![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
And Fortinbras, knee-deep in Danes, lived happy ever after
I am starting to lose track of days again, which never says anything good about my sleep. Yesterday I spent the afternoon with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sairaali, first looking at classical depictions of Medusa and Gorgons and then walking from Davis to Union Square, and in the evening rushthatspeaks and I made steak for dinner with chimichurri and broccoli roasted with cumin and paprika and watched the pudding episode of the first season of The Great British Bake Off, which left us researching forms of pudding we had never actually heard of at an hour of the night when it was completely impractical to cook them. Tonight gaudior was around for dinner, so we made a savory bread pudding with half a loaf of challah and various refrigerator-handy ingredients—feta, avocado, sweet potatoes, and last night's chimichurri—after which I ran to the HFA to see Grigori Kozintsev's Hamlet (Гамлет, 1964) for the first time on a big screen. I had watched the film on DVD in 2009; the subtitles annoyed me, but Innokenty Smoktunovsky was instantly my favorite Hamlet on film. He inspired my poem "Heaven and Sea, Horatio" (Mythic Delirium #22, June 2010) and a cycle of drowned Hamlet poems from my friendlist that I still wish someone would collect and publish. He remains my favorite, with his intense, ironic, intelligent face and his vivid movements. I don't like any of the photographs I can find of him because they make him look too handsome. [edit: Got one!] He's not dreamy; he's not romantic. He dies by the sea, as he should: he mused on his death there. The film closes as it opens, with the music of a funeral rite and the whitened waves beneath the bright grey sky of Elsinore; murdered kings and sweet princes come and go, but the sea is always there and someday it will take the stones of Elsinore more finally than any usurping brother or Norwegian successor. I don't care about the cuts to the text. I like the emphasis on politics and public space, on Elsinore as a real place with courtiers inside and peasants outside and visiting diplomats who talk in worried French and German and cold rooms where the sea-draft stirs the tapestries rather than a theater of the mind. I spotted nineweaving in the audience afterward and we went for ice cream at J.P. Licks. derspatchel and I have finished the second season of Agent Carter (2015–) and I really hope there's a third one, because I think the show is just getting better as it goes on. I would really like to sleep more than five hours a night again.
sairaali, first looking at classical depictions of Medusa and Gorgons and then walking from Davis to Union Square, and in the evening rushthatspeaks and I made steak for dinner with chimichurri and broccoli roasted with cumin and paprika and watched the pudding episode of the first season of The Great British Bake Off, which left us researching forms of pudding we had never actually heard of at an hour of the night when it was completely impractical to cook them. Tonight gaudior was around for dinner, so we made a savory bread pudding with half a loaf of challah and various refrigerator-handy ingredients—feta, avocado, sweet potatoes, and last night's chimichurri—after which I ran to the HFA to see Grigori Kozintsev's Hamlet (Гамлет, 1964) for the first time on a big screen. I had watched the film on DVD in 2009; the subtitles annoyed me, but Innokenty Smoktunovsky was instantly my favorite Hamlet on film. He inspired my poem "Heaven and Sea, Horatio" (Mythic Delirium #22, June 2010) and a cycle of drowned Hamlet poems from my friendlist that I still wish someone would collect and publish. He remains my favorite, with his intense, ironic, intelligent face and his vivid movements. I don't like any of the photographs I can find of him because they make him look too handsome. [edit: Got one!] He's not dreamy; he's not romantic. He dies by the sea, as he should: he mused on his death there. The film closes as it opens, with the music of a funeral rite and the whitened waves beneath the bright grey sky of Elsinore; murdered kings and sweet princes come and go, but the sea is always there and someday it will take the stones of Elsinore more finally than any usurping brother or Norwegian successor. I don't care about the cuts to the text. I like the emphasis on politics and public space, on Elsinore as a real place with courtiers inside and peasants outside and visiting diplomats who talk in worried French and German and cold rooms where the sea-draft stirs the tapestries rather than a theater of the mind. I spotted nineweaving in the audience afterward and we went for ice cream at J.P. Licks. derspatchel and I have finished the second season of Agent Carter (2015–) and I really hope there's a third one, because I think the show is just getting better as it goes on. I would really like to sleep more than five hours a night again.
no subject
no subject
I very highly recommend it! It made some aspects of Kozintsev's interpretation snap into focus in a way I hope to write about, someday when I can actually sleep again. [edit] Also it's just very beautiful to look at, which never hurts.