Downton! Only one word: DIVINE. No, another word: DELICIOUS. All those plot balls in the air, spinning, sparkling - how does Julian Fellowes do it? One after another, launched aloft. Enchanting. Costumes, set, script, acting - all as good as can be. Even the goddamn dog is perfect. And in the middle, there's my friend and former theatre school classmate Dame Harriet Walter, perfect as Lady Shackleton. Someone I know, sailing through a scene with Dame Maggie Smith. What a thrill.
It's a good thing there are so many cute guys in the show, with all those Dames around. Mmm Branson. Surely you won't end up with the teacher, that Bolshie. Over here, Branson, over here!
Wayson cancelled, but Jean-Marc and Richard came over and Carol came down from her room and we all sat, enthralled. This is why I bought that ridiculous television set - I am the neighbourhood Downton resource. Come one come all, Sundays at 9.
There was a half hour documentary afterwards about Edwardian manners, obviously aimed at explaining the mores of the show and the era to an American audience. I thought about my mother's parents, so very British, and their encounters with my father the American - how my dad, the first time he met my grandparents over tea in their London parlour, perched on the arm of a chair. On the arm of a chair! I don't think Percy and Marion ever recovered. Oh those crazy Americans, so rude.
Superlative television. A great way to see out a cold, dark week.
Before you go, to those of you interested in writing, I highly recommend my friend Shaena Lambert's essay on the left - love her internal tussle with Margaret Atwood, her notion of "letting the paint dry" on a first draft, and then stretching it out in a scrapbook. A very interesting suggestion. Take a look.
And let me know, please, who you think will remind Branson of his humble roots.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Saturday, January 3, 2015
a writing student describes her first class
A big snowfall just ended - all is still, thick and white in the garden, except for the flurry around the bird feeder as the sparrows and cardinals eat a late lunch.
Last night, more "Sherlock" - I allowed myself to watch a few favourite bits from shows I'd seen before. So good! Today, errands - I became obsessed with finding a specific pair of new running shoes in my difficult enormous size - 10 1/2. Most stores only stock to size 10. My search entailed a visit to Nike in the dreaded Eaton's Centre, where I didn't find the shoes but did buy a new pair of tight running tights, and then to various Winner's. Found them - $60 less than at the Nike store. Bought them. So now I have new tights and purple Nike Pegasus shoes. No excuse not to get really fit, with the winged horse on my feet.
But the problem with looking for shoes at Winners, which is one of my tiny addictions: I also found another gorgeous pair of running shoes and couldn't resist. Only they're size 10 and slightly too small, but I'm convincing myself they'll stretch. Or my feet will shrink. They're turquoise and purple, my colours! They'll fit! I know they will. All I have to do is shave a little bit from my left big toe.
Or take them back. Sigh. This happens a lot with Winners. How to waste time in one easy step.
I've been editing a big manuscript - Lina took my course years ago, kept coming and finally wrote a full-length memoir. Today I came upon this page, and liked it, and would like to share it with you. I don't remember a class where so many vanished overnight, surely her memory is a bit extreme - but there are always a few.
Brava, Lina. I'm so glad it worked for you. And now you're hooked for good.
Last night, more "Sherlock" - I allowed myself to watch a few favourite bits from shows I'd seen before. So good! Today, errands - I became obsessed with finding a specific pair of new running shoes in my difficult enormous size - 10 1/2. Most stores only stock to size 10. My search entailed a visit to Nike in the dreaded Eaton's Centre, where I didn't find the shoes but did buy a new pair of tight running tights, and then to various Winner's. Found them - $60 less than at the Nike store. Bought them. So now I have new tights and purple Nike Pegasus shoes. No excuse not to get really fit, with the winged horse on my feet.
But the problem with looking for shoes at Winners, which is one of my tiny addictions: I also found another gorgeous pair of running shoes and couldn't resist. Only they're size 10 and slightly too small, but I'm convincing myself they'll stretch. Or my feet will shrink. They're turquoise and purple, my colours! They'll fit! I know they will. All I have to do is shave a little bit from my left big toe.
Or take them back. Sigh. This happens a lot with Winners. How to waste time in one easy step.
