There is nothing more mesmerising as billowing fog, creeping across deserted streets, slipping over garden fences clinging to the cold branches of trees. The afternoon sun struggles to be seen behind the untimely mist. Lush horizons reduced to silhouettes and the sky impending on the earth, the world compressed upon itself. The world beyond nothing more than a blur of grey and green; figures dissolve into nothing. Trees stand, proud in their nakedness, their leafy garments await warmth before returning, are now adorned in a delicate casing of silver, spun around their knobbly limbs, glistening in the dappled light.
The stinging cold bites at exposed skin, foot prints crumble the near frozen grass, leaving a trail of green in the frost covered ground. Had one looked back they might have seen the path, had it not been quickly swallowed by the fog. The landscape in front slowly gained detail, emerging from the blur, as the world behind fell into it.
Through an archway of skeletal trees and down the familiar track to the ocean edge; here it is darker, although the sun hovers high in the sky, attempting to penetrate the mist. All the footprints upon the damp sand have been washed away; a trail of sea weed craves the shore in half, spindly tufts of grass, shiver in protest and the tide laps quietly, as though it too fears sudden movement in the blurry unknown.
Flimsy shoes are no match for icy sand and backs turn quickly from such weather. Chills that quickly seep through cotton and denim; breath that forms before you, before clinging to nose and lungs. Warmth is sought and as we walk away; these moments of unimaginable beauty are deserted. Avoided and then forgotten.
Somehow, rather unconsciously, over the last week I’ve watch eight different Maggie Smith films and I have come to the conclusion that she is not recognised as much as she ought. As a fairly solid gen y-er, my introduction to Dame Maggie was through Harry Potter, and I think she’s wonderful as McGonagall, and to be honest, I didn’t really see her in any other way, she was stuck in my mind (and a daresay will be for quite a while longer) as a Professor. So, Friday night was spend in the company of old friends as I watched, well, re-watched the first four HP films (don’t tease me, I’d been having a hard day, and there are few films that works better or faster) and again I didn’t take any more notice of her that I had for the last ten years.
I was then instructed to find an “intelligent” film to watch with my mum and a “make my belly hurt” film with my little sister. I only had one night and had to find something accommodating for the two. I normally have very poor judgment on picking a movie. A trip to the video shop can take most of an hour, and even then I often call someone for backup. I do send a good time finding movies and my Watch List on imdb goes on for several pages, but the moment I step into the video shop, they all slip from my mind. So after my usual walk through the video shop, (only 40 minutes, close to a record) I managed to find something. Keeping Mum. I judge a film by who’s in it and as soon as I see Maggie Smith on the front cover, I can almost guarantee that it’s not terrible; and hopefully intelligent. She is then followed by Rowan Atkinson, who is sure for a giggle. So sure sounds good, something to please everyone. I was wrong, of course. This was wonderful. And most defiantly where my adoration for Maggie Smith was solidified. Genius, pure genius. And I can’t really say anything about it because the premise could be seen as a plot spoiler (but apparently, just by googling the trailer everything comes out, including all of the best one liners- so be cautious, it’s so much better when you don’t expect it) . So think Nanny McPhee cross with Death at A Funeral and good English humour.
In Australia, Downton Abbey is airing for the first time, and as a loved of cravats and the like, it’s hard for me to go past a period drama without starring for a bit. She’s in it. I love it. Let’s keep it simple.
The next day I was on my own again perusing the selves of Target, when I came across the under ten dollar section. I am a student, and on top of that an unemployed student, so an awful lot of my splurges come from the discount bin. Here I came across my next piece. Murder By Death. I love a good murder mystery, and I also love a good spoof movie. So I was intrigued. I watched it without even knowing that Maggie Smith was in it. I was for a long time convinced that Maggie Smith was “born old” now, don’t take that literally, I had just never seen a movie with her when she wasn’t fifty plus (this really does show my ignorance). Well, there is always the exception to the rule and this was it. She was beautiful, and so funny. But it wasn’t out of character Maggie Smith, why with each movie I watched I loved her more. So well composed and dignified, yet able to make fun of herself for begin so. . It was a funny movie that had me laughing. It took great ‘detective’ and put them together for a murder. These detectives included a Miss Marbles and a moustache clad Belgium. With spoof movies, it always helps knowing who and what they are making fun of, and honestly I didn’t, I know my Agatha Christies but other than that I was lost, but it was still funny.
I think, in short, this is a post confirming what so many people before me had decided on, and I’m just a bit slow. Maggie Smith is a genius. Period. Fin. End
A half-moon looked in through the crack in the curtains where the yellow glow of lamplight rendered it redundant. A chaos of clothes and books spread across the floor; drawers gaped open spilling forth more clutter. The bed of heavy black iron sat in the middle of the small room, pillows and blankets draped over the bedhead and onto the floor around it, leaving the mattress empty: save for a young woman.
Her mess of dark hair was pulled hastily out of her eyes into a knot on the top of her head, but long strands escaped to fall lose around her face. Clad in flannelette pyjamas and a single sock, she lounged over a notebook, the side of her hand stained in smudged ink, pen dancing across the page in an untidy scrawl. With dark circles beneath her tired eyes and a faint glow appearing on the horizon, little would stop her writing, save her falling asleep on the half-finished page or the desired sense of completion arising in the pit of her stomach. She endured. Keeping her eyes to focused on the page; forcing her hand to keep writing, though an ache was growing in her wrist; she wouldn’t let herself glance over at the clock on the side table that would tell her how little sleep she was going to receive. The night needed to be savoured.
