Flaming Zinc

I find assimilation back into the “real” world a tad traumatic after a prolonged study period. In the words of Bonnie Tyler “Where have all the good men gone, And where are all the gods? Where’s the street-wise Hercules, To fight the rising odds?”. It gets worse though. I find it particularly harsh readjusting to civilian life after spending my lunch hour power-housing my way through the bloodlust and warrior code of The Illiad. It is some what anti-climatic to return to answering the phone and using excel.

Using my skills as a soothsayer I can foresee that today will be a challenge. Okay, no mystical powers needed just extrapolating on from the fact that we will be without water in the office for the day as they are carrying out some building work. Last week it was hinted that we might close the office at noon if we are still without water, I shall as ever play today by ear. But, if it is quiet as the BIG peeps might work from home I might get to work on my cinematic musings.

Overall I had a relaxing and quite productive weekend (and nothing really says rock ‘n’ roll like waking at 6am on a Sunday to read about the Peloponnesian war). Inspired by a post over at the Guardian’s Culture Vulture blog on the shelving of books, I ordered another set of book shelves. I decided it was a bit greedy for me to monopolize all three of our current book shelves, whilst half of Alex’s are still in boxes. Judging by the comments to the post I am perfectly normal in my anal separation by categories and then alphabetized by author. Though it maybe a little odd that I keep all my good literature in the bedroom as I am comforted by having it close by when I sleep. By good lit I mean all my black spine Penguin classics (except the Ancients), the cream of the 20th century (Greene, Waugh, Lawrence, Orwell, etc) and my mysteries I can’t wait for the new shelves, as I find it impossible to store books two deep as it makes my feel claustrophobic, so they have been piled up in a higgley-piggley fashion.

Yesterday afternoon I escaped for a few hours to yoga, which on the one hand blew away some cobwebs but on the other it was so cold outside that the blood in my veins nearly froze. I am drowning in Classics at the moment, but throughly enjoying myself and I just wish I had more time. I am starting to think that next academic year if I do end up taking five classes I might need to cut back on the work front. But, that is something to mull over in ‘06. Anyway, on the way home I nipped into a bookstore to warm up and pick up a few titles for school: Euripides’ The Bacchae and other plays, Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War and Herodotus’ The Histories. I must admit that the latter two are more for reference, but who knows eventually I might get round to reading them cover to cover…. but, first there is a PD James to finish

Tonight we kicked off our holiday Die Hard extravaganza, and in no particular order my reason for liking this film:

1. Alan Rickman, as the classical educated villain.
2. The sheer hardness of the NY cop John McClane, who chooses to reach for his gun before putting on his shoes and then abandons his footwear search after one attempt.
3. Alan Rickman reading from his filofx in a bible like manner.
4. Euro trash baddies who look like extras from a Bon Jovi video.
5. Alan Rickman
6. Observing the changing colour of McClane’s wife-beater*.

It would be wrong to think of Die Hard as a simple action flick, it has a deep ideological message about the dangers of women overachieving in the work place. If Holly had been satisfied to stay at home then she and John would never have been in the Nakatomi Plaza. If she had not been so successful, she would not have broken up her household and potentially orphaned her children. If Holly had not emasculated her husband by earning more money then he would not have transformed into Rambo in situations of extreme stress. And finally, she is forced to sacrifice her prized rolex in exchange for her life in the final scenes. Oh oh don’t forget that Holly’s assistant is pregnant so she too is warning for all us working gals

*I only recently found out what a wife-beater was in the context of clothing. For years the phrase “s/he was wearing a wife-beater” had Silence of the Lambs connotations for me.

I am slightly familiar with the works of Ms Austen. I have salivated over studied the gorgeousness character development of Colin Firth Mr Darcy at some length, so the film version had a lot to live up to. But, just between me and you I think that the powers involved in the film knew that otherwise they wouldn’t have made such a pointed effort to be DIFFERENT. If Andrew Davies had this scene during the day we’ll have it at night and vice versa. And enough with the framing of every shot: looking down a corridor, through a door frame, a window, a pair of columns…ENOUGH! All that being said, it was lovely (especially with the extra eight minutes we sappy people in the Americas get) and surprisingly raw and mucky.

