An extremely long but faithful Russian television adaptation of the amazing novel I'm currently writing a paper on.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Monday, December 24, 2007
From Tennyson's In Memoriam A.H.H.
XXVIII.
The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:
Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.
This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:
But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.
The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.
Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:
Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.
This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:
But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.
Monday, December 3, 2007
THOUGHT CRIMES A REALITY?
Every civil liberties and progressive political group in the national is shitting a brick right now, as the US government is about to pass legislation essentially making thought crimes a reality through vague definitions of violent radicalism and homegrown terrorism. Progressive Democrats of America provide a pretty good summary here. Seriously guys, contact the Georgia senators and tell them to vote no. This may be the last chance we have to speak out on this issue...
PDA has a form for contacting the senate here: http://capwiz.com/pdamerica/issues/alert/?alertid=10616211&PROCESS=Take+Action
On a lighter note:
And
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/index.shtml#mea=169811
PDA has a form for contacting the senate here: http://capwiz.com/pdamerica/issues/alert/?alertid=10616211&PROCESS=Take+Action
On a lighter note:
And
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/index.shtml#mea=169811
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I still can't wait for this movie...
Empire released a new picture of the Joker, which is quite badass. Every picture just gets better and better.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Final Destination 4
According to this article on Rotten Tomatoes, there will be a Final Destination 4, and it will be in 3D! Plus, the guy who wrote the second movie will be coming back, hopefully bringing the humor and ridiculousness that was less present in FD3. I'm psyched.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Coat Check
I literally just wrote this. Did some quick revising. Thought I'd see what you guys thought.
The green plastic token lay in front of the museum, interred amongst a blanket of wet leaves. It had caught Darren’s eye with its greenness, a measured contrast to the sickly brown and yellow of the gutter. He paused mid-stride to pick it up. A few leaves clung to it, as well as some mud, but not more than perhaps a few hours’ worth. It was still mostly unsullied.
It was hexagonal, with “Museum of Fine Arts” and “Coat Check” engraved below the number 618.
The number struck Darren, and drove him to keep the token instead of leaving it where it had been found. For a moment he considered turning it back into the museum, in case anyone realized they had left without their coat. But the number and its significance to him compelled him to find out more.
Turning from the curb, he walked across the paved courtyard of the museum and up its marble steps. Passing through the revolving doors, he was greeted with a gust of thick, warm air. The museum was always overheated in the late fall and winter. He realized then it would be silly to be wearing a coat while picking up another. He would say it was a relative’s, depending on what exactly the item was.
His footsteps echoed on the marble of the wide entrance hall as he slipped down a side corridor for the coat check. A young lady, maybe fifteen years his junior, was drumming her fingers at the counter. He handed her the token. She smiled and went to retrieve the item, chocolate pony tail bobbing. A minute later she returned and held out a tan canvas briefcase with a shoulder strap. With trembling hands he took it from her.
His face must have betrayed him, because she said, “Is that not yours?”
“No—Uh, no. It’s my wife’s.”
The attendant’s lips half-curved into a skeptical smile. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The shocking thing was that it really was his wife’s.
There was a café at the other end of the entrance hall, next to the gift shop. Darren had to be sure. His frantic footfalls clicked a drumbeat against the columns and sunroofs of the cavernous hall. No sun shone on that November day - just muted, steely clouds. From the vaulted ceilings downward a colorless gloom descended, creating a funereal hush that threatened to stifle even Darren’s loud steps.
The café was a simple, square room with paneled glass walls and a smattering of tasteful little trees in large clay pots. A glimpse of the inner garden could be seen through the panels; flowers drooped like hanged men above mountains of clumped leaves. A groundskeeper scraped a rake against the cobblestone path.
Darren took a table and had to restrain himself from dumping out the entire contents of the bag. He was hardly able to grasp the zipper when he went to open it. His wife hadn’t been to the museum in over a year. He had been with her the last time she’d gone. She hadn’t brought this bag, so far as he could remember. He dug his hand into the inside front pocket, where he knew she usually kept her wallet.
There it was – the black leather one he had given her for Christmas three years ago. He almost sobbed when he saw her license beneath the clear plastic cover on one side. It was still hard to look at the pictures.
Marie Angela Hardwick. 4272 Lenore Avenue. Five foot three. One hundred and fourteen pounds. Brown hair. Green eyes. The picture was recent – she had renewed her license maybe two years ago, if he remembered right.
