Jamshyd's sev'n-ringed Cup
New challenge: to construct a subject line from Omar Khayyam by randomly opening it at a page, and finding something relevant. The first attempt worked rather well, given that this morning I did go forth (channels Samuel Pepys, the de facto patriarch of blogging) and see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. This breaks my hitherto unbreakable rule, which is never to see movies in their first week unless they're Serenity or Lord of the Rings, but in fact ends up rewriting said rule with a corollary: unless it's a 9.15 a.m. show, in which case the cinema is gratifyingly empty. The older I get, the more I hate crowds. Must be the Granny Weatherwax Syndrome. Anyway, today's film was relatively underattended, and the smallish horde of screaming kids was, in fact, relatively well behaved, except for the clutch of early teenagers sitting behind me, who snickered at all the off colour jokes, which was OK, because it covered up the way I was snickering at the off-colour jokes. .
I'm not actually sure if there are actually any off-colour jokes in this movie, at least any visible to the naked and non-teenaged eye; you should bear in mind that my snerkle-quotient has been finely honed by a diet of fan fiction, starting with Cassie Claire and going rapidly downhill through such pleasantries as Maya's relentless mockery. Goblet of Fire is directed by Mike Newell, a pleasantish sort of film-making man, as film-makers go. It is not, unfortunately, a very good film, having a fairly fumbling script that, while capable of good moments, mostly supplies a sort of rapid-fire edited highlights of the book. Since the book is Rowling's opening barrage in the campaign to write The Tomes That Sank Manhattan, this is more or less inevitable, and a great deal of relatively extraneous matter has been trimmed. I rather mourn the loss of both the Rita Skeeter animagus thread and the Winky/house-elf/SPEW sub-plot; also, the truncation of Harry's competitors' activities in the Tri-Wizard Tournament tends to lose the comparatively interesting magical finessing going on. (Interesting for Rowling, that is; generally speaking she has a driver-only approach to magic which manifests a sublime disregard for what's actually going on under the bonnet). The first quarter or so of the film really limps; the actors seem to lack conviction, and the poorish script and bittiness is not in any way bolstered by the rather crummy editing job.
However, the pace picks up nicely and the film, while always fragmentary, in the manner we've come to associate with the fanchise, actually has moments when it soars - enough so that I plan to go and see it a second time, albeit bearing a banner with a strange device (namely "I have to write an encyclopedia entry on these movies, dammit!"). The cinematography is generally highly competent and occasionally inspired, and visually, the movie quite often stuns. High points: the Quidditch World Cup (viscerally exciting), the entry of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students (nicely choreographed, with tongue in cheek), Harry's dragon-battle (extended to ridiculous lengths in the approved Hollywood style), and the misty, threatening ambiance of the final maze and Voldemort's graveyard. And, while we're on the subject of the visual, they found a very pretty Cedric Diggory and even a Victor Krum with a certain raw physical appeal. Actual veela blood was clearly missing in the casting line-up for Fleur, alas.
Where I most enjoyed myself, however, in a richly laugh-out-loud sort of way, was in the human comedy, specifically the adolescent angst of Harry and pals discovering Gurrrrrrls. This is classic Mike Newell, observed with wit, warmth and nuance; Ron's hapless bumbling, Harry's helpless attractiveness, Hermione's gradual blossoming - lovely stuff going on here, true to the books but cinematically rich, and surprisingly well-supported by these young actors. Emma Watson, in particular, is maturing very well. Against this, the final encounters with Voldemort and Barty Crouch Jr. are shown up for what they actually are - cartoon sketches in black and white, with no colour or complexity of line in terms of the conflicts they present. Voldemort, in particular, while not quite in the Jeremy Irons class, was distinctly ham.
Oh, and what was with all the pretty boys dropping out of trees at various points? (Cedric, and later Draco). Too odd.
Book club last night: a more than usually talkative, giggly and sozzled sort of evening, punctuated by excellent food cooked, in a pleasing reversal of cliche, by attendant men - stv on Thai, and the Evil Landlord on don pedros. I restrained myself, and have only come away with a P J O'Rourke, Allende's Zorro, and a second stab at The Time-Traveller's Wife, a novel which I was unable to read beyond the first few pages last time I tried. Presumably the structuralist criticism will let up enough at some point for me to actually read frivolous stuff like literature.
