I meant to write a movie review yesterday, but Tuesday as I recall it was composed primarily of working, trudging errands in the rain, and falling over suddenly in the evening for two hours' sleep, none of which are exactly conducive to critical analysis. Now I've watched another movie tonight and all of a sudden I have a queue. And a story I'm in the last scene of. And the same lower back pain that interferes with my picking up chairs. I may give up on critique and just throw things at this screen. I hope we're all good with that.
I did not drown getting to the mead tasting on Monday, but the storm broke my umbrella on the driving concrete plains between Trum Field and Ball Square; I arrived at Ball Square Wines slightly shell-shocked and wringing-wet. The store was crowded to the point of dancefloor with curious drinkers in similar condition and the occasional regular fighting against the current. Terms of entry included showing your ID and leaving your umbrella at the door. It was a maelstrom and totally worth it.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gaudior met me after waiting out the cloudburst somewhere on Broadway; we tried somewhere around a dozen kinds of mead and cider, of which Moonlight Meadery's Sensual was the one I liked enough to bring a bottle home ("It's like being punched in the face with a beehive, except it's a pleasant experience"), and I watched her try to make an origami beer can for the Kesslers we ran into at the second cider station, except we're not sure she was quite drunk enough. derspatchel turned up after the mob had dispersed and we walked home in time to catch the double rainbow over Winter Hill. It kept brightening, new bands of color coming visible as we moved up Broadway: there were at least three layers of violet we could count, vibrating against the grey-blue washed sky. Everyone was taking pictures. Rob did, although they may be locked. The light from under the clouds made each end seem to melt to sunlight on a patch-glowing roof. We had planned to drink the mead when we got home, but there turned out not to be a corkscrew in the apartment. We made grilled cheese and ham in my skillet instead, set off the smoke alarm—which talks—and repaired to my room with a DVD handful_ofdust sent me in January for a late tribute to Peter Cushing. We watched Twins of Evil (1971).
This is the movie I wanted to watch for Cushing's birthday in May, when I didn't realize the DVD was still in Lexington and settled for enjoying The Abominable Snowman (1957). Having finally seen it, I'm not really surprised to find he's the aspect of the film I want most to talk about. The rest of it isn't worthless—if nothing else, it has great cinematography. (I was interested to see afterward that the same director was responsible for The Legend of Hell House (1973); some of the curious framing of faces and interior architecture is reminiscent. I noticed more at the time that it recalled Dutch portraits of the correct century or still lives.) But I can describe all the rest of the characters simply: Count Karnstein is an open-shirted libertine who offers up his soul to Satan out of existential ennui and is still kind of a poseur afterward; choirmaster Anton is the Enlightenment hero whose rational approach to superstition makes him the go-to for accurate vampire advice; the eponymous twins Maria and Frieda—Mary and Madeleine Collinson, Playboy Playmates of October 1970—are a classic virgin/vamp split, the shy, sweet-natured one living in the shadow of her brazenly seductive sister. Katy Weil is a stronger and more nuanced figure than her handful of lines, but I credit that entirely to Kathleen Byron, whom I've followed ever since Black Narcissus (1947) and The Small Back Room (1949). The Count has a sort of Renfield in the form of Dennis Price, with the hopeless job of organizing a diversion perverted enough for his master whom even a Black Mass bores. The choirmaster has a sister who doesn't last as long as I thought she would. Several girls who are neither witches nor vampires burn for it all the same. Any time we're watching Cushing, though, the characterization is something else again.
( What plumage is this? )
There should have been more of this. It's too late now. Oh, God, I have to sleep.
I did not drown getting to the mead tasting on Monday, but the storm broke my umbrella on the driving concrete plains between Trum Field and Ball Square; I arrived at Ball Square Wines slightly shell-shocked and wringing-wet. The store was crowded to the point of dancefloor with curious drinkers in similar condition and the occasional regular fighting against the current. Terms of entry included showing your ID and leaving your umbrella at the door. It was a maelstrom and totally worth it.
gaudior met me after waiting out the cloudburst somewhere on Broadway; we tried somewhere around a dozen kinds of mead and cider, of which Moonlight Meadery's Sensual was the one I liked enough to bring a bottle home ("It's like being punched in the face with a beehive, except it's a pleasant experience"), and I watched her try to make an origami beer can for the Kesslers we ran into at the second cider station, except we're not sure she was quite drunk enough. derspatchel turned up after the mob had dispersed and we walked home in time to catch the double rainbow over Winter Hill. It kept brightening, new bands of color coming visible as we moved up Broadway: there were at least three layers of violet we could count, vibrating against the grey-blue washed sky. Everyone was taking pictures. Rob did, although they may be locked. The light from under the clouds made each end seem to melt to sunlight on a patch-glowing roof. We had planned to drink the mead when we got home, but there turned out not to be a corkscrew in the apartment. We made grilled cheese and ham in my skillet instead, set off the smoke alarm—which talks—and repaired to my room with a DVD handful_ofdust sent me in January for a late tribute to Peter Cushing. We watched Twins of Evil (1971).This is the movie I wanted to watch for Cushing's birthday in May, when I didn't realize the DVD was still in Lexington and settled for enjoying The Abominable Snowman (1957). Having finally seen it, I'm not really surprised to find he's the aspect of the film I want most to talk about. The rest of it isn't worthless—if nothing else, it has great cinematography. (I was interested to see afterward that the same director was responsible for The Legend of Hell House (1973); some of the curious framing of faces and interior architecture is reminiscent. I noticed more at the time that it recalled Dutch portraits of the correct century or still lives.) But I can describe all the rest of the characters simply: Count Karnstein is an open-shirted libertine who offers up his soul to Satan out of existential ennui and is still kind of a poseur afterward; choirmaster Anton is the Enlightenment hero whose rational approach to superstition makes him the go-to for accurate vampire advice; the eponymous twins Maria and Frieda—Mary and Madeleine Collinson, Playboy Playmates of October 1970—are a classic virgin/vamp split, the shy, sweet-natured one living in the shadow of her brazenly seductive sister. Katy Weil is a stronger and more nuanced figure than her handful of lines, but I credit that entirely to Kathleen Byron, whom I've followed ever since Black Narcissus (1947) and The Small Back Room (1949). The Count has a sort of Renfield in the form of Dennis Price, with the hopeless job of organizing a diversion perverted enough for his master whom even a Black Mass bores. The choirmaster has a sister who doesn't last as long as I thought she would. Several girls who are neither witches nor vampires burn for it all the same. Any time we're watching Cushing, though, the characterization is something else again.
( What plumage is this? )
There should have been more of this. It's too late now. Oh, God, I have to sleep.
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