So I'm in the third week of my internship at a non-profit Off Broadway theater. I'm interning in Development, just like at school, but instead of dealing with bitchy alums I'm dealing with bitchy theater patrons. I should suggest the "No-Crank" policy- it works for MST, it can work for these folks. They're all pretty nice at my office, managing not to hew too closely to the theater stereotype--my immediate superior is clearly an ex-musical theatre girl, and her voice goes up to ungodly octaves when she says thank you (which, being a development associate, she does all the time).
My Immediate Superior is very superior indeed. She's been there for a while, and gets into that groove where she knows what's going on and then, when explaining it to me, leaves out some vital piece of information, which leads inevitably to me doing something wrong. This necessitates me having to re-do whatever it was, sometimes three or four times. I'm sure the Executive Director thinks I'm a total dumbass, because I had to re-do the thankyou letters about six times.
I did hope that there would be some cute male, straight-type interns there, and lo and behold, the good lord gives me Carl, the Enigmatic Literary Intern. He's British. He's got gorgeous hair. He sits on the couch in my line of sight, reading in an adorable way all day. Have I said word one to him? No. I'm riding the aforementioned Awkward Train, and I ain't a-getting off.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Review: The Big Over Easy
Jasper Fforde is my hero. I have devoured almost the entire Thursday Next series, and then I found out that unbeknownst to me he had an entire other series—of mysteries! The Big Over Easy is the first featuring detective Jack Spratt and his sergeant, Mary Mary, and is a wonderful send-up of the hard-boiled branch of detective fiction, fairy tales, nursery rhymes, true-crime publications, the criminal justice system, and sacred relics. With a little mythology thrown in for good measure.
Detective Jack Spratt is the head of Reading, England’s Nursery Crime division, which suffers from a perpetual lack of funds, manpower, and respect from the other branches of the police. Sergeant Mary Mary has just transferred in—she got stuck with the NCD instead of with her idol, Friedland Chymes. Chymes, a kind of Sherlock Holmes, has an ego the size of Minnessota and a personal vendetta against Spratt. Spratt is given one last chance to save the NCD when he begins investigating the death-by-falling of Humpty Dumpty. Was the big egg man pushed from his favorite wall? Was he shot? Was he poisoned? Was he fertile? Was he drunk? And just what do genetic splicing, black-market spinning wheels, and a visit from the Jellyman have to do with anything?
The Big Over Easy almost defies description. Half the fun is just trying to figure out the references Fforde crams each page with. There are aliens in this strange other-England, aliens who are quite boring, really—they speak in binary, and have no concept of how to interact with people. Mary Mary is from Basingstoke, which is nothing to be ashamed of. Miz Hubbard is the most crotchety landlady in existence, her dogs perpetually boneless. And the heroes of Reading are the unsung heroes of the Nursery Crime Division, where everything usually works out the way you’d expect it to.
The greatest part, for me, of The Big Over Easy was Fforde’s imagining of a police force more concerned with plot than justice—The Knox Decalogue run amok. The chapters are headed with hilarious faux news clippings—“Police Shocked to find Butler Really Did Do It”—“Chymes Undertakes Effort to Break Fastest Solution Record; Dismayed to Learn Murders Can’t Be Ordered For the Purpose”—and the desire for a good story will lead men (and women) down dark roads. Fforde gives us a glimpse into that world we escape to when we read mystery novels (particularly those of the Golden Age and before)—if Sherlock Holmes were really all the police had to solve crimes, there’d be lots of dashing about in hansom cabs in the fog and precious little of the police methodology that Spratt and his coterie use. Even if nobody believes them when they say that the wolf was just a victim of porcine-on-lupine torture, the NCD still has to try.