She didn’t particularly want to be awake. The idea of falling back into pillows tempted her; enfolding herself in dreams was so inviting at such an early hour. She so longer to sleep, but she could not let herself want, she needed to write. Writing was not a want, writing, to her, was as necessary as breathing or eating. It had grown from a mere hobby to an addiction. Life was put on hold to feed her writing. It was these precious moments when words flowed effortlessly and seamlessly from mind to page. She wrote feverishly, not for pleasure, although enjoyment did linger, nor for lack of time, but in fear: fear that if she stopped, the words would too and she would be left with a mere memory of them in the morning. But her addiction prevailed over her tired mind, because this was the life of the writer, and she had to write.
She was not a writer because of her habits but a writer because of her mind. It was not that her passion had erupted and the urge for writing had overcome her, rather it was the way that she thought. She saw the world in already formed words. A constant narration played within her head describing to herself the world around her in great detail, as though she was trying to remember while she searched for pen and paper.
You could not fix on the time or place the when she awoke to know that she was indeed a writer, for it was too long ago. She was in the middle before she knew what she had become and there was no changing that. There was some point when she realised that the tool which she had been equipped with for so many years was the tool that would save her. She just had to write. It was the release when nothing else was working, it gave her the ability to fly when reality grounded her; it allowed her mind to wander when she was stuck in the mundane; writing kept her sane.
The clock on the side table clicked over for another hour. The house around her was still filled with the sound of sleeping: a soft rumble of the fridge, the tick of the clock in the other room, the slight rattle of pipes through the walls. But outside, the world was starting to wake. The trickle of traffic grew into a consistent stream, birds began their morning discussions as early rises rose. And finally, the pen was laid down, eyes finally closed, and head dropped as the writer succumbed to the same need as everyone else and fell asleep.
I only saw this this afternoon, and still trying to get my head around it (but this was also the case when the last two pirate movies came out, so by tomorrow it is quite likely that I will love it) there was defiantly a different vibe from the previous film, which I was expecting, new director and all, but there was something odd. What I adored about the first movie (and the others, although by the third I was sufficiently confused) was the contrasting characters. The three leads were so very different from one another- compare Keira Knightly’s Elizabeth to Jack Sparrow and there is almost no similarities- each of the characters are distinguished in their own way. But in this film the breadth of characters was lost; Johnny Depp is amazing, no doubt about that, but the other characters were a little two diminishable.
And on a side note to characters, but I found a lack of attractive men in this film (when I raised this comment, I received a few in looks from my surrounding company, who were all content with Johnny). Although I adore is dark soul searching eyes, when he has dreadlocks and copious amount of eyeliner, I’m not fulfilled. Maybe I’ve gotten gluttonous, having previously had both Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom, I think I was expected something… more. Perhaps they forgot the female audience, focusing on the men, drawing them in with Penelope Cruz’s carefully placed tattoo.
The plot line was a little confusing, but I do enjoy that; I enjoy anything that you have to watch twice to understand and I think the Pirate films fall into that category. It is a film that requires a strong bladder, once you are in the theatre if you leave, only for a moment; there is a good chance that you won’t understand the rest of the film. Once I got home however, and did my regular imdb check I found out that the plot was based on a novel entirely separate from the pirate franchise. But once this was uncovered, it made a lot of sense. The drastic change in setting from the Caribbean to London -bit odd eh- and the sense of a quest rather than a misfit adventure, (there was a strong feeling that they were moving towards something, whereas there was a defiant unpredictable-ness about the first few.) The little quirks from the first movies: the eunuch and the midgets were lost because they were no longer relevant; but that shouldn’t mean they ought to be cut out all-together. Should it?
There were some funny moments too. I did laugh at the antics of Jack, just as much as the previous and the fact that Judy Dench was in it made me giggle a little. But it did suffer, as most comedies do, with having the best lines in the promo, but that didn’t stop me wanting to see it. And no doubt I will see every other one that follows, but I hope they don’t lose too much of what I originally loved.
I suppose there is no ‘proper’ way of doing this: imposing oneself upon the world and hoping that to have some sort of profound experience along the way. But it is necessary. I have become aware that my writing is not prospering while hidden away and the assistance of those more experienced and talent than I is now required. Living in a time of such grand communication, with an abundance wonderful people here willing to givee that assistance. So I ask you, people of cyber space, with a plea of help; save my writing from myself and tell me what you think.
My story, surely cannot too far different from many others. At a young age I was mesmerised by the beauty and power of words and swore I would find a way to always be surrounded by this art. For years I wrote purely for myself, as a selfish indulgence away from prying eyes: telling people that although that what is written doesn’t always needs to be read. A few pieces submitted as requirements for school, and a few selected friends may be permitted, but the majority of my writing is locked away, claiming that I would be more likely to saw off my foot that subject myself to watching someone else read my work. But I know this is not the right way. After some years of sculpting my craft, some of it - just a little- shall be condemned upon the world.
