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Anne Francis stars in Forbidden Planet
Most of the last twenty-four hours were composed densely of fail, to the point that in self-defense I purchased a pound each of pistachio and almond flour and the book on Francis Bacon I had been eyeing for some weeks now at Raven Used Books; this is an accidental conjunction. I do not have the skills required to bake a meringue in the shape of a scream-streaked Pope, much as I'm now curious to do so. I met ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nineweaving at Burdick's, read a poem by John Stallworthy. It rained drearily and a passerby with an importunate umbrella tried to knock off my hat. The evening, thank God, involved dim sum and Forbidden Planet (1956), which I watched with Eric et al. for the first time since high school. Robby the Robot. Morbius—a philologist: knowing I loved my books—in his unconscious magician's black. Electronic tonalities, theremin and tape loops: the sonic landscape of science fiction that we now take for granted. I love J. Michael Straczynski, but I can't imagine what the projected remake will look like. By a similar token, while I am looking forward immensely to Julie Taymor's take on The Tempest, I do not understand Prospera. If Cate Blanchett can out-Dylan Zimmerman and Tilda Swinton illumine Gabriel and Orlando, Helen Mirren should make a magnificent Prospero, damn the pronouns and full speed ahead. This is Shakespeare. It comes with built-in genderfuck. At least I have the filmed War Requiem (1988) to look forward to, if I can find a region-free DVD player. Benjamin Britten by Derek Jarman with Wilfred Owen besides. thomasfreund, I'm looking at you. These are the chains my brain runs in: I can't fall asleep before I free-associate another link, but at least I can stop typing.
nineweaving at Burdick's, read a poem by John Stallworthy. It rained drearily and a passerby with an importunate umbrella tried to knock off my hat. The evening, thank God, involved dim sum and Forbidden Planet (1956), which I watched with Eric et al. for the first time since high school. Robby the Robot. Morbius—a philologist: knowing I loved my books—in his unconscious magician's black. Electronic tonalities, theremin and tape loops: the sonic landscape of science fiction that we now take for granted. I love J. Michael Straczynski, but I can't imagine what the projected remake will look like. By a similar token, while I am looking forward immensely to Julie Taymor's take on The Tempest, I do not understand Prospera. If Cate Blanchett can out-Dylan Zimmerman and Tilda Swinton illumine Gabriel and Orlando, Helen Mirren should make a magnificent Prospero, damn the pronouns and full speed ahead. This is Shakespeare. It comes with built-in genderfuck. At least I have the filmed War Requiem (1988) to look forward to, if I can find a region-free DVD player. Benjamin Britten by Derek Jarman with Wilfred Owen besides. thomasfreund, I'm looking at you. These are the chains my brain runs in: I can't fall asleep before I free-associate another link, but at least I can stop typing.
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I can imagine a father behaving towards his daughter as Prospero does Miranda, but for a mother to do so needs more textual explanation than Shakespeare gives.
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Playing Prospero as a woman or a woman playing Prospero as a man?
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In school, I saw Richard II and Merchant of Venice played by all girls and had no problem with it. It was feminizing Prospero that didn't work for me.
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Thanks. I hadn't even thought about the additional character work; I just found it unnecessary.