The Army of Reconstruction have, in defiance of all probability, more or less constructed a garage in our front garden. Yesterday and today were somewhat noisy, as they took down the old pillars off the pergola outside my bedroom, only killing half the grape-vine in the process, and joyously dug up various drains in pursuit of some or other obscure end. The garage is roofed, half-painted and almost doored; another few days and I'll be able to make the final survey which will reveal how many square inches of lawn have actually survived. My guestimate: about three and a half.
I'm not actually sure if there are actually any off-colour jokes in this movie, at least any visible to the naked and non-teenaged eye; you should bear in mind that my snerkle-quotient has been finely honed by a diet of fan fiction, starting with Cassie Claire and going rapidly downhill through such pleasantries as Maya's relentless mockery. Goblet of Fire is directed by Mike Newell, a pleasantish sort of film-making man, as film-makers go. It is not, unfortunately, a very good film, having a fairly fumbling script that, while capable of good moments, mostly supplies a sort of rapid-fire edited highlights of the book. Since the book is Rowling's opening barrage in the campaign to write The Tomes That Sank Manhattan, this is more or less inevitable, and a great deal of relatively extraneous matter has been trimmed. I rather mourn the loss of both the Rita Skeeter animagus thread and the Winky/house-elf/SPEW sub-plot; also, the truncation of Harry's competitors' activities in the Tri-Wizard Tournament tends to lose the comparatively interesting magical finessing going on. (Interesting for Rowling, that is; generally speaking she has a driver-only approach to magic which manifests a sublime disregard for what's actually going on under the bonnet). The first quarter or so of the film really limps; the actors seem to lack conviction, and the poorish script and bittiness is not in any way bolstered by the rather crummy editing job.
However, the pace picks up nicely and the film, while always fragmentary, in the manner we've come to associate with the fanchise, actually has moments when it soars - enough so that I plan to go and see it a second time, albeit bearing a banner with a strange device (namely "I have to write an encyclopedia entry on these movies, dammit!"). The cinematography is generally highly competent and occasionally inspired, and visually, the movie quite often stuns. High points: the Quidditch World Cup (viscerally exciting), the entry of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students (nicely choreographed, with tongue in cheek), Harry's dragon-battle (extended to ridiculous lengths in the approved Hollywood style), and the misty, threatening ambiance of the final maze and Voldemort's graveyard. And, while we're on the subject of the visual, they found a very pretty Cedric Diggory and even a Victor Krum with a certain raw physical appeal. Actual veela blood was clearly missing in the casting line-up for Fleur, alas.
Where I most enjoyed myself, however, in a richly laugh-out-loud sort of way, was in the human comedy, specifically the adolescent angst of Harry and pals discovering Gurrrrrrls. This is classic Mike Newell, observed with wit, warmth and nuance; Ron's hapless bumbling, Harry's helpless attractiveness, Hermione's gradual blossoming - lovely stuff going on here, true to the books but cinematically rich, and surprisingly well-supported by these young actors. Emma Watson, in particular, is maturing very well. Against this, the final encounters with Voldemort and Barty Crouch Jr. are shown up for what they actually are - cartoon sketches in black and white, with no colour or complexity of line in terms of the conflicts they present. Voldemort, in particular, while not quite in the Jeremy Irons class, was distinctly ham.
Oh, and what was with all the pretty boys dropping out of trees at various points? (Cedric, and later Draco). Too odd.
Book club last night: a more than usually talkative, giggly and sozzled sort of evening, punctuated by excellent food cooked, in a pleasing reversal of cliche, by attendant men - stv on Thai, and the Evil Landlord on don pedros. I restrained myself, and have only come away with a P J O'Rourke, Allende's Zorro, and a second stab at The Time-Traveller's Wife, a novel which I was unable to read beyond the first few pages last time I tried. Presumably the structuralist criticism will let up enough at some point for me to actually read frivolous stuff like literature.
The Army of Reconstruction have, in defiance of all probability, more or less constructed a garage in our front garden. Yesterday and today were somewhat noisy, as they took down the old pillars off the pergola outside my bedroom, only killing half the grape-vine in the process, and joyously dug up various drains in pursuit of some or other obscure end. The garage is roofed, half-painted and almost doored; another few days and I'll be able to make the final survey which will reveal how many square inches of lawn have actually survived. My guestimate: about three and a half.