Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.
Too footsore and weary from late-night Christmas shopping to blog.
Now here’s one of the twinkliest stars in my Box of Christmas Books. But this one’s not the children’s, it’s mine, all mine!
But what if he then went on to deliver, on a daily basis, amongst other items, three live and loudly squawking chicken, four raucous green calling birds, geese (laying eggs all over the door step), swans that make a bee-line for the tiny fish-pond? Or . . . worse still - and to the increasing bewilderment, frustration and, ultimately, despair of the recipient - a noisy troop of bekilted bagpipe players, and ten whiskery and rather randy old men who get up to no good with the scandalously (giggle, snigger, snort) naked dancing ladies?
Poor Emily’s life falls apart in the space of twelve short days and she has to resort to legal action. The whole thing is a hilarious, rumbustious little gem – and it hardly needs mentioning that Quentin Blake’s brilliantly anarchic illustrations provide half the cake and all the icing. (Another National Treasure, our Mr Blake, are we all agreed?)
If any other Blogger users have any clues or suggestions as to how I might persist in my rebellion against conformity, I'd be interested to hear from you.
But more than all that, there were Victor da Silva and Hanna Karttunen performing their latest ‘showdance’. Who could forget last year’s appearance of this amazing couple in all its leopardsuited thrillingness? More like a trapeze act or a magic show than a dance: ‘how did they do that?’ one gasped, blinking and rubbing one’s eyes.
Well, there they were, back again and . . . O.M.G! This isn’t ‘dance’ – it’s something else altogether and I’m not sure it should be allowed on air while young persons are eating their tea! Mesmerising stuff. The duo have a disappointingly bad website, with bad photos and an even worse video. There are some fuzzy clandestinely recorded videos on YouTube, but I just want to see that ‘dance’ again. To catch those ‘sleight of body’ bits between Hanna lying on the floor and then suddenly standing in mid-air – her (impossibly long) legs having performed some unfeasible 180 degree miracle while her partner twirled her effortlessly on one hand, with presumably some behind-the-scenes assistance from one or more of his interestingly tattooed biceps. Is this art or high-kitch circus? I really don’t know. But I could certainly watch it with my mouth unbecomingly open for a lot longer than the four minutes we were allowed tonight.
And so to Cranford. Ahhh, Cranford. It is a truth universally acknowledged that Cranford is a triumph – a total, 100% triumph – of BBC costume drama. Hardly any point listing the consummate performances, the fabulously authentic costumes and interiors, the telling reminders of the ever-present threat of death, the brilliant adaptation of three novels into a single narrative . . . one could go on and on and on.
I – yes, stiff-upper-lipped moi – was in floods of sniffing and blubbing from start to finish. That Alex Etel as young Harry Gregson . . . heartbreaking. The gorgeous, lovely, good Mr Carter, played by Philip Glenister – how I wept.
And of course, Judi Dench – surely our most priceless National Treasure (well, female National Treasure – Alan Bennett just pipping Humph to the post as male NT, obviously) – just perfectly perfect as Miss Matty, with her scruples about having to go into ‘trade’ but at least tea was not a 'sticky' commodity and would not ‘leave a residue’ – more sobbing from me. Gosh, I’m exhausted and dehydrated from all this lacrymosity.
And how many millions of miles ahead of the ‘costume drama’ on which I wasted my time last night when I decided it would be a good idea to catch up with the DVD of Becoming Jane . What a load of ineffectual nonsense! A romanticised ‘account’ of Jane Austen’s life pre-Pride and Prejudice, in theory it would seem to tick all the boxes – high-budget, big production values, top name actors, great locations, bla bla bla. But . . . several hundred yawns and a lot of anachronism-spotting later – I officially declared it a Load of Old Tosh.
