Mood:  bright

In observance of the annual Festival of the Automobile State Inspection Sticker, aka What Expensive Yet Mandatory Fixes Can The Garage Find Wrong With It This Year?, it came to light that inside the car's bumper cover, the rear beam spent 2009 quietly transmuting into a rust-colored powder and must be replaced before the state will allow it back on the road.  Judging from the price tag, the new rear beam is made from metal mined on Saturn and flown to Earth in rockets that burn Chanel No. 5.  (Or it may possibly be forged from unobtanium, by the elf-smiths of Imladris.  I haven't ruled that one out.).  At any rate, once it's fixed, I will be able once more to back into trees, parked cars, and state motor vehicle inspectors with confidence.

Speaking of hidden rust-colored things - which we were not really, but humor me, this is an awkward segue - the other night David appeared in one of my dreams, playing the surprising role of My Nagging Subconscious. (Maybe Glen Owen Dodds has rubbed off a little?)  He only had one line, but it was delivered impeccably.  You know those dreams where you're at a huge party, and you find yourself sitting on the sofa between Jimi Hendrix and your sixth grade gym teacher, holding an eggplant in your lap and discussing whether cows can walk down stairs? (Yeah, that old chestnut of a dream.)  At some point in the dream, David detached himself from the crowd, walked past the Sofa o' Random Characters, and laughingly remarked "Your web site's gotten awfully juvenile lately."  My (equally laughing) response: "As opposed to all those earlier times when it hasn't been juvenile."   Jimi Hendrix's response: *blank stare*.  I think he might have been dead.

I think the interpretation of this dream is pretty obvious: my subconscious feels guilty about all the blather that goes on here and wishes that more DC time were devoted to serious adult discussion of David's work, and less time re-enacting "300" with marshmallow peeps.  My subconscious can be a real nudnik sometimes.  I don't think it fully understands the strange and wacky forms that fan appreciation can manifest as.  Fan appreciation doesn't always have to come wrapped in six-syllable words, wearing a bowtie and tweed jacket and trailing shades of Staniskavski.  Where's the fun in that?  The fan community has come up with hilariously creative stuff -- plays, stories, poems, dictionary entries, musicals -- that gets more directly to the heart of David's career than any sobersides film critic can articulate.  Besides, there's only so many times you can review "Australia".

If my subconscious continues to assume ever-darker dream forms in its quest for a more mature DC - say, Brett Sprague, or one of the Fletchers - then I'll sit up and take notice.  Until then, nanny-nanny-poo-poo  *braaaaaaap*.

In other news, lunch today was all that and a bag of chips.  Literally.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 9:26 PM EST

Updated: February 11, 2010 10:57 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | View Comments (2) | Permalink

Mood:  lazy

Groundhog Day (also known as Candlemas or Imbolc) came and went last week with nary a ripple.  This is the time of year when hibernating creatures begin to stir in their dens, and their movements predict the weather pattern for the remainder of winter.  Tradition has it that on Feb. 2, if the groundhog emerges and sees his shadow, we get six more weeks of winter.  (Frankly, I'd be THRILLED if there were only six weeks left of winter.  Around here, you're lucky if you can get your tomatoes chipped into the tundra by the end of May).  If the groundhog doesn't see his shadow, it's six more weeks till spring, which amounts to pretty much the same thing.  You could also follow the old-timey tradition of "looking out the window" to "see if the sun is shining", but that's not as much fun as hanging around a rodent burrow on a freezing February morning.

Folklore also says if David emerges from hibernation and gives an interview, there's six more weeks till his next movie.  If he sees his shadow, it means he's not playing a vampire.

Last weekend, because we were feeling restless and in need of stirring outside our den, we went to the Harry Potter exhibit at the Museum of Science in Boston.  It was a real treat to see the various props from the movies.  They had the Sorcerer's Stone, Tom Riddle's diary, Hagrid's hut, Dolores Umbridge's horrible fuzzy pink study, and the Great Hall in Feast Mode, with floating candles.  They had a couple of interactive displays.  There was a tray of mandrakes that shrieked when pulled up, and some leather Quidditch Quaffles to heave through hoops.   It felt like throwing a carburetor at a doughnut.  I'm sure it's much, much easier when you're whizzing on a broomstick half a mile above the ground.

Five years ago, the MOS had a similar exhibit for Lord of the Rings, with tons of costumes, armor, and weaponry on display.  You could see the astonishing level of detail and craftsmanship that went into the gowns, the brooches, the swords, the maquettes, all the props that went into feathering and furnishing the world of Middle Earth.  A scabbard that appears in one scene for half a second might have been worked on for 2 months by a WETA craftsperson.  It was totally awesometaco, but there was not one speck of Faramiraphenilia in the entire thing.  Not even a glove, or an arrow, or a monogrammed Steward hanky.  They had the Boromir dummy all laid out in the funeral boat looking totally realistic, but no Faramir-on-the-barbie mannequin.  I'd say that's mighty strange, wouldn't you?  Where exactly is the Faramir mannequin?  Have they lost track of it?  No one has ever said, but I have my suspicions.