Detective Jack Spratt is the head of Reading, England’s Nursery Crime division, which suffers from a perpetual lack of funds, manpower, and respect from the other branches of the police. Sergeant Mary Mary has just transferred in—she got stuck with the NCD instead of with her idol, Friedland Chymes. Chymes, a kind of Sherlock Holmes, has an ego the size of Minnessota and a personal vendetta against Spratt. Spratt is given one last chance to save the NCD when he begins investigating the death-by-falling of Humpty Dumpty. Was the big egg man pushed from his favorite wall? Was he shot? Was he poisoned? Was he fertile? Was he drunk? And just what do genetic splicing, black-market spinning wheels, and a visit from the Jellyman have to do with anything?
The Big Over Easy almost defies description. Half the fun is just trying to figure out the references Fforde crams each page with. There are aliens in this strange other-England, aliens who are quite boring, really—they speak in binary, and have no concept of how to interact with people. Mary Mary is from Basingstoke, which is nothing to be ashamed of. Miz Hubbard is the most crotchety landlady in existence, her dogs perpetually boneless. And the heroes of Reading are the unsung heroes of the Nursery Crime Division, where everything usually works out the way you’d expect it to.
The greatest part, for me, of The Big Over Easy was Fforde’s imagining of a police force more concerned with plot than justice—The Knox Decalogue run amok. The chapters are headed with hilarious faux news clippings—“Police Shocked to find Butler Really Did Do It”—“Chymes Undertakes Effort to Break Fastest Solution Record; Dismayed to Learn Murders Can’t Be Ordered For the Purpose”—and the desire for a good story will lead men (and women) down dark roads. Fforde gives us a glimpse into that world we escape to when we read mystery novels (particularly those of the Golden Age and before)—if Sherlock Holmes were really all the police had to solve crimes, there’d be lots of dashing about in hansom cabs in the fog and precious little of the police methodology that Spratt and his coterie use. Even if nobody believes them when they say that the wolf was just a victim of porcine-on-lupine torture, the NCD still has to try.
Review: Maisie Dobbs
I had no plan of action when I walked into Murder by the Book, just a $25 gift certificate and the vague knowledge that I prefer Dorothy L. Sayers to, say, Janet Evanovich. Thankfully, the store’s shelves are dotted with post-its carrying recommendations from the store’s owners and other customers. Several of the books that came with the highest marks had already been cleaned out—thank you, post-Christmas. I managed to pick up two great books, one of which was Maisie Dobbs .
I’m a sucker for anything set in the years after World War I, so Maisie Dobbs seemed like a good choice. The titular character, Maisie, is a girl-genius ex-Red Cross nurse embarking on a career as a private detective. Shortly after renting her own premises she begins investigating what looks like a fairly routine case of infidelity: the wife of a wealthy industrialist has been leaving home twice a week the minute her husband leaves the house. The enterprising Miss Dobbs follows her to a graveyard, where her quarry visits a grave with only one name on it—Vincent. After befriending the woman, Maisie learns that Vincent was an officer who, disillusioned with the war and the way veterans were treated, renounced his surname and all his fortune to the guardianship of The Retreat—a retirement home run by officers, for officers. Especially those with massive, brutal face injuries.
If The Retreat turned out to be the Camp Singalong of the post-traumatic World War I set, then Maisie Dobbs would probably end on the page when Maisie tells the would-be cuckolded husband that his wife isn’t cheating, and hey, maybe he could treat her nice once in a while. And since The Retreat is capitalized, you know from the start it’s going to be extra ominous.
The rest of Maisie Dobbs is part mystery, part stroll down particularly a bombed-out section of Memory Lane. Maisie must, predictably, come to terms with her own Inner Demons before she can solve this mystery—demons involving a hot doctor and slogs through French mud. I burned through Maisie Dobbs in about a day thanks to my wicked commute and enjoyed it for the most part. Maisie herself hovered just on the edge of Mary Sue-dom—did we really need a description of her early life, how she excelled at everything while being charmingly poor with a colorful, Cockney father and a dutiful desire to do right by her family. All in all, Maisie Dobbs was a charming read. Still not sure if it deserved the glowing accolades written on post-it notes all over Murder by the Book, though.