I've been editing a big manuscript - Lina took my course years ago, kept coming and finally wrote a full-length memoir. Today I came upon this page, and liked it, and would like to share it with you. I don't remember a class where so many vanished overnight, surely her memory is a bit extreme - but there are always a few.
In
2001, I took a creative writing course at Ryerson University, called “True to
Life.” The first day, eighteen women and two men sat in a circle listening to
Beth Kaplan, our professor. She said, “Welcome. This course is for you to write
your life stories. I am not here to judge, only to help you make your stories
better. This is a free zone where you can speak openly, without judgement.”
The
second time we met, the class number had dwindled; the two men had disappeared
and only twelve women remained. I guess the others weren’t prepared to expose
themselves. Beth asked us to read what we had written. I was third from her
left, and I was happy she asked the first woman on her right to begin.
Some
of the stories were tragic, but I couldn’t really concentrate, and besides, my
story was more important, wasn’t it? Two more to go and then it would be my
turn. I never perspire, but I was sweating by the time my turn came.
“I
can do this,” I silently told myself.
I
lifted my papers. My hands shook, so I put them down again. “I can do this. I
can do this.” I read the first three sentences. My voice cracked. I held back
the tears that were ready to burst.
“Would
you like me to read it for you?” Beth asked.
Without
answering, I passed the paper over to her. I watched the others’ reaction. They
looked serious, sympathizing with my situation. When Beth finished reading my
story, something amazing happened. My shoulders were no longer up to my ears, I
wasn’t sweating anymore, and the vice on my heart had loosened. I was even
giddy. I had shared my most intimate thoughts, my fears, my uncertainties, and
now I was free of them.
The rest of the course was a true learning experience. I was able to
listen, and really hear, the other women tell their stories.
Brava, Lina. I'm so glad it worked for you. And now you're hooked for good.
Friday, January 2, 2015
The Imitation Game
After the film was over, as we stood up, I said to my friend Ken, "My mother was one of those young women at Bletchley Park, typing madly away." And the woman in the row in front leaned over and said, "Really? Your mother was there?"
"She was indeed," I said, "only she didn't talk about it for many years."
"You must be very proud of her," she said.
And I am. Yes, my mother was one of those young women typing madly away at Bletchley, as shown in the film "The Imitation Game." She was working there when she met my father the Yank soldier boy, in the fall of 1944. I wonder what she told him she did - because she could not have told him the truth.
The film is flawed, yes, as many commentators have pointed out, in the allowances it takes with the facts. Apparently Polish cryptographers were far more important in breaking the Enigma code than they're given credit for, for example. But the only thing that truly bothered me, beyond the overwhelming score and a few overdone scenes, was the implication that Alan Turing allowed a Soviet spy to remain on his team for fear of being outed as a homosexual. That implies that he was a coward and indeed, a traitor, and it's a pure invention. Scandalous.
But apart from that, it is a very good film, highly recommended. The performances are superb, even Kiera Knightley, almost believable as a math prodigy in love with Turing. But Benedict Cumberbatch outdoes himself in making Turing, the enigma, the autistic genius, not just believable but magnificent. Because in the end, the film is telling us this: without this difficult, arrogant, snobbish, impatient, terribly wounded gay man, we might very well have lost the war. Thank God for the strange ones, the different ones, it tells us. And that is a very important message.
Channel 87, the BBC channel on Rogers, is showing back to back episodes of the divine "Sherlock" today, at 6, 8 and 10. Yesterday I finally got to see one I'd missed when they first aired. Cumberbatch is at risk of being typecast as an autistic genius, but my God, he does it well. The series is, once again, TV at its best. If you can help it, don't miss "Sherlock."
"She was indeed," I said, "only she didn't talk about it for many years."
"You must be very proud of her," she said.
And I am. Yes, my mother was one of those young women typing madly away at Bletchley, as shown in the film "The Imitation Game." She was working there when she met my father the Yank soldier boy, in the fall of 1944. I wonder what she told him she did - because she could not have told him the truth.
