Stuck on Title
One of the good things about seeing a movie that is based on a historical event, is that it is virtually impossible to spoil. After all, all who have some interest in the backstory of what they are watching will know what is supposed to happen, and if you don’t, why watch the movie?
A movie about John F. Kennedy will likely end with the death of the main character, a movie about Marilyn Monroe no less so. A second world war movie will have the German alliance losing after a land-war in Eurasia, and Napoleon will never be depicted as anything but a world-conquering emperor manqué.
That said, some movies don’t completely follow the exact turns of events, and add something to their storyline to be spoiled by honest reviewers for discerning moviegoers.
Good thing I have a remarkably small amount of readers, and as such can spoil to my little hearts content, as there is little chance of ruining things for a mass audience. I say “good thing” in a remarkably sarcastic way. For all the praise this blog garnishes for me, word of mouth is not doing it’s best for my blog, which I think is a shame, as I like people reading this. What else am I doing this for, after all.
Well, yes, I do this for me and my almost unending megalomania, but that’s another story.
Anyways, back to movies. Specifically “300” the movie based on the Frank Miller comic based on the film based on a desperate last stand of a small piece of the Spartan army.
And a good movie it is. Visually arresting and very recognizable as a translation of a Frank Miller comic, it must be said that some of it’s storyline has been sacrificed to create this movie. Not that there is much storyline, but hey, if I wanted only pretty pictures I’d have kept to the movie-stills, thank you very much.
The story, for those interested, is of Spartan king Leonidas who goes against the advice and will of his council to try to stop the Persian king Xerxes (the first, lest this be confusing) from invading Greece. The place he chooses to do this is; the pass of Thermopylae, a narrow pass on the coastline of Greece, and easily defendable by a small contingency of men.
Well, small…
Sure, there are about 300 of them, give or take a few hundred Phoenician and assorted Greek stragglers, but in no dictionary can these men be called small.
Perhaps as a result of the weather or the idea of Spartan functionality, almost nobody of any importance in this movie is more than 1/4th clothed. This clothing, if present, would consist mostly of red cloaks, leather briefs, the occasional bandage and in case of the GodKing Xerxes, about half a mile of chain.
Is this a problem? Not really, as bar one all these people have bodies that I, personally, would kill for. The abundance of pecs, thighs, biceps, abs, shoulders and assorted parts of the male anatomy on display in this movie makes one think of a casting bureau’s portfolio gone steroid. If it wasn’t for the fact of Boyfriend, and the small thing that I think he is far more than shite-good looking enough for me, I probably would’ve invested heavily in time travel and a ticket to Sparta.
Seriously, David Wenham, or “the man with the least typecasted portfolio in Hollywood” who played the wimpy friar in Van Helsing even manages to buff it up with the big boys, in a very interesting display of abs indeed. Which I liked, as I found him very attractive indeed in Lord of the Rings, and it never hurts to see ones moviecrushes disrobe to a good extent.
Storywise all is predictable. There is a last stand, it fails, but it rallies those left behind to an extent to overthrow the would be conqueror. There is a beautiful queen who guards the homestead in name of her king, there is a slimy grand vizier type person who troubles her. It is all rather standard, but even in it’s standardness I think it is very well done.
All in all, I am very happy to have seen this movie, and am hoping to see it again sometime soon. Seriously, go see it.
In other news, this Saturday is the 6 month anniversary of the first date with Boyfriend, and I am very happy to have him in my life. We are going towards our official six month anniversary in a month or so, and I am very much looking forward to the next 6 months, and all the time after that I am planning to spend with him.
Because there is little chance of me to say rightly what I want to say to you, I am going to copy something down here by ee cummings, who says these things better than I can.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)
i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
Ok, sappyness over now, I apologize to my readers who are not Boyfriend.
Stripes at half open,
Kevin
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Get out of my cunting way, you cunting cunt.
Sometimes you start to think if it may all be you. Am I the person at fault here? Am I the one to create a wrong situation without me knowing it? Am I?