I’m a sucker for anything set in the years after World War I, so Maisie Dobbs seemed like a good choice. The titular character, Maisie, is a girl-genius ex-Red Cross nurse embarking on a career as a private detective. Shortly after renting her own premises she begins investigating what looks like a fairly routine case of infidelity: the wife of a wealthy industrialist has been leaving home twice a week the minute her husband leaves the house. The enterprising Miss Dobbs follows her to a graveyard, where her quarry visits a grave with only one name on it—Vincent. After befriending the woman, Maisie learns that Vincent was an officer who, disillusioned with the war and the way veterans were treated, renounced his surname and all his fortune to the guardianship of The Retreat—a retirement home run by officers, for officers. Especially those with massive, brutal face injuries.
If The Retreat turned out to be the Camp Singalong of the post-traumatic World War I set, then Maisie Dobbs would probably end on the page when Maisie tells the would-be cuckolded husband that his wife isn’t cheating, and hey, maybe he could treat her nice once in a while. And since The Retreat is capitalized, you know from the start it’s going to be extra ominous.
The rest of Maisie Dobbs is part mystery, part stroll down particularly a bombed-out section of Memory Lane. Maisie must, predictably, come to terms with her own Inner Demons before she can solve this mystery—demons involving a hot doctor and slogs through French mud. I burned through Maisie Dobbs in about a day thanks to my wicked commute and enjoyed it for the most part. Maisie herself hovered just on the edge of Mary Sue-dom—did we really need a description of her early life, how she excelled at everything while being charmingly poor with a colorful, Cockney father and a dutiful desire to do right by her family. All in all, Maisie Dobbs was a charming read. Still not sure if it deserved the glowing accolades written on post-it notes all over Murder by the Book, though.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Absolutely fentestic
I am vaguely aware that 'fen' has some kind of nerdy meaning- but be assured that the fen in my title has nothing to do with that. Instead, it has to do with this:
Why is Emma Thompson so awesome? I re-watched Stranger than Fiction a few days ago after purchasing it for the low, low price of $6.99 at Cumberland Farms. Why was a gas station selling DVDs? Let alone awesome ones? Usually those racks in gas stations are filled with Steven Segal movies and selected episodes of The Love Boat or something. In addition to the aforementioned masterpiece I also purchased Batman Begins. Mmm... Christian Bale. Poor guy- you can totally tell that the onerous task of eating five cheeseburgers a day in an effort to de-skinny himself from Machinist took a big toll on him- he's all puffy. He's still handsome, don't get me wrong-- he's just got that little bit of chub around the neckline of his Batsuit. Mmmm. Batsuit.
More Stephen Fry hilarity:
Why is Emma Thompson so awesome? I re-watched Stranger than Fiction a few days ago after purchasing it for the low, low price of $6.99 at Cumberland Farms. Why was a gas station selling DVDs? Let alone awesome ones? Usually those racks in gas stations are filled with Steven Segal movies and selected episodes of The Love Boat or something. In addition to the aforementioned masterpiece I also purchased Batman Begins. Mmm... Christian Bale. Poor guy- you can totally tell that the onerous task of eating five cheeseburgers a day in an effort to de-skinny himself from Machinist took a big toll on him- he's all puffy. He's still handsome, don't get me wrong-- he's just got that little bit of chub around the neckline of his Batsuit. Mmmm. Batsuit.
More Stephen Fry hilarity:
Friday, April 20, 2007
Hot Fuzz
I love movies. I've always loved getting lost in movies. I watch my favorites over and over again, drifting away for a few months only to drift right on back when I need that special kick. Lately, though, I feel like all the movies I've gotten excited about have been pretty bad. Or I've loved them, and the people I've been with have hated them. (Raygan, I'm looking at you.)
Today I went to see Hot Fuzz. I went with my newish friend Steph, who I've worked with for about a year and a half in Development and have only recently become friends with. (She also owns the car that nearly hit me freshman year- but that's another story.) She's a film major and we had planned on going to see Grindhouse, but it being 3 hours long was a problem, so our mutual love for Simon Pegg propelled us into the Hampshire Mall Cinemark for the two hour, shoot-'em-up joyfest that is Hot Fuzz.
