Da blir det en god og musikalsk jul!!! :)
(according to Scara!)
So, here's Scaramouche's own list of people she finds should have been included and should have reached a HIGHER rating on a list of best acting-performance-in-a-movie ever...I admit that they are all from favourite movies of mine, but seriously - there is a reason why they ARE favourites! (And I am also in the making of an all-time-favourite-moviescenes as well!!! Hang on in there - more to come!)
and I could go on like this...forever! Premiere Magazine, you SUCK! AAARGH!
A story that came to me as I was on the bus the other day, watching people getting on and off, sitting next to this middle-aged guy who looked confused and hateful and depressed and seeking, even pleading, for a companion. At the same time. So, I wrote the following text, and in order to avoid any confusion; I've written it in General American. For the record, I mean. It'll probably be up for some editing, later on - regarding typo's and additions/extractions - but for the moment it goes like this:
"Mosses for an old man"
(with extra credits to Nathaniel Hawthorne for title inspiration)
"Can I sit here?"
One of those ordinary girls, again; the one who wears her jeans a little too tight and her jackets a little too short. Blonde hair, also. And - she had a pair of these light eyes that never give away anything. He tried to stare into them for a moment, to get a sort of idea and grasp what lurked behind, but then she flinched. Thus, he settled with a fair compromise.
"Yeah sure."
Of course she could sit. And, as an escape from possible boredom, he would get a chance to study her better. She flung her bony, teenage ass (which he had a hard time trying not to picture, in detail) onto the springless bus chair. Slightly torn, the cover matched the youngster's grungy dressing. Complete with a rugged attitude and all, at least no-one could blame her for not being thorough. Fucking whole-hearted. Speaking of which, he wondered whether it was his heart that kept him from expressing his feelings out loud. Whether he was turning soft for not commenting directly on the nuisance that the neighbor-seat inhabitant personified. These pranks; he used to go at them with a wry smile and a resigned annoyance, oh yes, always pointing his finger at their being useless. But nowadays he stayed quiet. Did not even grimace at his own face, mirrored in the panorama window next to him. Did not pout conspiratorially to the old lady passing their double-seat, heading for the doors as the bus slowed down. During the short pause at a stop near the Herrington High School, he instead caught an unnoticed glimpse of the girl's face – while still staring intensely into the window reflections. She was, on her hand, looking straight ahead. Into nothing. And in the old days, he would have murmured to the back of his right hand, in whose palm he placed his chin striking a pensive pose, how the nothingness of focus found for the eyes resembles the nothingness of focus found for the soul.
It took him ten seconds to realize what craziness his mind had, in fact, uttered. Then he swore. "The old days"? Hell, no! He was not nearly that old, not yet. And these concepts that constantly snuck into his thoughts were starting to fret him. Moreover, he was wrong. The facial features of this girl showed no ignorance at all, nor any "see-me-care"-arrogance. She appeared straightforwardly innocent. Simply...indifferent. And additionally; a tiny pinch of sadness. Not more than a hint. But it was there. A furrow near her left temple, a hint. She moved, shifted positions and bent her leg sideways over the other. Closed her eyes, and reminded him once more of all these kids, the type as such, and their tiredness. Always lacking the energy to go that extra mile and they never hesitated to confirm it. To state it and to prove it. She leant backward, and took a deep breath. He was not watching her through a blurred, dirty glass anymore. He looked straight at her, unyieldingly. And she turned to face him, with her small face and blonde locks. She even smiled.
“Nice hat.”
So this was how it started, his inner voice concluded, this was what it felt like to meet a stranger and to be surprised. He saw her lips move, and an urge to mimic them came over him. In order to gain some more time and consider the alternatives, however, he first gave her a quick nod. He shrugged his shoulders, making the fabric of his dark blue winter coat tighten just above the over arms. She smiled again before she turned away. What a silly game. Trying to maintain his concentration, he studied the pattern of the bus chair in front of him. Ugly, diamond-shaped figures in gaudy colors overlapped, covering the entire chair in a patchwork quilt of nausea. We could talk about the design, his inner voice continued, and whereupon he condemned it for its distracting effect, people always enjoy disregarding the surroundings when they can find nothing else to talk about. The girl twisted a strain of hair around her little finger, another matter of disturbance. Thus far, his head and body had remained clear and he found no reasons to suddenly lose control over any of them. Not at this point. Therefore, he answered the girl’s remark with a polite “thank you” and made sure his voice was very calm. Neither rejecting nor inviting, but quite plainly that of an old and distinguished gentleman who would prefer to spend his bus ride in silence. Still, it was of minor help. He realized with a certain discomfort that it was not up to him to declare any wish of being left alone. She hardly took notice of him now, yet he wanted her to. That was the main issue, the problem. The case. In the old days, which he refused to acknowledge, he would have left and avoided any further contact. Be it verbal or physical. No more accidental brushes of his hand across her jacket, no more knocking of knees. How old was she, eighteen? Maximum twenty; and on a completely different stage in life, anyhow. As for himself, he was younger than he seemed – of course – and he did not have to wear that ridiculous hat. Though, she had described it as nice, but it was probably all part of these teenage phrases. She was one of those kids and she had grown up using their lingo. Their style. She was part of a world he hated, but was it thereby necessarily implied that he had to hate her? He decided he must ascertain his subconscious, along with all its worries.