Luckily, whenever bouts of self doubt like that appear, there also appears a fuckin’ retard to get juuuuuuuust in front of your right or left shoulder, in a way that they aren’t really in the way, as you can easily walk around them, but they are still shite annoying in their own right. That said, as last Wednesday has taught me, when faced with burrowing my way through a 300 lb American who has, despite size and weight, suddenly materialised right in fucking front of me OR burrowing myself into a red double-decker bus, I will choose to uproot the American megalith and suffer some shouted abuse. After all, they aren’t fast enough to catch me anyways.
Should the mention of the red double-decker not have tipped you off, I spent some time in London again. And London, being the theme-park it really is, is filled to it’s gills with annoying tourists, many quite incredibly big and stupid, and all of them striving to be in some indeterminate way annoying and obstructing to someone. Often one can see a classic move, where increasing lines of tourists stopping to look at something that caught their fancy block passage to a person exiting a store with arms full of bags and thus creating a blockade a revolutionary would be proud of.
The best thing, however, is to be on the other side of the street when one tourists attempt to be an annoyance is blocked by another tourists attempts to be as incredibly stalwart as humanly (touristly) possible, thus negating the efforts of the first. Nine times out of ten the first was actually trying to obstruct ANOTHER idiot tourist from creating complete chaos, which can now easily and disastrously ensue.
One needs to be across the street from this to really appreciate it, as being in between the battling whale penises would mean that it is easier to take your own life than to ever enjoy it again. I escaped with a semblance of sanity from a sixsome of moronic activity only because I launched myself willingly into traffic and survived with little more than some extra abuse spouted at my person from someone riding a bike. Since riding a bike and spouting abuse is a great Dutch pastime, I for a second felt like I was home, which saved my feeble little mind from breaking down and just starting a spree of touristslaughter. I just opted to muttering a new personal mantra from then on, which helped me get through the day. For those interested, the mantra bears striking resemblance to the title of this blog, if with a few more expletives thrown in.
Now, knowing London is a temple-district to stupidity, and knowing that the centre is overwhelmed with the offspring of whale-cousins, why go in there, one would ask? And a smart question this is, at that.
Well, partly this is a testament to my point that no matter how smart you are, sometimes you are simply an idiot as well. The other and greater part is the simple fact I like the cultural offerings of London. I like going to the theatre, the bookstores, the galleries. I like the architecture and the food. And I dislike passing up the opportunity to not see at least one show whenever I am there.
This time, however, I was at a loss what to go see. I have wanted to see Wicked for a good long while now, but am also planning to see that with Boyfriend some time in the future, so why go on my own now? And the offerings seemed rather frugal as to optional plans. I had a faint desire to see “The Woman in Black”, but wasn’t really in the mood for a thriller/horror done on stage, as I needed to go back to my hotel room all alone, and walking on your own in Whitechapel still brings images to my mind of distinguished gentlemen with a penchant for slitted hookers.
Then, my eyes fell on an online add for “Equus”, one of the most influential plays of the last 30 years in the English language. The fact it has a seventeen year old required to be naked for a good portion of the second act also helps cement a choice. The further fact this role is played by Daniel Radcliffe, and the added giggleoption of knowing you’ve seen Harry Potter nekkid obviously is a chance one can’t let pass by.
So off to the centre I went, and after acquiring a ticket for the show I was ready to spend an hour snooping through the cities better DVD-stores, I was in the market for some Eddie Izzard and I would not be denied.
And I wasn’t, as I am now the proud owner of all his stage shows on DVD, which pleases me mightily.
Getting myself back to the theatre a little early and assuming leaning position against a handy pillar I surveyed one of the most interesting configurations of theatre crowds I have ever seen. It was remarkably interesting. Me, an avid human watcher and discriminator in almost all things, could survey at any one time (in order of overlap, some groups/people belonged in two camps or more:
-The Harry Potter fans: A group that was most to be recognized by age (young) and the fact they almost all toted a parent who was markedly unsure about the smartness of being here.