I recognized almost every actor in this film. Most of the older ones I didn't know (and this movie is surprisingly heavy on old people,) but everyone else? This is about how it went.
"Is that... hey, it's Martin Freeman! And Bill Nighy!"
"Oh, Jim Broadbent. Why are you so cool?"
"Hey! It's BILL BAILEY! Sing us a ballad, Bill!"
"Hey! It's that obnoxious Kid With Cellphone in Shop from Shaun of the Dead!"
"Hey! It's Magpie from Idiot's Lantern on Doctor Who!"
"Hey! It's TIMOTHY DALTON!!!!"
I'm actually surprised that no one hit me. Thing is, nobody could hear me, because we were all laughing too hard. Hot Fuzz is HILARIOUS, and as Steph rightly pointed out, it's not a spoof. Neither is Shaun, really- they're homages to the genre film without being stupid, like the Scary Movies. Moreover, the endless references/homages to buddy-cop bonanzas like Point Break don't come off in a pretentious, Look-I've-Seen-This-Movie-And-I-Will-Prove-It-With-This-Gun kind of way. The references are subtle and flat out hilarious. And I will bet anyone not to laugh at Nick Frost's borderline-retarded punning, or the "Model Village" shootout at the end that had me literally doubled over, crying into the back of the seat in front of me, with abdominal pains because I was laughing so hard. I defy anyone not to laugh at a box-cutter wielding Timothy Dalton, or Simon Pegg trying to catch a swan. (Hell, Simon Pegg doing just about anything ends up being funny. I'd hate to see him try his hand at drama. It might not work out so well for him.)
All in all, an extremely enjoyable afternoon. The previews were fun, too. There's something called Run, Fatboy, Run starring Simon Pegg and that guy who played David in Shaun coming out, but on IMDB it says it's written by Michael Ian Black (eh, ok) and will be directed by David Schwimmer (oh, God.) Yes, that David Schwimmer. Unless there's another one. But it looked amusing, so I'll probably end up going. I felt dirty laughing at the preview for Delta Farce (starring Larry the Cable Guy) and I won't go see it, because the jokes got old by the end of the preview. It started on a high note (come on, dumbasses accidentally invading Mexico is pretty funny, when you think of it) and then it became pretty clear which direction it'd be going in (fag jokes and Mexican jokes, and more gay jokes to top it off.) So none of that for me. And then came the preview for Balls of Fury, what appears to be a kung-fu ping-pong epic, starring CHRISTOPHER WALKEN. And then, THEN! something called Death at a Funeral starring Matthew MacFayden (hot,) the girl who played Lizzie in Our Mutual Friend, Alan Tudyk (hot and ginger,) and the other half of the british actor population that weren't in Hot Fuzz.
So, yeah. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing tonight. Steph is having UMass boys over, which could be either really good or really awkward, and I'm not sure I'm equipped with enough alcohol for it to be good. I might just read a bunch of Middlemarch and try and get ahead before I have to film the Ridiculousness tomorrow. I can always decide to not be lame and go to the party later, right? Right. Off I go then.
Today I went to see Hot Fuzz. I went with my newish friend Steph, who I've worked with for about a year and a half in Development and have only recently become friends with. (She also owns the car that nearly hit me freshman year- but that's another story.) She's a film major and we had planned on going to see Grindhouse, but it being 3 hours long was a problem, so our mutual love for Simon Pegg propelled us into the Hampshire Mall Cinemark for the two hour, shoot-'em-up joyfest that is Hot Fuzz.
I recognized almost every actor in this film. Most of the older ones I didn't know (and this movie is surprisingly heavy on old people,) but everyone else? This is about how it went.
"Is that... hey, it's Martin Freeman! And Bill Nighy!"
"Oh, Jim Broadbent. Why are you so cool?"
"Hey! It's BILL BAILEY! Sing us a ballad, Bill!"
"Hey! It's that obnoxious Kid With Cellphone in Shop from Shaun of the Dead!"
"Hey! It's Magpie from Idiot's Lantern on Doctor Who!"