In other news, our household has a new addition.  His name is Oliver and he's a total marshmallow cutie:

Actually, we weren't originally planning on naming him Oliver.  Before driving over to get him, I had a short list of hipster kitty names such as Wyatt, Nimbus, Quincy, and Bertie Wooster ("Spitieri", als, was vetoed as encouraging inappropriate behavior in a cat, along the lines of "Scratchy" and "Midnight Hairball").  But once he arrived home and started scampering around the room, all the carefully pre-chosen names went out the window.  There was just no question that he was an Oliver.  His personality was overwhelmingly, unanimously Oliver-ish.

And so Oliver it is, in spite of its associations with Love Story, "Good Morning Starshine", and the extra Brady Bunch kid. (What was the deal with Oliver during the 1970s? For a brief period, it was the ne plus ultra of male names, and then it disappeared)  So the moral of the story is: sometimes you have to meet a kitten first to know what its name truly is.

He's super affectionate and purry, and he has a gray tail with a white tip that looks exactly like E.T.'s finger.  Every time he walks past, I just have to say "phooone hooome" and boink the tip lightly with my index finger.  That will never get old.

P.S. Before we go, Oliver would like to say a few words about Van Helsing:

fvvvvvvvvvlllllllllllllvvvvv58 cnso

derf  ;

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:39 PM EST

Updated: February 9, 2010 1:15 AM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  smelly

Just a slob like one of us?

And so it came to pass that Glen Owen Dodds went forth into a beige, windowless, wood-panelled office, and occupied thereof the hind portion of a desk.  And yea, his leather throne did swivel.  And though he moveth with the times, he hath not computerized his records; and his pants are like twin brown gazelles grazing among the lilies; and his tie is comely, like myrrh.

Glen Owen Dodds, by the way, should not be confused with Owain Glendower, the last Prince of Wales.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:13 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  bright

Remember back at Halloween, when we were scoffing at the kooky idea of candy that had been prayed over by witches?  Well, it turns out there's a company called "Intentional Chocolates", which sells chocolate that's been prayed over by Buddhist monks.  (Not directly - they use a special recorder to capture the brainwaves of meditating monks and then expose the chocolate to it for five days).  Eating the chocolate, you absorb the monks' peaceful meditational energy,  and experience a sense of enhanced well-being. 

I read about this in an airline magazine, along with an article about a wildlife biologist who spent years painstakingly learning to communicate with wolves by howling, and now spends a good deal of his time inadvertently howling back and forth in the woods with other wildlife biologists who have spent years painstakingly learning to communicate with wolves by howling.  Airline magazines have the rippingest yarns.  They're right up there with Virgin's legendary in-flight safety movie (a great favorite of Fake Sony Ericsson Android Phone David, as you'll recall).

So I decided to try and create my own intentional chocolate at home.  I bought a big bar of Belgian chocolate and left it on top of a copy of Molokai for several hours, to soak up Father Damien's gentle, heartfelt prayers and selfless nobility.

Unfortunately, the effect went in reverse:  the chocolate influenced the movie.  In my copy of Molokai, Father Damien is now assigned to an acne colony.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 11:12 PM EST

Updated: January 15, 2010 12:03 AM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  chatty

Happy new year!  There isn't much new to discuss, other than the good news that Oranges and Sunshine will soon begin filming.  It's great to hear David is back at work again.  It's been a long time since I've seen anything new of his, especially in the theater (has it really been over a year since Australia?)  Still haven't seen Public Enemies yet.

A very generous friend from inside the computer sent me a copy of the Murray Whelan series on DVD this Christmas (thank you, Generous Friend!!).  It had been quite a long time since I watched them.  Both my videotapes broke, in a terrible VCR tragedy, not long after the series originally aired.  In a way, it was like watching them again for the first time.

So you know how, in The Brush Off, Murray is standing at the sink watching the water spiral down the drain, just before the flashback to the events of the previous night?  Well, I've always wondered about whether water really does go down the drain the other way in the southern Hemisphere.  In the Murray scene, the Australian water swirls definitively clockwise.  I sat there trying to remember which way it goes in our hemisphere, and couldn't for the life of me recall.  Clockwise?  Counterclockwise?  It was really bugging me.  Finally I had to pause the movie and perform a scientific experiment in the bathroom.  I filled the sink with an inch or two of water, then pulled the plug up and watched it drain.

And....it went straight down.  No swirling.

So I tried again, this time filling the sink up about halfway.  This time, the water swirled clockwise.  Definitely clockwise.

Then I went downstairs to the kitchen sink and tried it there.  Counter-clockwise.  Tried it again: clockwise.  Third time: clockwise again.

So much for that myth.  