He turned the wallet over and opened it. Fifteen dollars inside. Credit cards he had long cancelled. A picture of him. He was glad she would never see the gray hairs that had grown in at his temples. A gym membership card. He’d stopped going. A gift card to H&M that her mother had sent her this past Christmas. She was so upset when she’d gotten that –and only that- from her mother.
Darren replaced the wallet and examined the other contents of the briefcase. Breath mints. Two folders with her employer’s logo on them. A folding umbrella. A granola bar, gone bad three months ago.
For five months this bag had been sitting in the coat check. She had had it the last time he had seen her, leaving for work like any normal day. Why had the token appeared to him now, blocks away from the spot where the wreath and cross withered against the weather? What did it mean? How had the bag gotten there? With one question laid to rest, so many new had been born. He cupped one hand across his mouth, staring down at the bag. After a moment he took the license out again and fixated upon her picture. Tears welled in his eyes.
Outside, a man walked erratically past the museum, searching the sidewalk. It was becoming more and more spotted with gray droplets. The man shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled them out multiple times. He paced up and down the block, head bobbing and jerking about, eyes fixed upon the ground.
He would never forgive himself. He had lost the token. She had been going back with the token to get her bag, and then the car had come, and he had taken it from her pocket as she had lain half on the sidewalk, half in the gutter. She had looked into his eyes and smeared blood on his hand with her hand. She had a husband. What husband would want to find out about it like that? He already had enough to hate himself over – why had he lost the token now? It had been his reminder, and her death warrant.
(Copyright Peter Franklin)
(in case we have any visitors we don't know, of course)
The green plastic token lay in front of the museum, interred amongst a blanket of wet leaves. It had caught Darren’s eye with its greenness, a measured contrast to the sickly brown and yellow of the gutter. He paused mid-stride to pick it up. A few leaves clung to it, as well as some mud, but not more than perhaps a few hours’ worth. It was still mostly unsullied.
It was hexagonal, with “Museum of Fine Arts” and “Coat Check” engraved below the number 618.
The number struck Darren, and drove him to keep the token instead of leaving it where it had been found. For a moment he considered turning it back into the museum, in case anyone realized they had left without their coat. But the number and its significance to him compelled him to find out more.
Turning from the curb, he walked across the paved courtyard of the museum and up its marble steps. Passing through the revolving doors, he was greeted with a gust of thick, warm air. The museum was always overheated in the late fall and winter. He realized then it would be silly to be wearing a coat while picking up another. He would say it was a relative’s, depending on what exactly the item was.
His footsteps echoed on the marble of the wide entrance hall as he slipped down a side corridor for the coat check. A young lady, maybe fifteen years his junior, was drumming her fingers at the counter. He handed her the token. She smiled and went to retrieve the item, chocolate pony tail bobbing. A minute later she returned and held out a tan canvas briefcase with a shoulder strap. With trembling hands he took it from her.
His face must have betrayed him, because she said, “Is that not yours?”
“No—Uh, no. It’s my wife’s.”
The attendant’s lips half-curved into a skeptical smile. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The shocking thing was that it really was his wife’s.
There was a café at the other end of the entrance hall, next to the gift shop. Darren had to be sure. His frantic footfalls clicked a drumbeat against the columns and sunroofs of the cavernous hall. No sun shone on that November day - just muted, steely clouds. From the vaulted ceilings downward a colorless gloom descended, creating a funereal hush that threatened to stifle even Darren’s loud steps.
The café was a simple, square room with paneled glass walls and a smattering of tasteful little trees in large clay pots. A glimpse of the inner garden could be seen through the panels; flowers drooped like hanged men above mountains of clumped leaves. A groundskeeper scraped a rake against the cobblestone path.
Darren took a table and had to restrain himself from dumping out the entire contents of the bag. He was hardly able to grasp the zipper when he went to open it. His wife hadn’t been to the museum in over a year. He had been with her the last time she’d gone. She hadn’t brought this bag, so far as he could remember. He dug his hand into the inside front pocket, where he knew she usually kept her wallet.
There it was – the black leather one he had given her for Christmas three years ago. He almost sobbed when he saw her license beneath the clear plastic cover on one side. It was still hard to look at the pictures.
