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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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Cool. I've never seen a production of The Tempest. My experience of Shakespeare as audience as opposed to reader is depressingly limited.
Prospero's brother. Drat. His name I don't remember right now.
Antonio.
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If you're ever in SoCal, I highlyhighlyhighly recommend the Theatricum Botanicum, if Shakespeare's what you're after. Especially their Midsummer Night's Dream, which is sort of their signature piece. It's an outdoor theater, trees growing around and on the stage, and the atmosphere lends itself really well to AMND.