So, since our last confabulation, I've left L.L. Legume for a better job offer, right in my hometown.  It's a company that processes payments of various types (check, credit card, wampum) for a bank known as....um.....well, we'll just call it "Bwank of Bwamerica".  The work isn't nearly as cuddly as working with photos of fleece pullovers and cute golden retriever puppies romping in snowy pine woods, but there are moments of thrilling Jim Doyle-like frisson when doing things to a database with 100,000 live corporate bank account numbers.  I would never in a million years steal the numbers, but it's a deliciously naughty feeling, like rolling around in a big pile of cocaine.  (Not that I know what that's like.  I understand it feels gritty.)  Anyway, the downside is that the company has security policies up the wazoo.  I had to pass a complete background check, the computer passwords are ridiculous ("Mrnw09FJ3Pf$q?"), and every door is badge-access only.  Woe betide you if you go out to the kitchen for tea, say, and forget your badge.  The police will find your cobweb-covered skeleton six months later, leaning against the metal door, with two bony palms pressed beseechingly against the tiny window.

To get to the bathroom, you have to walk about three quarters of a mile down this corridor that consists of a series of airlocks, like the opening credits of "Get Smart", with doors slamming portentously behind you, and mysterious tunnels off to the side marked UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.  I have to plan my bladder activities very carefully during the day, because it's a five-minute hike to the other side of the building.

The company also has an office in Melbourne.  I'm half tempted to phone down there and ask them if they could do a drain test for me, but they'd probably have to put me on hold while they trek 1.8 miles to their bathroom, fill the sink, note the results, and hitchhike back.  It would cost a mint.  I'll just have to take Murray Whelan's word for it.

Over the holidays, when I wasn't busy trekking to the bathroom and jeopardizing the world's butter supply for various baking projects, we saw a couple of movies with actors in them who have worked with David Wenham in the past.  Actually, David's built up enough of an oeuvre by now that it's quite commonplace to spot former co-stars, although I wouldn't say he's approaching "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" territory yet.  Once he appears in a movie with Kevin Bacon, then we can all start playing "Seven Degrees of David Wenham".

Anyway, we saw Avatar the day after Christmas, with Sam Worthington giving a wonderful performance as a wounded marine trying to save a tribe of blue long-waisted aborigines from being displaced out of their homeland on the planet Pandora.  You see, the aboriginies made the silly mistake of planting their Home Tree on top of a huge deposit of a valuable mineral called Unobtainium (which, as Mr. DC remarked afterwards, must be an isotope of "Extremely Rarium"), thus attracting the attention of an evil corporation that had hired some military types to infiltrate the tribe and persuade them to move them elsewhere so they could chop down the tree and get at the ore.  Eventually the corporation gets tired of waiting, and launches a full-scale invasion with helicopter gunships against bows and arrows.  Unfortunately, it's an old, old story.  We saw it in 2-D, because movie theaters around here are too chintzy to spring for the extra D.

Later we rented The Ugly Truth with Gerard Butler, which was astoundingly, teeth-grittingly terrible.  I don't know what Gerard Butler was thinking, appearing in this film.  The script should be fed to dingos.

Also saw Invictus, which has nobody directly connected to David in it, but it does have Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela, who David once mentioned as being an admired figure, as well as Matt Damon attempting a South African accent (strange to say, but he just doesn't sound right without the wicked thick Haavahd-Yaaahd accent).  I can truthfully say that, as holiday rugby movies go, it's right up there with the best.

Unfortunately, the filmmakers forgot to show us which way the water drains in Johannesburg.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:57 PM EST

Updated: January 14, 2010 11:12 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  accident prone

Christmas is upon us, dearest Groveapudlians.  Time to reflect on the past year, from Jerry Springer to Public Enemies to Pope Joan, and look ahead to what lies in store for 2010.  So far, all we can count on are animated owls, and the possibility of a good orphan drama.  But we're a tough, gritty, determined bunch, we Daisy fans, and we can wait patiently for our next fix without drumming our heels on the floor and forgetting to use our indoor voices.  (Much.)

So, I spent a little time job hunting at the end of October, because the working-two-states-away thing was getting very old (as was my car).  While I was filling out job applications online, my stupid-ass computer kept hiccuping and and sending them out mid-edit.  I'm sure prospective employers were very impressed with my "atention to detai" and "excellent written and verbal communication skulls".

Despite my totally unawesome internetting skullz, I found a consulting gig last week with the E-commerce team of a large mail-order clothing company headquartered here in Maine.  (We'll call it L.L. Dean to protect its delicate identity from the evil, remorseless gaze of Google.)  The job involves maintaining and testing their website, which changes every day as new promotions and products get added.  Links and HTML tags have to be checked, copy verified, and payments handled.  Essentially, in the course of probing for defects, we get paid to sit around and shop.  I pretend to buy tote bags with fake credit card numbers (though I have to remember to cancel the transactions, otherwise they actually go through and a kayak arrives on my doorstep a week later).

Our department is right next to Product Testing, so we can see all the clothes and outdoor gear being auditioned for upcoming seasons.  There's an entire room devoted just to duck boots, and trash barrels full of fabric swatches, and people walking around in really odd getups, like bike shorts and fleece slippers.  Snowshoes, ice skates and skis litter the hallways.

Interestingly, there's a lady in my department named Mary Whelan.  That name seems somehow...familiar.  I'm wondering when the acoustical ceiling tile will cave in above her desk.