-The dirty old men: A group that dribbled in in ones and small groups. Clearly there to see some seventeen year old flesh, and interesting in nothing else.
-The dirty young men: Groups of young, gay men there ostensibly for the play, but really there out of an interest in the boyflesh. Recognizable in a loud flashyness, and also by the way a member of the second group usually stood close by to get some ogling practice in.
-The younger theatre patron: there for the play, not unwilling to see some guy get naked, but very laissez-faire about the whole situation. Nakedness is an everyday occurrence, after all, as is theatre.
-The older Theatre Patron: Probably saw the play in it’s first running, and now back for more. A bit worried about the nudity and somewhat nervous in the crowds of youngsters and leches, but nonetheless a very dignified groups.
-The Tourist: An older or younger Theater Patron in their own country, here to get some culture in. The better type of tourist, but perhaps a little lost. Small groups, clearly not sure about how to get to the nearest subway station.
The play itself is rather impressive. It is ostensibly about a young man who blinds six horses with a sharp hook. But more than that it is about the psychiatrist that is assigned his case and his quest to find out why it all happened. I will not spoil the play for anyone, but I will say that it is excellent, and that everybody should go and see it.
As the play is hardly feel-good, I was in need of emotional sustenance after exiting a theatre. The fact I then ran into 5 closed bookstores was not at all helping. Luckily my never failing nose for letters led me to an open bookstore, a new Tom Holt omnibus, and some sundry reading materials.
Well stocked, well cultured, and ready I looked up my favourite Thai eatery, and after that my hotel.
As I was to spend only one day here, I had no unpacking or planning to do for the next day, and I had a very nice peaceful sleep.
A good trip, I say. Next time I go to London I most likely will be bringing Boyfriend, or he will be bringing me, for whatever difference it makes, and then I hope to be able to review Wicked, finally.
For now, stripes at half open,
Grtz,
Kevin
Luckily, whenever bouts of self doubt like that appear, there also appears a fuckin’ retard to get juuuuuuuust in front of your right or left shoulder, in a way that they aren’t really in the way, as you can easily walk around them, but they are still shite annoying in their own right. That said, as last Wednesday has taught me, when faced with burrowing my way through a 300 lb American who has, despite size and weight, suddenly materialised right in fucking front of me OR burrowing myself into a red double-decker bus, I will choose to uproot the American megalith and suffer some shouted abuse. After all, they aren’t fast enough to catch me anyways.
Should the mention of the red double-decker not have tipped you off, I spent some time in London again. And London, being the theme-park it really is, is filled to it’s gills with annoying tourists, many quite incredibly big and stupid, and all of them striving to be in some indeterminate way annoying and obstructing to someone. Often one can see a classic move, where increasing lines of tourists stopping to look at something that caught their fancy block passage to a person exiting a store with arms full of bags and thus creating a blockade a revolutionary would be proud of.
The best thing, however, is to be on the other side of the street when one tourists attempt to be an annoyance is blocked by another tourists attempts to be as incredibly stalwart as humanly (touristly) possible, thus negating the efforts of the first. Nine times out of ten the first was actually trying to obstruct ANOTHER idiot tourist from creating complete chaos, which can now easily and disastrously ensue.
One needs to be across the street from this to really appreciate it, as being in between the battling whale penises would mean that it is easier to take your own life than to ever enjoy it again. I escaped with a semblance of sanity from a sixsome of moronic activity only because I launched myself willingly into traffic and survived with little more than some extra abuse spouted at my person from someone riding a bike. Since riding a bike and spouting abuse is a great Dutch pastime, I for a second felt like I was home, which saved my feeble little mind from breaking down and just starting a spree of touristslaughter. I just opted to muttering a new personal mantra from then on, which helped me get through the day. For those interested, the mantra bears striking resemblance to the title of this blog, if with a few more expletives thrown in.