Anne Hathaway is lovely, gorgeous and absolutely fabulous in The Princess Diaries, The Princess Diaries II and Ella Enchanted (and as a mother of two girls, believe me, I have seen these in the cinema and then ad infinitum on DVD). In such films she is perfect and utterly adorable. As Jane Austen, she really couldn’t have been more disastrously cast. She tries very, very hard – to an ‘aw, bless her’ degree. But . . . her winsome eye-rolling and shoulder-shrugging and stomping off with exaggerated arm-swinging . . . is not only, like, sooooooNOT early nineteenth century, it’s just, like, soooooo American. As are her looks.
And, please, if we're going to talk about National Treasures, you don’t really get more National Treasurey than Jane Austen. The Ultimate Englishwoman. Yes, I know Meryl Streep’s 'done English', and Gwyneth Paltrow’s 'done English' and let’s not forget Renee Zellweger, either. But they really are exceptions and Anne Hathaway is just not in their league when it comes to ‘doing English’ convincingly. She could probably do a very passable 2007 English, but she can’t do Costume Drama English. Sorry.
And if the poor viewer is constantly on the edge of her seat with anxiety that some American inflexion or other is going to creep into the heroine’s every utterance (as it often did, though she tried so hard, aw, bless her), then ‘convincing acting’ it is not. And if the viewer can’t engage with the heroine, then what hope is there? One is not drawn in, one is pushed out and becomes a critical observer, who starts noticing other niggling things – inauthentic costumes, hairstyles, anachronistic expressions and behaviour. And before the viewer knows it, she is picking the whole thing to tiny bits and getting in a big rage and counting the minutes until the whole wretched, artificial saga is ended. Frankly, the DVD ‘extras’ were more interesting than the film itself. It is such a shame that so many misguided mistakes were made in this production– which could have been enjoyable even while being recognised as the confection that, ultimately, it was. There were great performances from Julie Walters and Maggie Smith, among others, but they were let down by a very silly script, as much as anything.
Looking forward to seeing what the BBC comes up with in this week's adaptation of Oliver Twist - should be perfect pre-Christmas viewing. It's got Timothy Spall in it. So that bodes well.
No easy segue into my final topic for this evening. The children discovered a hedgehog in the garden at lunchtime. Moving, very slowly, in broad daylight, across the lawn. It must surely have been disturbed in a neighbouring garden and emerged from its hibernation nest. As quickly as we could, we filled a cardboard box with hay, carefully lifted the hedgehog into it and then buried the box, on its side, underneath a big pile of hedge trimmings etc. Will it safely go back to sleep again and survive the winter? Everyone's been instructed not, on any account, to disturb it. I suppose we will only know the outcome in the spring. I shall have to Google hedgehogs to find out more, I suppose. Meanwhile, all comments/suggestions welcome, but I imagine I'm right in believing that the prognostications are not encouraging?
And then it was belated 6th birthday party yesterday - 21 small girls learning a dance routine to High School Musical, passing (hurling) the parcel and loading up their paper plates with far more sausages, crisps and cakes then they could have managed in a week, but that's kids' parties all over, and it was generally voted a resounding success. Exhausting though - even for those of us who weren't dancing (just idly serving food and clearing away again after a morning spent sauntering around supermarkets in a laid-back fashion - I daren't use the 's' word after having read Random Distractions' pertinent remarks on this point or I fear I shall be taken to task . . .).
I simply prefer Christmas to be concentrated, rather than allowing it to expand to fit all available surrounding days, weeks and months. Shops do it because they need to make us buy stuff. But why follow suit and get all tinselled up while everyone's still slogging away at work and school?
Nick Butterworth and Mick Inkpen's The Nativity Play is hilarious and parents will relate to its knowing observations as much as children.
One December a young widow, newly arrived in the village, calls on Jonathan with her seven-year-old son, Thomas. She commissions him to carve a nativity scene to replace one her grandfather made her which has been lost in her move. Gradually, the widow - through her persistent acts of quiet kindness - and Thomas - through his innocent, trusting frankness - force Jonathan to confront his grief and transform it into a source of inspiration in his work. The story ends on Christmas morning, with the dawning of new hope - hands tentatively held and laughter where once there had been none.