But let's get on to the real topic of this post.  I've been reading up lately on handicap theory, which is an evolutionary biological principle that states that deliberately taking on handicapping characteristics actually makes one more attractive to potential mates.  No, not the sort of handicap that makes you email dopey half-baked misspelled resumes to potential employers, but physical characteristics that signal "I have health and vigor to burn!".  For example, the tail of the male peacock is useless, unaerodynamic, and nutrionally costly to grow and maintain, but it advertises the health of the peacock to all the peahens.  Examples in the human realm would be things like tattoos, smoking, and motorcycle riding, all of which say "I'm strong enough that this stuff doesn't kill me!"  For females, very short hair and wearing men's clothing work similarly.  In order to get away with these, one has to have sexiness to spare.  (I think this is one reason why guys like it when girlfriends wear their shirts around the apartment).  Same for men who cook or use moisturizer:  rather than dealing a fatal blow of insta-gayness, it makes them that much more attractive.

This, I think, is key to why so many of us love David.  He can don a bridal gown, or coke-bottle glasses, or horrible jeans and a mullet; he can smear cream bun on the tip of his nose; yet his awesomeness overcomes these handicaps and makes him all the more more endearing.  When playing hapless or dorky characters, he can afford not to take himself too seriously.  He's got fabulousness to spare.  Maybe that's what makes a great actor: character quirks don't stick to them.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to raze my hair into stubble and get  forearm tattoos.  This will signal to my new employers, "I've got corporate dress style to spare!" and they'll promote me.  I want to be the person who walks around in bike shorts and fleece slippers.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 10:09 PM EST

Updated: December 5, 2009 11:46 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  mischievious

Did you know that your candy has been cursed by witches?

It's true, I'm afraid.  Earlier today, while readying a large bowl of sanded horehound candies, my blackthorn cudgel, and a lecture on dental hygiene in preparation for tonight's onslaught of Halloween-costumed urchins, I ran across this article at Charisma Magazine, by a woman named Kimbery Daniels.  (It was also briefly featured on Pat Robertson's Christian Broadcasting Network website, but was apparently too out there even for their tastes, because it was pulled down shortly afterward).

After alerting us to the hidden perils of pumpkins, bonfires, and the colors brown and orange, Daniels writes:

"During this period demons are assigned against those who participate in the rituals and festivities. These demons are automatically drawn to the fetishes that open doors for them to come into the lives of human beings. For example, most of the candy sold during this season has been dedicated and prayed over by witches."

Yes, you read that right.  It's true.  For example, Hershey employs a coven of Wiccans to stand over the Heath bar conveyor belt and mutter incantations.  (Don't worry, they're union witches.  Local #377: Pipe Fitters, Air Traffic Controllers, Stagehands, and Candy Witches).  Nestle has seventeen voodoo priests on the payroll.  Cadbury stores its products prior to shipping inside a big pentagram surrounded by candles.  Every Three Musketeers bar you buy has a creamy nougat-and-demon center.

This confirms something I've long suspected:  Candy does indeed whisper secret, Satanic messages to us.  (I mean, besides "Eat me for dinner.")  The Devil works his way into our hearts via chocolate, because it's readily available and melts in your mouth, not in your hand (unlike vanity and greed, which turn into a puddle when left in direct sunlight).

So, let's put on our Church Lady hats and decode the hidden demonic meanings behind the sweets we give out at Halloween:

 Have you ever seen more ungodly candy?  Look, it's got the Angel of the Bottomless Pit right there on the wrapper, smugly raking his pile of coals in anticipation of the next unwitting victim to make an impulse sugar buy at the cash register.  Pure malevolence.  If you listen closely, you can almost hear him backward-whispering "Listen to Judas Priest!  Sass your parents!".

 Ditto.  Candy like this makes burning in hell for all eternity seem attractive, and deliciously cinnamon-flavored.

 Mike and Ike: pushing the gay agenda. (By the way, what is "the gay agenda"?  "Item 1: those curtains have GOT to go"?)

I believe this one is chanted over by lesbian witches.

 Hershey's Kisses teach children about promiscuity.

 Pixie Stix:  Training wheels for cocaine addiction.

 Why don't you just chuck a handful of reefers into the trick or treat bag while you're at it?

 Pagan gods?  Not in MY Hallowe'en stash!

 Fun Dip comes with a sugar stick that you lick....slowly....up one side, then down the other.....circling...flicking your tongue....paying special attention to the end......Then you slide the stick, moist and glistening, into an eager pouch filled with flavored sugar...and out again.....and in.....and out....in, out...in, out...

FILTH!  FILTH, I SAY!   ABSOLUTE FLIN-FLARN FILTH!

 Blow Pops.  Need we say more?

 BLEEP you, you BLEEPIN' $&#* asterisk ampersand!  If Satan has his way, your kid will come home from the apple-bobbing party cussing like a longshoreman.

 Here, we glorify the swingin' singles lifestyle.  Cruising the bars, looking for action, sleeping with Richard Gere...it's just one short step from there to sleeping with Beelzebub.