Marie Angela Hardwick. 4272 Lenore Avenue. Five foot three. One hundred and fourteen pounds. Brown hair. Green eyes. The picture was recent – she had renewed her license maybe two years ago, if he remembered right.
He turned the wallet over and opened it. Fifteen dollars inside. Credit cards he had long cancelled. A picture of him. He was glad she would never see the gray hairs that had grown in at his temples. A gym membership card. He’d stopped going. A gift card to H&M that her mother had sent her this past Christmas. She was so upset when she’d gotten that –and only that- from her mother.
Darren replaced the wallet and examined the other contents of the briefcase. Breath mints. Two folders with her employer’s logo on them. A folding umbrella. A granola bar, gone bad three months ago.
For five months this bag had been sitting in the coat check. She had had it the last time he had seen her, leaving for work like any normal day. Why had the token appeared to him now, blocks away from the spot where the wreath and cross withered against the weather? What did it mean? How had the bag gotten there? With one question laid to rest, so many new had been born. He cupped one hand across his mouth, staring down at the bag. After a moment he took the license out again and fixated upon her picture. Tears welled in his eyes.
Outside, a man walked erratically past the museum, searching the sidewalk. It was becoming more and more spotted with gray droplets. The man shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled them out multiple times. He paced up and down the block, head bobbing and jerking about, eyes fixed upon the ground.
He would never forgive himself. He had lost the token. She had been going back with the token to get her bag, and then the car had come, and he had taken it from her pocket as she had lain half on the sidewalk, half in the gutter. She had looked into his eyes and smeared blood on his hand with her hand. She had a husband. What husband would want to find out about it like that? He already had enough to hate himself over – why had he lost the token now? It had been his reminder, and her death warrant.
(Copyright Peter Franklin)
(in case we have any visitors we don't know, of course)
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Cloverfield/ 1-18-08 Trailer in front of Beowulf?
I don't know if you guys are excited or burnt out on the viral marketing surrounding 1-18-08 (I guess that's all you CAN do for a movie JJ Abrams wants secret) or Cloverfield or whatever it's going to be called, but over at slashfilm, they seem to think that a trailer will be put in front of Beowulf, since it's also a big Paramount movie before the release of Cloverfield in January.
http://www.slashfilm.com/2007/10/30/new-1-18-08cloverfield-trailer-and-title-christmas-speed-racer-trailer/
Also, what are your thoughts on Beowulf? Katie, who is a huge nerd when it comes to Beowulf and Tolkien and all that, seems to think it's going to be pretty disappointing. I guess that Gaiman has done wrong before, but never in a bad way.
When I saw the trailer the other day, It wasn't so much that couldnt suspend disbelief when I noticed evidence of artificial graphics in between believable animation, so much that when I did notice the little glitches here and there, I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't real. That's pretty powerful, in my opinion, and as a fan of Pixar's accomplishments, I have to say that I'm stoked for Beowulf in the least over its technical prowess...
Speaking of Pixar, have you guys heard about WALL-E? It's the new one coming out next year, and pretty interesting- It's like 2001: A Space Oddyssey in reverse. Instead of man overcoming his tools to become more human, it's more like the tools win because man has lost his humanity. Okay, so that's a horrible way to introduce the movie, but you should check it out on Apple/trailers when you get the chance.
http://www.slashfilm.com/2007/10/30/new-1-18-08cloverfield-trailer-and-title-christmas-speed-racer-trailer/
Also, what are your thoughts on Beowulf? Katie, who is a huge nerd when it comes to Beowulf and Tolkien and all that, seems to think it's going to be pretty disappointing. I guess that Gaiman has done wrong before, but never in a bad way.
When I saw the trailer the other day, It wasn't so much that couldnt suspend disbelief when I noticed evidence of artificial graphics in between believable animation, so much that when I did notice the little glitches here and there, I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't real. That's pretty powerful, in my opinion, and as a fan of Pixar's accomplishments, I have to say that I'm stoked for Beowulf in the least over its technical prowess...
Speaking of Pixar, have you guys heard about WALL-E? It's the new one coming out next year, and pretty interesting- It's like 2001: A Space Oddyssey in reverse. Instead of man overcoming his tools to become more human, it's more like the tools win because man has lost his humanity. Okay, so that's a horrible way to introduce the movie, but you should check it out on Apple/trailers when you get the chance.
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