took her official birthday picture by afternoon sunlight and the enticing rustle beyond the window of bird theater. She has one small paw now braced in the blinds, her ears hunter-swiveled.



Do you believe in a brighter day? )

Otherwise I had an appointment which permitted me to walk around Fort Point in the brilliant not quite spring winds and a welcomely supportive interaction with the Traffic & Parking Department of the City of Somerville. I was told I didn't look my age by the same person who addressed me as "my dear," briefly suggesting I had slipped through one of the less stressful portions of a Mary Renault novel. The sun when I had walked for long enough to take my coat off felt like a hand laid against my back.

I was sorry to learn that in the three years since my last encounter with The Sea Shall Not Have Them (1954), my favorite actor in it had—at a sensible near-centenarian age—died, but it was from his obituary I discovered to my immeasurable delight that Ian Whittaker was much better known as a set decorator and art director for productions as varied as The Devils (1971), Tommy (1975), The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), Alien (1979), Dragonslayer (1981), Highlander (1986), Howards End (1992), Sense and Sensibility (1995), and The Importance of Being Earnest (2002), just to select a handful I have seen. As A.C.2. Milliken, the seasick and slightly flammable medical orderly of Launch 2561, he reminded me oddly around the eyebrows of Denholm Elliott and I am charmed that the resemblance persisted into later life.
sovay: (Viktor & Mordecai)
Whatever was left of my sleep schedule seems to have departed with the lost hour of Daylight Saving Time, but for my mother's birthday observed this evening, I made her a sticky toffee pudding. I had never essayed a recipe in this family before. My father assisted by applying an immersion blender to the chopped dates when it transpired that the Cuisinart had died and all ingredients would have to be combined by me and a whisk; he also handled the making of the extra sauce while I did the same with the toffee sauce within the window of time it took the pudding itself to bake in an oven that fortunately stayed at temperature as it has not always been doing recently. It came out moist and spongy and far lighter than I had expected from anything with a base of reconstituted dried fruit. Its one downside as a celebratory dessert was our suspicion that it could not be decorated with candles unless we wanted to swirl wax into the toffee still bubbling from the broiler, but we did stick a candle into my mother's serving so that we could properly sing to her. She loved it, which was the goal of the exercise. She expressed delight over the stack of books which comprised her presents. My brother and niece called in on the talkie window and were duly promised pudding, since my niece arrives for a flying visit tomorrow. She meows at me whenever I chirrup at her, even though long-distance glass. I still don't feel as though I am feeling better, but the last thing I remember baking from scratch was for Thanksgiving.
sovay: (Sovay: David Owen)
It really is not true of all the shorts I see, but I wish Channel Incident (1940) were a feature film. At nine and a half minutes, it has little time for more than a tableau of the Dunkirk evacuation, but its twist on national heroism so folklorically anticipates more inclusive revisions that the Ministry of Information should have put some other propaganda in the five-minute weekly free slot and let Two Cities or Ealing have a crack at the human interest.

The phlegmatically anonymous title gives no hint that its plot is the stuff of broadside ballads: when the all-hands call comes in from the Admiralty, the heroine wiping the engine grease off her hands sees no sense in turning over the motor yacht registered in her husband's name when she might take it out herself in hopes of finding him among the stranded soldiers of the British Expeditionary Force. "But you know what it's for, don't you, miss?" she's warned anxiously. "I mean, they won't let a woman." Her reply is confident as conspiracy: "They needn't know." She has a young lion's face; in trousers and a man's loose oilskin, her brown curls packed beneath a knit balaclava and a tin hat and her voice clipped low for the naval officer on the docks at Ramsgate, she looks like many a woman who went to war before her, a credible boy. She doesn't pass so well that the soldier who offered the services of his Bren gun isn't shortly rapping on her helmet with a mock-reproving "Here, does your mother know you're out?" but he settles down with a grin when she coolly replies in the middle of the night and the Channel, "Does the sergeant-major know you're here?" She holds her course under the whines and crashes of bombing and strafing runs, hauls the jetsam weight of men from the debris of swimming-deep water, calls to each new cargo of evacuees that she ferries to the minesweepers and naval trawlers standing out past the shallows of the beaches, "Any of you seen Number Three Company, 4th Division, REs?" Time and again the answer is no; she turns back toward the lines of wading, waiting men.