 Change one letter, and you've got S&M.  Do you really want fetishists on your doorstep?

Besides, you know what they say about the green ones.

 Special Dark.  Special Dark.  You see what's going on here?  Darkness is being privileged.  Lucifer's realm is being exalted.

 Nice try, Skittles!  We see that big ol' gay pride rainbow right on your wrapper!

 Who else carries a pitchfork?  Hm...let me think...let me think...

"Reese's" is a homonym of "Rhesus".  As in "monkey".  As in "evolution".  Oh, the devil would LOVE for you to believe we're just one species in a breathtakingly beautiful, fragile, interconnected web of life, now wouldn't he?

As for the word "cups", I think we're better off not exposing our children to THAT sort of gutter talk.

 "Spree": a word that's always preceded by "crime-", "drinking-", "gambling-", "shopping-", "Lord of the Rings watching-" and other unspeakable activities.

 Silly wabbit.  Twix are for pwostitutes.

 BEGONE, FOUL TEMPTRESS!!!

So you see, Halloween candy is just fraught with danger.  To paraphrase David, it tastes good, but it's doing something slightly harmful to you.  One minute you're biting into a Nestle Crunch, the next minute you're tap-dancing down in hell with Jerry Springer, gay Jesus, and the Ku Klux Klan.  Just remember, your dentist may not be equipped to handle fillings AND exorcisms.

Alas, I must run, dear Grove denizens - evil never sleeps, and neither does vigilance - but I'm delighted you could drop by to chat about demonic candy, and the myriad ways in which it lures us to iniquity.

Here.  Before you go, have a horehound drop.

What?

Why are you snickering?

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 1:18 PM EDT

Updated: October 31, 2009 3:49 PM EDT

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  suave

Back in June, the air was chilly, the furnace was running full time and everyone was wearing sweaters.  Now it's October, there's thunder and lightning outside, and the a/c just kicked on. 

Checking to see if I live in the Southern hemisphere.  (Update: no)

****

Well.  It never occurred to me until just recently - maybe it was seeing the Pope Joan movie trailer that triggered this -  but Pope Joan and Eowyn have quite a lot in common.  For example:

1) Both live in feudal societies subject to periodic disruption and invasion, where strength and bravery are valued more than literacy.

2) Both long to play active roles in traditionally male arenas (battle, for Eowyn; and knowledge, for Joan).

3) Both are frustrated by the constraints of their expected roles, and the barriers placed around them simply because of their gender.

4) Both disguise themselves as men to overcome this barrier.

5) Both find true love flowering tenderly amidst all the darkness, pain, and chaos.

6) Both fall for a gentle, sensitive, understanding, shining-armor type nobleman, played by David Wenham.

Now, before you go cutting off your hair and donning a fake beard and football pads in the hopes of attracting a chivalrous, auburn-haired swain...

...which reminds me, did you know there's a breed of chicken called Gingernut Ranger?

It's a variety of Rhode Island Red noted for its valor in battle.

Where was I?  Oh yes, I was about to pound my shoe on the table and reiterate how wondrous points 5 and 6 above are:  the clever girl gets the guy.  And not just any old pocket-protector-wearing, squeaky-voiced Melvin, either.  The real deal: the ripped, courtly, sensitive warrior who can hack a Burgudian garrison to pieces while keeping a baby chick warm in his helmet.

Why is this so awesome?  Because for eons, the first lesson taught to writers at Cliche University has been: Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses.  In the vast majority of movies and books, the blue-ribbon romantic pair is Ken and Barbie, not Poindexter and Edna.  Ken and Barbie embrace in the sunset, and we're supposed to admire them, sigh over them, fantasize about their beautiful white wedding.  Scrawny Poindexter and brainy Edna lock lips, and we're meant to say "Oh, isn't that cute?  They think they're people".  The storyline convinces us these rigid pairings are just the natural order of things.  (Occasionally they'll mix up the rules, just to be daring:  Poindexter gets jiggy with Barbie, or Poindexter and Ken shack up together.  But Ken rarely finds romantic sparks with Edna.  Girl geeks on screen must always be portrayed as strange, isolated, and sexually unappealing.)

In stories, especially fairy tales and comic books, smart or boyish-looking girls nearly always get relegated to the romantic sidelines: think Velma from Scooby Doo or George from the Nancy Drew series.  Or they get paired up with odd specimens, like Big Ethel and Jughead from Archie. The prom king and queen slow-dance in the spotlight and live happily ever after, but the nerd romance gets accorded lesser, comic status.  Even in LOTR, I'm afraid, it seemed to me on first read that Tolkien sort of "married off" Faramir and Eowyn  to each other because they were both damaged goods, and we were really meant to be wistfully envious of the perfect Arwen-Aragorn relationship.  And yet I was far more interested in what went on between Faramir and Eowyn.  Their love came across as more real, more vibrant.  You could imagine them actually keeping house together.  Arwen and Aragorn, with their grand, remote, fairy-tale love, seemed more like statues (of course, it didn't help that most of their courtship was buried in Appendix A).