"Hey! It's TIMOTHY DALTON!!!!"
I'm actually surprised that no one hit me. Thing is, nobody could hear me, because we were all laughing too hard. Hot Fuzz is HILARIOUS, and as Steph rightly pointed out, it's not a spoof. Neither is Shaun, really- they're homages to the genre film without being stupid, like the Scary Movies. Moreover, the endless references/homages to buddy-cop bonanzas like Point Break don't come off in a pretentious, Look-I've-Seen-This-Movie-And-I-Will-Prove-It-With-This-Gun kind of way. The references are subtle and flat out hilarious. And I will bet anyone not to laugh at Nick Frost's borderline-retarded punning, or the "Model Village" shootout at the end that had me literally doubled over, crying into the back of the seat in front of me, with abdominal pains because I was laughing so hard. I defy anyone not to laugh at a box-cutter wielding Timothy Dalton, or Simon Pegg trying to catch a swan. (Hell, Simon Pegg doing just about anything ends up being funny. I'd hate to see him try his hand at drama. It might not work out so well for him.)
All in all, an extremely enjoyable afternoon. The previews were fun, too. There's something called Run, Fatboy, Run starring Simon Pegg and that guy who played David in Shaun coming out, but on IMDB it says it's written by Michael Ian Black (eh, ok) and will be directed by David Schwimmer (oh, God.) Yes, that David Schwimmer. Unless there's another one. But it looked amusing, so I'll probably end up going. I felt dirty laughing at the preview for Delta Farce (starring Larry the Cable Guy) and I won't go see it, because the jokes got old by the end of the preview. It started on a high note (come on, dumbasses accidentally invading Mexico is pretty funny, when you think of it) and then it became pretty clear which direction it'd be going in (fag jokes and Mexican jokes, and more gay jokes to top it off.) So none of that for me. And then came the preview for Balls of Fury, what appears to be a kung-fu ping-pong epic, starring CHRISTOPHER WALKEN. And then, THEN! something called Death at a Funeral starring Matthew MacFayden (hot,) the girl who played Lizzie in Our Mutual Friend, Alan Tudyk (hot and ginger,) and the other half of the british actor population that weren't in Hot Fuzz.
So, yeah. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing tonight. Steph is having UMass boys over, which could be either really good or really awkward, and I'm not sure I'm equipped with enough alcohol for it to be good. I might just read a bunch of Middlemarch and try and get ahead before I have to film the Ridiculousness tomorrow. I can always decide to not be lame and go to the party later, right? Right. Off I go then.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
New blog, new me
There's not a lot of words that make me feel ooky inside, but I'd have to say that "blogging" is one of them. I've kept a livejournal since, oh, forever- about 2001. Somehow that seemed less pretentious. "Everyone uses blogger. Everyone keeps a blog. I keep a journal." I guess I didn't get (in my high school mind) that just because other people use something isn't a good reason not to use it.
That makes no sense in print.
There are lots of things I like about LJ that Blogger doesn't really have- namely, the community aspect. There are lots of things I don't like about it, though. And instead of altering my existing journal (or journals- I think I have three, at last count, all mostly un-updated in any substantial fashion for months or weeks or even years) I have decided to start a new one. And the best part about it is that nobody will care- I don't know many people on blogger, I'm not going to seek out new people, and I'm certainly not going to tell people about this blog. (Eew. Blog. Gross.)
So yeah. First post, new blog, new me. Welcome, nonexistent readers.
That makes no sense in print.
There are lots of things I like about LJ that Blogger doesn't really have- namely, the community aspect. There are lots of things I don't like about it, though. And instead of altering my existing journal (or journals- I think I have three, at last count, all mostly un-updated in any substantial fashion for months or weeks or even years) I have decided to start a new one. And the best part about it is that nobody will care- I don't know many people on blogger, I'm not going to seek out new people, and I'm certainly not going to tell people about this blog. (Eew. Blog. Gross.)
So yeah. First post, new blog, new me. Welcome, nonexistent readers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)