Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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I seem to have run out of money/stylish gangster films/op-art childrens toys

Time to start building bookshelves out of cardboard boxes. Although, on the bright side, St Anthony has once again demonstrated his continuing faith in me as a conversion prospect.
Dear Mr Dennis

I have checked our lost property records and can confirm that a Boots bag containing photos was handed in from a number 5 bus on the 1st May 2005.
Sooner or later I'll convert out of sheer guilt, which is probably the right way to convert to Catholicism anyway. The photos include the packing-and-moving prowess of jinty and concourse, so I'll be glad to get them back.

Look! Meg Hunt makes pretty mini-comics.

Two excellent films I've seen recently, very different, both about gangsters, sort of. On the side of repression, understatement, anxiety, and awkward, trembling humanity, Italian puzzle-piece The Consequences of Love. It has a good eye, a wonderful soundtrack, and tries so hard to do the right thing. It's subtle, delicate, explosions of abrupt action punctuate the tense tedium of criminal life, lived at a slow pace, wrapped in a persistent refusal to explain. By contrast Sin City explains everything, turgid voice-overs tumbling out of the black spaces around the super-stylish ultra-repugnant unforgivables who are Frank Miller's absolute favourites. Good old Frank Miller. Frank enters the room and subtlety flies out of the window, screaming, on fire, riddled with bullets, tumbles into the alleyway below, jumps to its feet ... ah, but we're heading into spoiler territory, there. Never mind, it's a nasty film about nasty things, but treats them with rough respect; morally, in the I spit on your grave vicinity, genre-wise it's married Miller (never a great favourite of mine) with the dirtiest and vilest of 40s noir, artistically it's the colour of nightmares -- untextured, irrational, each disturbing, significant detail blindingly bright.

It also (I'm amused to note) passes Alison Bechdel's Rule (that a film should contain at least two named female characters, who talk to each other, about something other than a man). In fact, it had the most named female characters I'd seen in a single film for a long, long time. They weren't very sympathetic characters, but then again, who is?

Hmm, between Sin City and the soon-to-arrive Mr and Mrs Smith, domestic abuse is quite the hot topic at the movies right now.

In other news, NTL failed to turn up yesterday, again. Deprived of the tools to track down treasures like this massed santa attack or the creepiest playground in europe, I last night drifted into a confused state of mind, bought an irrelevant piece of plumbing and went to sleep at 9 in the evening. And every time I close my eyes I see massed ranks of stubbly tentacles, like soft coral or intestinal cilia. Never mind, sleep through the migraines.

Never mind, make plans for the weekend. Where can I find op-art children's toys? And will The Urban Myth Club be any good, I wonder? ... and when you're bored of Cowley Road Carnival come on over my place, I'll be cutting peoples' hair.
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