In Pope Joan, Joan gets the primary, not the secondary romance, all to herself, which makes it even more of a daring celebration of female intelligence than Lord of the Rings.  Gerold loves her because of, not in spite of, her spunkiness, her quick mind, her passion for learning.  I like Better Than Sex for the same reason: the entire film is devoted to the passionate love affair between two quirky, average urban hipster-geeks with lumps and warts and freckles and love handles.  Cyn is allowed to be sassy and smart and strong.  Josh is allowed to have moments of insecurity.  I remember reading a complaint about BTS from one unsatisfied (male) viewer who objected to the premise, saying "Why would anyone want to watch ugly people having sex?" He misses the point:  the real sexual heat gets kindled by Josh and Cyn's minds, not their bodies.

Luckily, real life and love are messy and don't follow the Hollywood cliche playbook.  Men and women aren't so neatly categorizable into Ken/Poindexter/Barbie/Edna boxes, and nearly everyone finds confidence and smarts and independence to be attractive in both sexes.  Still, it is interesting to reflect on why Hollywood clings to this trope.  Why does it feel so refreshingly upside-down when the independent-minded tomboy, the anti-princess, snags herself a medieval honey?

Perhaps the film will bring us more answers.

And so, having pondered this, I must mosey off now....Poindexter Ken is in the kitchen, preparing a lavish dinner.  Besides, my fake beard is itching.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 4:22 PM EDT

Updated: October 5, 2009 8:45 PM EDT

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  happy

 About a month ago, our book club decided to read Pope Joan, by Donna Cross.  Now, I know you'll never believe me, but I had absolutely nothing to do with influencing the choice.  While everybody was discussing which book to read next, I happened to be in the bathroom changing out of a wet bathing suit.  (We'd had our club meeting in the middle of a lake.  Because every book club should be at least partly amphibious.)

When I came out of the bathroom, I heard "blah blah blah Pope Joan blah blah Pope Joan blah blah Pope Joan".  At first I thought they were just the usual voices in my head, but then someone asked me what I thought.

"Why, that's a terrific book", I said (supressing the urge to jump up and down and squeal like a game show contestant).  "Great choice!  Let's do it!"   We love discussing history, politics, and social justice, plus it's a great story, so I knew everybody would enjoy it.  The woman who proposed it said she'd found it through Google, when she was looking for historical novels about Rome to get ready for an upcoming trip.

Later that week I emailed Donna through her website, to see if she would be willing to call our book group and chat with us.  She sent a warm and enthusiastic reply, and we arranged a 7:30 call (which turned out to be a little later since she had some unexpected things come up, but we were delighted when the phone rang.)

Right off the bat she told us she'd be happy to answer any questions (although "I'm not telling anyone my weight", she said, which made us laugh, though she looks quite svelte in her photo!).  It was a delightful conversation - she had a lot of interesting quotes and observations.  One thing I hadn't known: she wasn't a feminist before she started writing the book.  She said (I can't remember exact quotes, so I'll have to paraphrase) "I've never burned a bra in my life, and I was part of a generation that was raised to be reasonable."  After researching Pope Joan, and discovering how brutally women were oppressed and treated like chattel during the Middle Ages, her eyes began to open to sexism, ignorance, lack of education, and its profoundly corrosive effects on society.  We talked about what "being reasonable" means for women, and her attraction to unreasonable, strong female characters.  Her next book features a similarly unreasonable heroine (whose name she could not divulge, for fear her publisher would "rip my tongue out", but it's set in 17th century France).

For me, Pope Joan opened my eyes to the way women have long been marginalized in literature and on film, usually because they aren't the ones who get to tell the story.  Joan, a courageous woman motivated by knowledge, creativity, and generosity, is such a  refreshing rarity.  Generally, women in fiction are given the motivation of romance/love/seduction, and not much else.  They are rarely shown trying to improve society or change the world (and if they do, they still must be smokingly hot and perform all their karate kicks in 4 inch heels, thankyouverymuch Dan Brown).  This is why films like Julie & Julia feel so honest and surprising: the two women in that film are shown achieving fulfillment through work, with romance relegated to a supporting role.

There's a thought experiment called the Bechdel Test (invented by the comic strip artist Alison Bechdel), which can be applied to movies and books as a sort of rough measure of sexism.  The test has three parts:

1) There must be at least two female characters

2) who talk to each other

3) about something other than a man.

It's surprising how few films pass the Bechdel Test.  Now, keep in mind it has nothing to do with how good or bad the movies are: Citizen Kane flunks the test, while High School Musical 3 passes.  It's not intended to be used as a guide to the worth of a movie.  Rather, it's a measure of how thoughtfully female characters are treated.  Are they central to the story?  Are they allowed to advance the plot, or are they just an appendage to the action hero?  Do they have agency, or are they just arm candy?  (If the character wears a gold lame bikini, chances are good that it fails.)

Of course, one does have to make allowances for settings where women wouldn't naturally be - films set in all-male military schools, or prisons, for example.  Also romances, where "talking about men" is the whole point.