Now, knowing London is a temple-district to stupidity, and knowing that the centre is overwhelmed with the offspring of whale-cousins, why go in there, one would ask? And a smart question this is, at that.
Well, partly this is a testament to my point that no matter how smart you are, sometimes you are simply an idiot as well. The other and greater part is the simple fact I like the cultural offerings of London. I like going to the theatre, the bookstores, the galleries. I like the architecture and the food. And I dislike passing up the opportunity to not see at least one show whenever I am there.
This time, however, I was at a loss what to go see. I have wanted to see Wicked for a good long while now, but am also planning to see that with Boyfriend some time in the future, so why go on my own now? And the offerings seemed rather frugal as to optional plans. I had a faint desire to see “The Woman in Black”, but wasn’t really in the mood for a thriller/horror done on stage, as I needed to go back to my hotel room all alone, and walking on your own in Whitechapel still brings images to my mind of distinguished gentlemen with a penchant for slitted hookers.
Then, my eyes fell on an online add for “Equus”, one of the most influential plays of the last 30 years in the English language. The fact it has a seventeen year old required to be naked for a good portion of the second act also helps cement a choice. The further fact this role is played by Daniel Radcliffe, and the added giggleoption of knowing you’ve seen Harry Potter nekkid obviously is a chance one can’t let pass by.
So off to the centre I went, and after acquiring a ticket for the show I was ready to spend an hour snooping through the cities better DVD-stores, I was in the market for some Eddie Izzard and I would not be denied.
And I wasn’t, as I am now the proud owner of all his stage shows on DVD, which pleases me mightily.
Getting myself back to the theatre a little early and assuming leaning position against a handy pillar I surveyed one of the most interesting configurations of theatre crowds I have ever seen. It was remarkably interesting. Me, an avid human watcher and discriminator in almost all things, could survey at any one time (in order of overlap, some groups/people belonged in two camps or more:
-The Harry Potter fans: A group that was most to be recognized by age (young) and the fact they almost all toted a parent who was markedly unsure about the smartness of being here.
-The dirty old men: A group that dribbled in in ones and small groups. Clearly there to see some seventeen year old flesh, and interesting in nothing else.
-The dirty young men: Groups of young, gay men there ostensibly for the play, but really there out of an interest in the boyflesh. Recognizable in a loud flashyness, and also by the way a member of the second group usually stood close by to get some ogling practice in.
-The younger theatre patron: there for the play, not unwilling to see some guy get naked, but very laissez-faire about the whole situation. Nakedness is an everyday occurrence, after all, as is theatre.
-The older Theatre Patron: Probably saw the play in it’s first running, and now back for more. A bit worried about the nudity and somewhat nervous in the crowds of youngsters and leches, but nonetheless a very dignified groups.
-The Tourist: An older or younger Theater Patron in their own country, here to get some culture in. The better type of tourist, but perhaps a little lost. Small groups, clearly not sure about how to get to the nearest subway station.
The play itself is rather impressive. It is ostensibly about a young man who blinds six horses with a sharp hook. But more than that it is about the psychiatrist that is assigned his case and his quest to find out why it all happened. I will not spoil the play for anyone, but I will say that it is excellent, and that everybody should go and see it.
As the play is hardly feel-good, I was in need of emotional sustenance after exiting a theatre. The fact I then ran into 5 closed bookstores was not at all helping. Luckily my never failing nose for letters led me to an open bookstore, a new Tom Holt omnibus, and some sundry reading materials.
Well stocked, well cultured, and ready I looked up my favourite Thai eatery, and after that my hotel.
As I was to spend only one day here, I had no unpacking or planning to do for the next day, and I had a very nice peaceful sleep.
A good trip, I say. Next time I go to London I most likely will be bringing Boyfriend, or he will be bringing me, for whatever difference it makes, and then I hope to be able to review Wicked, finally.
For now, stripes at half open,
Grtz,
Kevin
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Missing Boyfriend and surges of pride.