I prefer the BBC mini-series for obvious reasons, but this was fun. Keria Knightley was a tad too 21st century, Matthew MacFadyen was gruff enough but they made his friend Mr Bingley into even more of a transparent wet blanket that you couldn’t understand the dynamic of the friendship. In fact there was a lot of castration to supporting characters, the dastardly Wickham is played down and the scandal doesn’t feel as scandalous as it should. I adored Tom Holland as Mr Collins. Surprisingly it was not Colin Firth whom I missed through out the whole film but Benjamin Whitrow who played Mr Bennett in the mini-series.

In honour of the up coming long weekend I am baking the richest, most diabetic coma inducing brownies that I can find in my Nigella library. Let’s just say this is my perverted way of marking the departure of the puritans.

I must confess that I had never heard of Truman Capote or In Cold Blood prior to the release of the film, Capote. Given that he ignited a new genre of literature and that I have an unread copy of Breakfast at Tiffany’s sitting on my bookshelf, I am slightly embarrassed about not being clued up. That being said, Capote is not an easy film to watch (but, who wants easy all of the time). It is slow and morally murky, there are few people to like or sympathise with. The author Truman Capote is fascinated by the murder of a family in a small town in Kanas, and we are dragged into the exploitive arena of researching true crime. Philip Seymour Hoffman is astounding as Capote. Not afraid to portray the character, at times, as wholly pitiful and self centered. As ever Catherine Keener is fabulously understated, yet strong, as Nelle Harper Lee. I read To Kill a Mocking Bird in high school and was fascinated not only by the window that it opened into a very foreign land but by it being the authors sole work. Given that Capote also never wrote again after the publication of In Cold Blood I wonder about the repercussions that this project had on their lives.

This evening I find myself trying to think my way through Zeno’s paradoxes and I feel like I am trying to fight my way out of a wet paper bag, and the bag is winning. Every time I edge myself closer to understanding something and being able to explain my position, the finish post moves just that little bit further away. Forget Achilles and the flipping tortoise being trapped in an infinite series, I am current locked in an infinite loop of confusion and bewilderment.

Anyway, my battle with the Presocratics must continue and maybe later I’ll have the inclination to share some film reviews…

I generally regard my accent as being rather fluid, my sound is dependent on the audience. Being that I have always found myself to be the foreigner, this skill could be one of mother natures survival tools (along with opposable thumbs). My mum claims, that despite being Scots born, I never sounded particularly Scottish when we lived north of the border. Nor, after seven years in a south east London comprehensive school did I screech my vowels as much as my peers (even though Ben Elton and his estuary accent were very much in vogue at the time). So what has all this linguistic jiggery-pokery left me with? Well the Scots start softened the London teens. A few years in the north-west didn’t hurt as I still pronounce bath with a long a (and an “r”). Returning to London to work in the city pushed me a few more notches up the RP meter, and despite three years in NY I still can’t order a tuna sandwich. And today I was asked by some Brits (what is this collective term for the British, a colony?) if I came from the Home Counties, the posh part one hopes.

I have just fire bombed the living room in the last stage of the death to the infidel mosquito campaign. No new bites to report, but this morning over breakfast I did see the little bugger lamely hovering in a corner. It looked very sorry for itself. So I am annexed in the bedroom until the fog clears.

At the moment I am counting down the days (six) till Thanks Giving and the four day weekend it will bring. Roll on next Thursday. Neither of us are inclined to celebrate this holiday, a distraction from Christmas if you ask me. I will spend the long weekend typing up my notes and reading. Alex will no doubt be programming and worshipping at the house of Halo. But, we will come together for the Die Hard trilogy and I am sure I will think of something nice to cook. In fact I might have to have this weekend out of the kitchen in order to be up to strength for the festivities.