I'm not sure very many of David's movies would pass the Bechdel test.  300?  Not so much.  Van Helsing? Nope.   Better Than Sex passes the first two but flunks on criteria #3.  Lord of the Rings...has female characters, but they never talk to each other.  Australia passes (Sarah Ashley and Cath Carney get brief war-related dialogue).  So does Three Dollars (mother & daughter bath scene).  Pope Joan should pass handily if any of the tender exchanges between Joan and her mother, Gudrun, about the pagan gods make it into the film.  (Even if not, Pope Joan arguably could earn an exemption from the Bechdel Test, since the entire point of the story is that Joan must make her way in a male dominated world). 

By the way, here's my version of the Bechdel Test to assess the quality of a film:

1) There must be David Wenham in it

2) Does anything else really matter?

But anyway, back to the chat with Donna.  We went on to discuss whether we ourselves would ever have had the courage to risk what Joan risked, and endure what Joan endured, for the sake of an education.  Donna pointed out that many women around the world, every day, engage in similarly courageous acts, like the three Afghani girls who had acid thrown in their faces last year by the Taliban for attending school.  Despite being permanently disfigured by the attack (one girl is half blind), they returned to school a few months later and are still attending.  Now that's courage.

We also touched on the "Pope Mary Sue" issue.  Joan is a pretty extraordinary character - she invents modern courtroom procedure, germ theory, intinction, healing techniques, rescues peasants from floods, among much else - and some readers have questioned whether it's too overwhelming to make her into Superwoman, on top of rising to the top of the Catholic hierarchy.  Donna replied that Joan, being the main character, can't sit on the sidelines and be passive - she has to be a prime mover, she has to act on the world, and she did indeed possess a keen intellect that surpassed most of the men of her day.  Also, quite a few of her "inventions" are known to have sprung up close by and in roughly the same time period, so it's not a stretch to suggest that Joan might have known about these things, or been able to apply her knowledge to improve existing techniques.

NOW THEN.  What you really want to hear is The Scoop On Gerold, yes?  It is, after all, the elephant in the tiny little room of this Grove post.  During our chat, I had been weighing in my mind all evening whether it would be too forward and fangirly to ask specifically about Gerold/David.   Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was hijack the conversation or ask self-indulgent questions.  However, the phone call had started late, and most of our members were preparing to leave.  After some thought, I decided that well, if the group dwindles it might be all right to ask about the upcoming movie.....and perhaps casually, in passing, with the lightness of milkweed down brushing past the wee whiskers of a sleeping white kitten, mention that the casting of David as Gerold was a fine choice.....and then quickly move on to the More Businesslike Topic of The Movie In General.

There was some desultory shuffling of feet and goodbyes as the club members started to depart, and Donna very generously said she'd be willing to keep chatting with anyone who could stay.  The last two people remaining were me and Erica, the host.  I asked if I might have one last question and Donna said "Of course".

"Well," I said, "I'm VERY excited about the upcoming movie, particularly because I'm a huge David Wenham fan..." For a moment I paused, trying to quell my fangirl attack and casually move on to the second part of the question (something to do with how wide of a release she thought the movie would get in the US), when Donna pounced at the mention of David's name.

"Oh!" she said.  "David Wenham!  Oh, I'm so glad you've heard of him!  I have great news for you...he's an absolute sweetheart.  He is the nicest man in the world.  I just adore him to pieces.  My daughter loved him too.  I first met him in Morocco, but when we were in Germany, he went out of his way to make sure I felt at home."

"Gawrsh!" I said (or something similarly hicklike...by this time my face was beet red. Erica tactfully drifted out of the room and began putting away dishes).  "I think he's a fantastic actor.  I've seen just about every one his movies."

"I've seen quite a few of them," Donna said.  She told me that she first saw David as Faramir in Lord of the Rings and said to herself "That's Gerold!!"  At that point she was already working on the screenplay for Pope Joan (apparently it's taken 10 years, 8 scripts, 7 producers, and 5 directors to get the film realized).  She knew right away she wanted to cast David as Joan's romantic lead, and lobbied hard to get him on the project.  The producers also agreed he was the best choice.  At the time there was some other project in Australia that David was committed to, or going after, or occupying him (she didn't say what), so she ended up writing a pleading letter to him.  It said something to the effect that even though people generally think of him as an action-hero type, he'd really be amazing in a romantic-lead, Clark Gable type role.  ("By the way," she said, "even though he looks great with short hair, he really should wear his hair long more often.")

We talked more about Lord of the Rings and the epic tragedy of leaving most of Faramir's romance scenes on the cutting room floor.  "One minute they're in the garden gazing at each other," said Donna, "and the next minute they're kneeling next to each other at Aragorn's coronation."  (By this point in the conversation I had zillions of little cartoon hearts percolating over my head for Donna.  I tell ya, nothing bonds women like ginger manes and badly edited romance.)

I commented that I thought Pope Joan would be good therapy for dissatisfied Faramir/Eowyn fans who didn't even get to see them smooch.  Donna replied something about there being a nude sex scene in Pope Joan (though she wasn't there when it was filmed, so couldn't supply details).