Even without the title card of the MOI, the film would never be accused of disguising its propaganda. Peggy Ashcroft is playing such an Everywoman that her never-named protagonist is actually credited as "She," rather in the same way that the Wanderer is tied up at the jetty of the helpfully archetypal "North Island Sailing Club." Since the National Service Act 1941 has not yet made women liable to conscription into the auxiliary services such as the ATS, the WRNS, or the WAAF, her patriotism is domestically inflected, signaled by her wistful fingering of the pipe which is her missing man's sigil and then spelled out as she steers through the salt-spray night: "You mean the real skipper? He's over there, Johnnie. We're going to fetch him back." As the relentless work of the evacuation wears on without a familiar face among the rounds of wounded and waterlogged men, she begins to ask herself dizzily, "Where is he? Oh, God, where is he?" Could the Bechdel–Wallace test have been introduced to cinema-going lesbians of the Blitz era, they would have agreed en masse that Channel Incident fails it like a shot. Even so, its can-do spirit means it wastes no time on special pleading for its heroine's competence and initiative, which are taken as read by the men she de facto commands for her share of Operation Dynamo. Gordon Harker's Ferris and Kenneth Griffith's Johnnie may be respectively too old and too young for military service and therefore suitable for relegation to the blurring lines of women's work, but Robert Newton's Tanner is able-bodied and in uniform and cheerfully affirms their positions with that first night's "Okay, skipper!" None of the men she drives herself to exhaustion rescuing seem to find anything strange about a woman lending them a hand over the gunwales, not even the joker who remonstrates with the sailor who throws him a boat hook, "Who do you think you are, Bo bloody Peep?" Most importantly, the collective miracle of the little ships keeps her heroism from revolving entirely around her husband. She hasn't failed when she finds him ashore in England, a wounded man carefully unloaded from a destroyer with a cigarette between his fingers even as he's rolled up to the ambulance. Some strangers with a motor launch or a barge or a fishing smack helped him to safety, just as she relayed her own strangers home. In different places, they were still in it together. "Well, here I am."

Channel Incident was produced and directed by Anthony Asquith in September 1940, his first foray into the subject matter of war that would furnish as wide a range of films as the espionage quirks of Cottage to Let (1941) or the well-made attrition of The Way to the Stars (1945); it was written by Dallas Bower and Lewis Anselm da Costa Ritchie under his naval pen name of Bartimeus and may eschew almost all of the popular myths of Dunkirk. The photography by Bernard Knowles is documentary-style on a budget—tight and close on the characters so that if the water isn't open, the audience'll never know—and the interpolation of historical footage allows the smoke-billowed beaches of Dunkirk and their straggling soldiers in long shot to play themselves, a trick repeated at the end of the film to intercut Ashcroft at the end of her hope among the tired, daylit troops disembarking onto British soil at last. Perhaps at feature length it would have slackened if not sufficiently built out from its field-stripped premise, but as a one-reeler it's so compact that it feels spring-loaded. I shall fantasize that it might have been directed by Leslie Howard, who co-directed my beloved Pygmalion (1938) with Asquith and demonstrated his respect for the wartime heroism of women with The Gentle Sex (1943), itself originally conceived by Moie Charles as a short documentary for the MOI. In the universe of films we actually got, I'd pair the two as short and feature, or just yield to the obvious and screen this one before Dunkirk (1958). It can be viewed on its own thanks to the digitization efforts of the Imperial War Museum. I cannot but imagine it was on the radar of Lissa Evans when writing Their Finest Hour and a Half (2009). It is apparently the case that Winston Churchill really liked it. This company brought to you by my looking backers at Patreon.
sovay: (Haruspex: Autumn War)
I categorically refuse to do the research required to write it, but [personal profile] spatch agrees with me that a fossilized forest discovered near a holiday camp is a Sapphire & Steel/Hi-de-Hi! crossover waiting to happen.
sovay: (Jeff Hartnett)
All right, Boston-type people who care about film noir. Every Monday from mid-March through late May, the Somerville Theatre will be running a noir double feature as part of their repertory series Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. It is an enticing selection of classics and deep cuts of which I have seen all but four features, but the $64,000 question is whether I will able to see, at last, on 35 mm at the size it deserves, the superlative queerness of Johnny Eager (1942), whether I chase it or not a month later with the slant companion of I Walk Alone (1947). Pre-2020, I would have parked myself in the balcony for more than half of this series, but I have spent four years dedicatedly avoiding extended stints in the company of strangers and I am not quite ready to trust the CDC as to the common-cold negligibility of the persistent plague. On the other hand, which almost certainly has a drink and a half-chain-smoked cigarette in it, there are few characters even in noir whom I love like Van Heflin's Jeff Hartnett, a man who can slouch even flat on his back and misquote most of the Western canon while he's doing it. "Mr. Freud, take a letter." I am beginning to feel slightly stalked by Sorry, Wrong Number (1948).
sovay: (Rotwang)
Today was more frustrating, disappointing, and exhausting than I had wanted, but at least it afforded me the opportunity to visit Mei Mei for the first time since its relocation to South Boston and conversion into a dumpling hot spot, crucially retaining the comfort food supreme of the Double Awesome, whose scallion pancake wrap of soft-boiled eggs with cheddar and pesto remains as addictively satisfying as the first time it tempted me past my native textural aversions ten years ago. The presence of a Tatte literally next door meant I could chase it with a square of almond-crusted pistachio cherry tart which there is no reason for me not to have eaten in the last four years, except that for a few vivid months I used to purchase it before walking from one appointment in Kendall Square to another at MGH and then suddenly it was no longer part of my routine to make that trip on foot across the Longfellow Bridge or indeed much of anywhere except the flowering rounds of Winter Hill. I have to get used to carrying my camera around the city again. I found myself looking down on the tracks and catenaries and cars of the Red Line at Cabot Yard, tilt-shift toy-sized from West 4th Street: it seems inconceivable the last time could have been six years ago. I saw the Seussian striped light poles of the Millers River Littoral Way. I forgot to mention the day I took my niece to North Point Park, I glimpsed the new North Washington Street Bridge, a white fish spine instead of a rust-trussed swing span. I hope there will still be moon jellies rippling in the water off the footpath beneath.
sovay: (Sovay: David Owen)
For the first time in our current ward and precinct, [personal profile] spatch and I did not have to prove our identities before voting tonight. The difference was magical: instead of Kafkaesque obstruction which our papers could only provisionally resolve, we were presented with ballots, which we cast and were out of there in five minutes flat. We had earlier in the evening enjoyed dinner from Guru the Caterer, which only took us seventeen months of walking past on a regular basis to try rather than just inhale like a beggar in a folktale—admittedly for almost half that time I was medically prohibited takeout. I rejoice in a local source of goat curry, especially on nights when the combo includes the option of palak paneer and roti and rice and pickle into the bargain, which is most of a thali without the plate. I had never actually seen bread pakora in a restaurant before and probably would try it. I am still sufficiently new to eating from restaurants again that it feels like a treat each time.
sovay: (Silver: against blue)
In an extravagant expenditure of whatever energy I had gained from finally sleeping a normal number of hours last night, I walked this evening with [personal profile] spatch into Porter Square in order to look for a stuffed animal for my mother, who has a procedure tomorrow. We arrived ten minutes too late for the actual toy store whose hours the internet had misled us about, but Porter Square Books came through in the clinch with a most plush and huggable duck—קאַטשקע⁩ was her childhood nickname. Home with groceries, we made chili with ground beef and black beans and cornbread to serve it over and I am now engaged in an attempt to imitate the action of the Hestia, who is curled up tight at the other end of the couch. Earlier as we walked out, Rob made some studies of me and my shadow. I had promised photographic evidence of the mermaid lamp on my desk to [personal profile] theseatheseatheopensea.