“Where are you going?”
The only way possible and, similarly, the worst one. To her credit, she handled it exquisitely. She told him the truth. Or, if it was not the truth, at least she gave him an honest-sounding reply. She explained how she was going to town to meet with some friends; they were going out for some pizza or burgers. That was what she said, word-for-word. And it all came across so casually, her life so uncomplicated; he was almost brought to tears. Simultaneously, he was overwhelmed with massive frustration, when considering how surreal the situation had become. You do not talk to strangers on the bus. There is no room for conversation in a place like that, save – perhaps – insignificant everyday nonsense, concerning the weather or whatever. Or both. This was an agreement he had lived with and lived by, since way back, but now there was a shake in the foundations on which he had built all his convictions. She had just asked him where he was going, and he had no idea. Not of any directions where he could possibly be heading, and not of what he could possibly say to her. Hell, no. Hardly able to bear the increasing conflict, between the two of them and between his own selves, he shook his head and sighed. He waited for a moment, hoping she would disappear, vanish into thin air, dissolve into atoms, or simply get off. When neither happened, he resumed his hesitation and tried to disguise it as natural slowness. Anyone accepts an old man’s flaws, essentially because he is old and thus excused. But she was not ready to give up on him yet. Before she arose and lifted up her bag and indicated that she was leaving him, for good, she took a deep breath, one last time. Her voice was solemn, as she spoke, and her eyes shone like crystals. With an appearance that struck him as altogether serious, she declared;
“I think there’s always something left to discover, but you don’t always have to seek so hard.”
And indeed, he knew.
Hihi...for å sitere Brian, igjen, "dette er så nærme en tradisjonell blogg som denne "såpeboksen" - eller i mitt tilfelle; "story-storage" - noensinne kommer til å bli."
Og snart kan jeg åpne første luke i julekalenderen min! Weee!
Considering the fact that my James Bond-review was (...considerably!) waaaay too long, here's the result of another and much better idea; a pro's and con's list based on the movie, what I really liked and what I really didn't like, and maybe that will make it easier to really make up my mind on whether I liked it or hated it on the whole. Cos that is a great issue right now, and I can't seem to figure it out. Fully. This is, then, mostly a summary of my...well, summary, but I've included details which I left out or forgotten when writing my review.BAD:
Ok, what to write...my goodness...
24/11 - it's been 15 years since we were deprived of the ever so amazing, number one rock-vocalist, Mr. Freddie Mercury. Head of the brilliant Queen, a natural centre & star of every crowd and, likewise, taking over & "uplifting" every show. Who can forget Wembley 1986? (I don't remember, cos I wasn't born, but those who were there most certainly do! And I've got the DVD!)
Men, når vi snakker om unntak...og for å være litt mer oppbyggelig-opptimistisk med hensyn til Hollywood og filmbransjen generelt sin fremtid...I dag er det en fyr ved navn Gerard James Butler som fyller 37 år og han kan gi hvemsomhelst troen tilbake på en lys fremtid for filmsjangeren. Gerry er kanskje sammenlignbar med storheter som Peter O'Toole; derimot er det litt urettferdig å trekke paralleller til andre, så særegen og utpreget er Mr. Butler. Hans dyktighet og sjarm er vanskelig å overgå, etter min mening; han er nå en gang min absolutte *favorittskuespiller* og han er en aldeles fantastisk stilig mann. Som rolletolker, som person, som...hehe...potensiell kjæreste? Jada, jeg innrømmer det, "I've got a crush on Gerry". I likhet med fjorten millioner andre jenter, og det sier litt. MEN! Han er altså ikke bare en kjekkas...han er et Operafantom av klasse og en barsk Huner-konge og en mystisk skinnjakke-kledd og en foretaksom arkeolog og en helt av en drage-nedkjemper. Han er min, min, min "fine mannen". Flinke Gerry er 37, så gratulerer med dagen! Håper du har en super dag, hvor du måtte befinne deg. Værsåsnill å gå foran med et godt eksempel, kjære, vis hva du kan!! Gerry fortjener all den heder og ære og stjernestatus han kan få...Glede seg masse til "300" og ønske Gerry en lang og produktiv og lykkelig fremtid...Så lenge han er tilstede i verden er i allefall fansen hans overstadig lykkelige...! SKÅL FOR BUTLER'N! (Kan han SNART få spille James Bond???)
5 udødelige Bryan Ferry-sanger, på en stille tirsdagskveld..."Dance Away" er fortsatt den aller fineste Roxy Music/Bryan Ferry-låten, men andre alternativer som kan nevnes når man har hørt den gjennom en del (hundre) ganger, er:
Men det var altså I DAG. I morgen er det kanskje noen helt andre. Tiden går, men Roxy består. Og jeg foretrekker å variere og bringe litt avveksling i mine Roxy-preferanser. Fine, fine bandet - uansett. Bryan Ferry er barsk!! ...og - NRK2 sender Doctor Who i repriser, fortsatt, og Bryan May er i studio igjen og Natalie Portman bidrar til geniale filmer og "Casino Royale"s testvisning mottok god respons og positive kritikker - Daniel Craig er kun en Klovn til det motsatte er bevist, som sagt! Kanskje kan jeg begynne å glede meg...litt? Konklusjonen blir nå, til syvende og sist; det hele fordrer absolutt et smilefjes...! ":)" - pluss en dansende flodhest...?
CONTINUOUSLY EDITED
Matlagingsidéer og min handleliste, påvirket av fine filmer... :)
Liker jeg filmer basert på maten som blir fortært? Muligens... Eller, det gjør dem i det minste ikke dårligere, da...!
Mottakelig for flere forslag folkens! Kan også være at jeg bidrar med flere selv!! Enn så lenge; god middag! Hehehe...Sjallabaluba!
RELEVANT SPØRSMÅL:
HVA SPISER EGENTLIG OPERAFANTOMET???
Beautiful, brilliant and...bedevilled??? Haha...Oh well!
"Remember, remember, the 5th of November, gunpowder treason and plot. I see no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot. Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent to blow up the King and the Parliament. Three score barrels of powder below, Poor old England to overthrow: By God's providence he was catch'd With a dark lantern and burning match. Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring. Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King! Hip hip hoorah! A penny loaf to feed the Pope. A farthing o' cheese to choke him. A pint of beer to rinse it down. A faggot of sticks to burn him. Burn him in a tub of tar. Burn him like a blazing star. Burn his body from his head. Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead. Hip hip hoorah! Hip hip hoorah!"Om man blir tykk og dvask av en sånn tilværelse? Tja... Mye mulig. Men ikke de store faresignalene ennå...
Og når jeg først er i godlaget: det er bare...skal vi se...22 dager til Oslo-premieren på den nye Bond-filmen; i skrivende stund...26 dager til premieren i Bergen. Glede seg? Øøøhm, tja... James Bond har vært min Drømmemann med stor D siden jeg var 10, og jeg har aldri før gruet meg til en Bondfilm-premiere. Jeg elsket Connery, Moore, Dalton og Brosnan. Til og med Lazenby var tålelig, spesielt fordi han hadde "Kojak"-Savalas som sin Nemesis. Men nå - nå ser jeg ikke lenger med glede frem til neste kapittel i Bond-sagaen. Nei, nå gruer jeg meg. Faktisk. For jeg klarer virkelig ikke legge min elsk på Daniel Craig. Og "Casino Royale" skaper mer frykt enn forventninger. Jeg håper jeg får mine skeptiske antagelser og bange anelser motbevist, men jeg er forberedt på det verste. Og kanskje med god grunn? Altså:
Det var alt jeg hadde å melde. På en torsdag. Nå er jeg litt sliten av min egen irritasjon - og indigansjon - og vil helst få premieren unnagjort sånn at jeg kan bøye meg i støvet og si at jeg tok feil. Og oddsene for dét er...? Jaja. Nuvel. Nåja. Jojo. Livet er ikke lett. Snøft.