!!!!!, I said.

"Did you see Public Enemies?" she asked.

"No, not yet" I said.  "I heard David wasn't in it very much."

"It was such a waste!  I heard his voice, and he turned his head, and I said to my husband, 'Is that David Wenham?" and that was literally all you see of him in the film.  I can't believe they wasted his talent like that."

Truer words were never spoken.  I agreed, wholeheartedly, that it must be frustrating for actors sometimes to put in all that work only to have most of their scenes wind up cut, even though it's an artistic decision, not a personal one.

Ignoring the pointed yawns of Erica, I went on to ask "Did David get a chance to read your book?"

"That's an interesting question," she said.  "I left a copy in his trailer with a note, but I don't know if he ever got around to reading it."

I told her the story about David getting the part in 300 without having read the book first, and then going out and buying a copy and flipping it open, and the first thing he saw was his character in the nude telling a story by the campfire.  And that he swore he would never agree to another role without first checking out the book.  Donna thought that was quite funny.

At this point Erica sort of bodily intervened and said "I hate to cut things short, but I do need to get to bed".  I certainly didn't want to impose any longer on our host, though it was a shame, because I think Donna and I could have chatted all night about Faramir, Gerold, and the 179 kinds of awesome that David's acting is made of.

Oh dear.  Two women, chatting about a man?  I'm afraid our book club failed the Bechdel test.

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 1:55 AM EDT

Updated: September 14, 2009 11:06 PM EDT

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Mood:  on fire

Today, we peep inside the mind of Australia's uber-arch-villain as he shares his nassstiest, 140-character thoughts.  Presenting...

Neil Fletcher On Twitter

# Collected 500 gallons of rainwater.  Enough to flush the toilet 147 times.  I counted. 

# Dinner, movie tickets, chloroform....this date with Cath Carney is costing me a fortune!

# A note from the library complaining about water-damaged books.  Well, obviously I wouldn't take books I *own* into the bathtub. 

# The ranch next door has gone bust.  I will miss wondering how it stays in business.

@KingCarney: Your egotism reminds me of myself.

# Brushing up on my cursing today.  Got a few greeting cards coming up.

# Asked Nullah to sing a Swedish model to me.  Ended up with an Ikea floor lamp.  Cheeky little bastard.

# Canadians joining in war effort.  Canadians are all right.  Their geese are jerks, though.

# I've decided I need a signature fragrance.  Something that captures the essence of bitter ambition and wasted potential.  And lilacs.

# Off to YMCA, to simulate running and Christian principles.

# Who knew?  With a little chlorine, your bath water can last all summer.

# I'm home, and by "home" I mean no longer stealing cattle.

# Lady Ashley: I am so over you.  Me:  Oh, please.  You couldn't get over me with a sherpa.

# If I lived in the northern hemisphere, would I twirl my mustache counter-clockwise?

# Went up to Darwin yesterday arvo.  Learned that opium is the opiate of the masses.

# Winter can be so depressing.  When you finally get a slow day, you're behind on personal hygiene and can't enjoy it.

# If you're happy and you know it....I didn't punch you hard enough.

# Overworked and underdrunk.

# Night's curtain falls and charms my wavering consciousness.  Going out to bash some roos with an empty lager bottle.

# The best part about church is the free breakfast money they pass out on the little plate.

# Oh gosh, little creamy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to knock you off your tricycle.  Let me hold your ice cream sandwich while you   TA TA, SUCKER!!!!

# If you love someone, hold onto them until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in.

# It's Australia Day Eve.  I have to leave a jar of Vegemite at the window.  Otherwise Skippy the Bush Kangaroo climbs in and eats you.

# Some blokes are fighting the Japs.  Some blokes are fighting the Germans.  I'm fighting Vampire Hitler.  HE'S NOT BOTHERING YOU BECAUSE I'M TAKING CARE OF IT.

# I declair twoday too bee Typo Toosday.

# Just between you, me, and the lamppost, I may need new brakes.  And a new lamppost.

# This is one of those days when my thoughts turn to darker things.  Such as chocolate.

@drover Your fly is down. Ha! Made you look.

# I bet the town hall meetings in Germany are full of protestors comparing Hitler to Hitler.

# Dreamt I was doing community service, collecting trash from a gulch in Yulura and helping grandmas cross the road.  WTF kind of dream is that?

# If you're looking at your bum in the mirror while making over-the-shoulder kissy faces, there is not much you can say if your wife catches you.

# Darwin bombed to rubble yesterday.  Now I'll never find out what happened to that girl who didn't listen, hit her head, and had the weird hallucination about ruby slippers.

# I'm doing manly chores around the station.  Like banging on the doohickey with a wrench, and yelling at that clacky thingie.

# Some half=naked dude is imitating a flamingo up on the water tower.  He's got something in his hand.  Looks like a glass tipped spea

Posted by dessicatedcoconut at 9:37 PM EDT

Updated: September 14, 2009 10:01 PM EDT

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink