I did tune in to watch the second part of Murder on the Home Front, which I found lack-luster in comparison with the first. A shame, but it was easy on the eye and easy viewing. So too Case Histories - Started early, took my dog. Sunday night's episode was, in my opinion, low on charm (as compared to the first series) and a bit of a muddle as regards plot and pacing. According to reviews (and the interwebs) the novel on which the episode was based had been squeezed and compressed down as if it were toothpaste dregs at the end of a tube. Hopefully next Sunday's will fare better. The previous link takes you to iPlayer, if you missed and want to catch up.
Promoting this, Jason Isaacs is gorgeous and gives mixed fan service in an article you may not have noticed, last weekend in the Independent, from which I quote:
- Leading television roles (in ITV's yuppie saga Capital City and Lynda La Plante's 1992 BBC drama about ex-paratroopers, Civvies) followed, as well as playing the gay Jewish office temp, Louis Ironson, in Tony Kushner's Angels in America at the National Theatre, and getting to kiss Daniel Craig every night. "I've played a lot of gay parts, and it's a barrier for me to get over snogging men," he says. "But Daniel was so easy… he's such a sexy man."
In other thespian news the Torygraph, and most other broadsheets, state that Tom Hiddleston will be Coriolanus at the Donmar this autumn. Mark Gatiss will also star in the production. This same autumn season will see both Daniel Mays and Jessica Raine on the Donmar stage - though not in the same production. Obviously we need to start queueing for tickets (particularly for Coriolanus) in about half and hours time! The Independent hints Josie Rourke (current Artistic Director of the Donmar) is in the running for Nick Hytner's job at the N.T. which is all kinds of interesting - maybe.
Talking of things in the paper did anyone notice the article on film posters that didn't make it - i.e. were revised - highlighted in The Guardian last week? From that, I give you a link to the gallery and the poster I adored, and preferred to the finished, chosen version.
Various other bits and bobs of interest:
Buying into a self-created mythology? An article on casting directors showed up in The Guardian and is worth perusing.
Not only was there the hanging around Heathrow for delayed flight, there was a longish flight, they'd either not got my special meal or given it to the person in my original seat, and getting through passport control was a nightmare of interminable queuing and always ending up in the slowest line. Only surpassed by the time I was picked for extra checking. Plus, what is it with the cabdrivers never having any idea about location of hotels near O'Hare?
Still, here I am, at last.
( Not really a spoiler, just my speculative thought.... )
I currently have 88 works posted on AO3. Choose a random number - no peeking! - between 1 and 88, and I will tell you three things I currently like about that story.
Obviously not all my fic, just newest and what I've gotten around to posting on AO3, but still, a selection :D
Let's see if this can kickstart more fannish type posting, since I can't even seem to work up enough enthusiasm to post about ST:Into Darkness.
The past year has changed all that. I moved in with M, and now I live less than ten minutes away from her. Ten minutes away, but I see her less often than I ever did when living on the other side of the city. We never talk anymore, never just hang out. I texted her to ask if we could go see Star Trek together, and her response was, "Already made plans to see it with Shelia." No apology, no invitation to join them. After I swallowed the hurt, I then asked, "Do you want to do anything over the holiday weekend?" To which she answered, "I don't know. My brother and his family will be here." We all went to college together; I've known them for years too. No invitation for me to come over and see them, nothing.
When I looked at my phone screen, I wanted to cry. She's hurt, and angry at me, and I don't know what to do about it. What am I supposed to do? I know she's reached out to me and invited me to a couple of things, over the past six months, but I had to say no. I can't help it; she keeps asking at the last minute. It's not my fault that I have a job and a boyfriend and that I have commitments now when I never used to. At the same time, I resent half the time I spend with my boyfriend because most of it's unnecessary and I find him too clingy and needy, and I would rather be with my best friend. I hate that he makes a face when I leave the house to go spend time with her, and how he sighed when I told him it was time to go to their house and exchange Christmas presents.
My best friend hates my boyfriend, and he hates her. I'm so miserable, and lonely, I don't think I can endure this for another minute. I don't think I should have to choose between them, though I know I'd pick her in a second, but I still shouldn't have to choose. I don't know what's going to happen, but I need to call her now.
A dream from last night ever-so-slightly too long for Twitter:
Queen Elizabeth had died and a young princess was being crowned Queen Anne. She was certainly not a princess that actually exists in real life. Long, lovely black hair that she wore down for the occasion, swept over her shoulder and flowing down the front of her white dress, obscuring all the medals and sash. She had thin silver crown. I was a flutist playing in the orchestra for the coronation.
Anne started crying in the middle of her coronation speech. A crowd of ministers with pelican heads rushed to console her and guide her away from the crowds. We had to stop playing and wait for her to return. But she didn’t.
Ages went by. We finally started playing just to entertain everyone, anything we could think of. Then no one could think of another song and we all got up and started dancing with our instruments and each other on the floor of Westminster Cathedral until the flute section all turned into crows and flew up to roost on the buttresses. Anne was hiding up there, too. Her black hair flowed under her gown to become big black wings.
And then: alarm clock.