The film is flawed, yes, as many commentators have pointed out, in the allowances it takes with the facts. Apparently Polish cryptographers were far more important in breaking the Enigma code than they're given credit for, for example. But the only thing that truly bothered me, beyond the overwhelming score and a few overdone scenes, was the implication that Alan Turing allowed a Soviet spy to remain on his team for fear of being outed as a homosexual. That implies that he was a coward and indeed, a traitor, and it's a pure invention. Scandalous.
But apart from that, it is a very good film, highly recommended. The performances are superb, even Kiera Knightley, almost believable as a math prodigy in love with Turing. But Benedict Cumberbatch outdoes himself in making Turing, the enigma, the autistic genius, not just believable but magnificent. Because in the end, the film is telling us this: without this difficult, arrogant, snobbish, impatient, terribly wounded gay man, we might very well have lost the war. Thank God for the strange ones, the different ones, it tells us. And that is a very important message.
Channel 87, the BBC channel on Rogers, is showing back to back episodes of the divine "Sherlock" today, at 6, 8 and 10. Yesterday I finally got to see one I'd missed when they first aired. Cumberbatch is at risk of being typecast as an autistic genius, but my God, he does it well. The series is, once again, TV at its best. If you can help it, don't miss "Sherlock."
Thursday, January 1, 2015
the Brown sisters
Those of you who read the NYT will know this story - that a man photographed his wife and her sisters every year for 40 years, with stunning and very moving results. We watch beautiful faces age and crumple, slender bodies expand and droop - and yet the eyes and attitude and sisterly love are unchanged. Gorgeous.
2014
1975
See all the years:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/10/03/magazine/01-brown-sisters-forty-years.html?smid=fbnytimes&smtyp=cur&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1409232722000&bicmet=1419773522000
I just came back from a yearly party, the only party I was invited to this Xmas season - a neighbourhood celebration that happens every New Year's day afternoon. It's a great opportunity to catch up with people I've known for many years, some for decades, as I've lived in this house for nearly 30 years. I stood with one group trying to make sense of the Ford brothers, then another discussing our daughters who grew up and went to Brownies together, another discussing the fate of Riverdale Farm, where it seems the city is trying to get rid of the animals which are its whole raison d'être, with another talking about how tiring yet exhilarating teaching is and what we are doing now. John the widower rode his bike through Africa two years ago and across Canada last year; this year he is driving with his new girlfriend through the United States to Panama. Another couple want to learn to weave in Peru, a third are leaving tomorrow for Trinidad. The happiest couple among our children is a young Cabbagetown woman officially married to her spouse, who's what my daughter would call a tranny, once a man, now a woman, now driving a truck in a northern Ontario town where they are completely accepted and at home. She may run for city council.
Happy 2015, Cabbagetown, best 'hood in the country. And to you out there, I hope your celebrations were everything you'd hoped, and that you've eased into this bouncing new new year.
2014
See all the years:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/10/03/magazine/01-brown-sisters-forty-years.html?smid=fbnytimes&smtyp=cur&bicmp=AD&bicmlukp=WT.mc_id&bicmst=1409232722000&bicmet=1419773522000
I just came back from a yearly party, the only party I was invited to this Xmas season - a neighbourhood celebration that happens every New Year's day afternoon. It's a great opportunity to catch up with people I've known for many years, some for decades, as I've lived in this house for nearly 30 years. I stood with one group trying to make sense of the Ford brothers, then another discussing our daughters who grew up and went to Brownies together, another discussing the fate of Riverdale Farm, where it seems the city is trying to get rid of the animals which are its whole raison d'être, with another talking about how tiring yet exhilarating teaching is and what we are doing now. John the widower rode his bike through Africa two years ago and across Canada last year; this year he is driving with his new girlfriend through the United States to Panama. Another couple want to learn to weave in Peru, a third are leaving tomorrow for Trinidad. The happiest couple among our children is a young Cabbagetown woman officially married to her spouse, who's what my daughter would call a tranny, once a man, now a woman, now driving a truck in a northern Ontario town where they are completely accepted and at home. She may run for city council.
Happy 2015, Cabbagetown, best 'hood in the country. And to you out there, I hope your celebrations were everything you'd hoped, and that you've eased into this bouncing new new year.
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