I find myself in a position not often inhabited. Boyfriend, he of the great lashes and skills wit a poached egg, is away for business. This is not an unusual thing, he has been away before, after all. But this time he will be away over the weekend, instigating the first weekend in the six months we have been dating that he and I are not together.
This displeases me mightily.
Now, don’t get me wrong, we are not one of those couples that need to spend every waking hour together and never see anybody else. But usually there is a great deal of choice involved when we don’t meet up. Having him a good amount of space away and not being able to go there with any facility, it feels less than splendid.
Good thing we had a well filled weekend this weekend to keep me going a little. A very nice dinner at the house of friends of Boyfriend was in the books for Saturday. Well, it was in his books, and after a little bit pf prodding it was in mine as well. And I am very happy I went there.
I used to have a theory that I called “picking up the puppy”, which means that you can be hanging out with someone for a while, never really thinking about them in a romantic way, and then you see them do something really sweet, like picking up a puppy or holding a baby, and you suddenly and romcommically realise the fact you have been liking them like that for a while now…
This is how it is supposed to go.
Obviously I have liked Boyfriend like that for a while now, after all, he is Boyfriend, but this weekend he managed to pick up a very big puppy nonetheless.
And I am not talking about his dog, who is also a very big puppy, and a very sweet one at that. (Just turned two… such a cool dog)
I was talking to the daughter of the house when suddenly someone had crawled behind the baby grand piano and did some tinkling on the ivories. Never one to ignore impromptu musicality, I turned round, and there was Boyfriend. I just about died. An enormous surge of pride made it’s way through me. Very embarrassing, these surges, but it was fun as well. Had I not already loved this man very much the effect could not have been greater. As it is, I am just continuing feeling really very fondly of Boyfriend.
I am not expressing myself very clearly and quite frankly, there is not that much to express, apart from the fact Boyfriend is one of the bestest people on the planet, and I am sad he is not one of the bestest people within 5 km of me. Not because he isn’t bestest, but because he isn’t fuckin there.
*sigh*
Stripes at all down, for “waiting to exhale”
Grtz,
Kevin
This displeases me mightily.
Now, don’t get me wrong, we are not one of those couples that need to spend every waking hour together and never see anybody else. But usually there is a great deal of choice involved when we don’t meet up. Having him a good amount of space away and not being able to go there with any facility, it feels less than splendid.
Good thing we had a well filled weekend this weekend to keep me going a little. A very nice dinner at the house of friends of Boyfriend was in the books for Saturday. Well, it was in his books, and after a little bit pf prodding it was in mine as well. And I am very happy I went there.
I used to have a theory that I called “picking up the puppy”, which means that you can be hanging out with someone for a while, never really thinking about them in a romantic way, and then you see them do something really sweet, like picking up a puppy or holding a baby, and you suddenly and romcommically realise the fact you have been liking them like that for a while now…
This is how it is supposed to go.
Obviously I have liked Boyfriend like that for a while now, after all, he is Boyfriend, but this weekend he managed to pick up a very big puppy nonetheless.
And I am not talking about his dog, who is also a very big puppy, and a very sweet one at that. (Just turned two… such a cool dog)
I was talking to the daughter of the house when suddenly someone had crawled behind the baby grand piano and did some tinkling on the ivories. Never one to ignore impromptu musicality, I turned round, and there was Boyfriend. I just about died. An enormous surge of pride made it’s way through me. Very embarrassing, these surges, but it was fun as well. Had I not already loved this man very much the effect could not have been greater. As it is, I am just continuing feeling really very fondly of Boyfriend.
I am not expressing myself very clearly and quite frankly, there is not that much to express, apart from the fact Boyfriend is one of the bestest people on the planet, and I am sad he is not one of the bestest people within 5 km of me. Not because he isn’t bestest, but because he isn’t fuckin there.
*sigh*
Stripes at all down, for “waiting to exhale”
Grtz,
Kevin
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