Help me sing the loneliness of the sea. )

I have now listened to four songs by Oisín Leech off his upcoming solo debut Cold Sea (2024)—"October Sun," "Colour of the Rain," and "One Hill Further" are the other three. I like all of them and their videos feel like hauntings, which I also like.
sovay: (Rotwang)
Our street is surging with water like a stream. The sidewalks are part of the flood. Hestia is safe and warm under the sunlamp, her tail curled temple-cat around her desk.



I like the meditative harbor lights and the salt-spectral forecast of Oisín Leech's "Maritime Radio" (2024).
sovay: (Haruspex: Autumn War)
Rabbit, rabbit! We have a pigeon in our back porch. Presumably it is sheltering from the cold, having flown in like everyone else through the absence of door. [personal profile] spatch saw it this morning and reports that the dead bugs which normally cover the windowsill have inexplicably vanished. So as not to spook it, I did my best to photograph it through the kitchen window, hence the environment of multiple reflections. I hope it feels safe. Hestia has not yet noticed its existence.



I was reminded earlier this afternoon of the tartan that came out of a bog. It even looks as though it can be worn by people who can't trace their ancestry to bog bodies. Less pleasantly, I was reminded of an article about Tesla cars by reading about the Odysseus moon landing. I understand it really wasn't a wash, but "unqualified success" seems a strong translation of "even heroically last-minute engineering salvaged only partial data thanks to a major missed pre-flight checklist step among other inherent glitches." I would like to feel unmixedly cheerful about new space exploration and it's hard when it's all the same language of disruption and innovation that data-scrapes my life and makes my city less and less habitable.

For reasons that are not medically mystifying, the significantly blurred vision in one eye with which I have been dealing for the last week is my new normal for the foreseeable future. I am not looking for advice; it should resolve without complications; I am just complaining, especially since it interferes most with my ability to look at screens. I have been recommended to black out one lens of my glasses with gauze and tape. Seriously an eyepatch seems more dashing and less trouble.
sovay: (Viktor & Mordecai)
For Leap Day, [personal profile] rushthatspeaks made a point of asking me to marry him, to which the answer was—as always—always.

Please enjoy this now more than hundred-year-old queer anthem. I don't know how I can keep forgetting that Ute Lemper was Ceres in Prospero's Books (1991).
sovay: (Silver: against blue)
We had talked about the Public Garden, but instead I took my niece to North Point Park. We talked about the importance of railways and rivers and she perched like a leopard in the climbing structure. I showed her the fragment of Millers River still running beside the graded dunes of the Boston Sand and Gravel Company and pointed out the former Charles River Dam under the Museum of Science and the current Charles River Dam on the far side of the Zakim. She was indifferent to the skate park, but riveted by the drawbridge and the trains across it. Fortunately, we had a camera.

I don't mean to bore you 'cause you know I adore you. )

Our upstairs neighbors have acquired a keyboard. We are suffering in not silence.
sovay: (Sovay: David Owen)
The introduction of my niece to the park on Capen Street was a success: she wants to come back in summer, when the little sea-sculptured fountains are working. In the meantime, she swung back and forth on the track line of the larger climbing structure and adroitly avoided the bossiness of another child who was trying to order all of her friends to follow her over a prescribed route. We made grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner and she seemed to enjoy the industrial-musical cool jazz of Shirley Clarke's Skyscraper (1960), the interiors of which eventually resulted in my father unearthing my grandparents' Selectric for her to type on, although it will need an intense dusting first. I came home correspondingly fried and [personal profile] spatch hit me with Harry Elfont and Deborah Kaplan's Josie and the Pussycats (2001), which has a genuine pop-punk banger of a soundtrack and suggests Frank Tashlin tackling the '90's anxiety of selling out. A chain of perfectly logical music choices afterward led eventually to the greatest version of "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair" that will ever be recorded. Tomorrow I believe the plan is for a larger park.

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