little albert, repeatedly
Campion. Oh, so, so, lovely. I have now read Sweet Danger, and am entirely entranced by the wonderfulness. Allingham is thoroughly at the Sayers end of the detective fiction spectrum, where the point is to write a proper clever witty book with fabulous people in it, which also happens to be a detective story (unlike Christie - spit spit - who can't even write decent mysteries since the denouement always relies on information you couldn't have known, and whose characterisation is shockingly lazy. He is...Belgian! She is...young and wears red lipstick! Mhmm). She also included a character called Stukely-Wivenhoe, which is the sort of thing that makes me very pleased indeed. And Campion describes himself as a 'Universal Uncle and deputy adventurer', which makes me want to give him a hug (and does nothing whatsoever to separate him in my mind from His Beigeness).
Am now on The Fashion in Shrouds, which, by pure coincidence, follows on with a certain character from Sweet Danger. More than that, it takes place 8 years later, and the change in him, and in the tone of the novel, is so marked it's heartbreaking. I had this lovely theory about detective fiction (like many other clearly-defined 'lowbrow' genres) relying on being static, because it was comforting to know that at the end you would surface in the same place, and the detective would solve the case, and thus there is order to the universe. Even Lord Peter and Harriet develop only in the sense of getting married, after all. But this...the whole plot revolves around someone knowing him well enough to exploit his weaknesses, and the whole point of Campion is that he doesn't exist: he's a fantasy in his own head, playing silly games, and suddenly someone is forcing him to engage in some self-examination, to admit he's now 38 and instead of it being all jolly scrapes and a bit of a lark, it's life, and he's getting a little long in the tooth for daft pseudonyms and secrets. And it's the late 1930s, and everyone's so much more brittle, so much more knowing, than even ten years before. It's all so sad.
Back before he was emo 1930s-style, however, there was The Case of the Late Pig, what I watched on the telly with that nice Mr Davison. The entire plot revolves around gingerness. It's like someone out there is making telly just for me!
There must and shall be icons, and I shall make it so, but to facilitate such things I did cap, quite frenziedly. (This time using VLC, bless it, so they are nice .pngs and not shite bitmaps, hurrah.) 40ish caps under the cut: it's only polite to share, after all. (NB: photobucket is being typically infuriating, so lots of them are wee. If you want a biggerer version of any of them, email me, and I shall furnish you with the Peteyness.)
That's his name! (Except it isn't. It's quite beige to name yourself after a flower, isn't it?)
Mmmmspecs.
No nipples. Not a one.
Albert received his daily dose of fanmail, and dutifully prepares to put on the nice silk dressing-gown in a bit.
OK, hello. I mean, honestly. That sort of thing's quite distracting. And at a funeral too.
Hat #1! All men should wear hats. Hats are brilliant.
See? Look how brilliant hats are. (The director does like Petey in profile. Excellent artistic decision.)
He looks a bit like a goose. A surprised goose.
Hat #2! It's rather spiffy, that outfit. Hilariously short little jumper, and fabulous shoes. And the Hat.
Lugg! Hurrah! Black tie! Also Hurrah!
Lugg reads the fanmail. Apparently the fangirls want a close-up of Petey looking a bit foxy.
Yup, that'll do it.
Well, you've ruined it now.
*squees*
You know, there is something indescribably brilliant about a chap in a field at dawn, still wearing his dinner togs.
Gosh. He looks a bit surprised.
Could it be because, between episodes, the weather has changed beyond all recognition?
Yes. Spectacles. Observe the sky, detective man!
I think we have deduced some clouds that were not there a minute ago.
Michael Gough thinks so too.
I seem to have taken quite a lot of caps from this scene, have you noticed?
Apparently so.
But what's a girl to do when there's an undone black tie flapping louchely on the breeze, eh?
In case that other one was blurry. *coughs*
Look, he's in trouble for being a dirty stop-out!
I love Lugg.
Work that profile, baby.
Boozes!
OK, this one pains me, it really does. Because if the Fifth Doctor walked round looking like a big banana, then Campion is walking around looking like a Custard Cream. Could you resemble mashed potato any more, you inexplicable featureless-yet-strangely-awfully-pretty man?
Ignore gooseface and look at the paisley.
Hat #3! And pockets. :D That suit is utterly impractical for the weather, though.
Run, Albert, run!
Hat #4! Except it is just Hat #3 with a different suit, but yay all the same.
I love Lugg best when they are in the car. They are the Professionals of the 1930s. (Minus the exciting gay subtext, of course.)
Photo op.
Sleepy Albert.
Sleepier Albert.
This made me laugh for about half an hour. It's the legs on the bed that do it.
The return of Hat #2! And some sulking. Aww.
Still sulking.
Getting a mite tetchy.
'Would you like to walk home?'
Feel free to snag them and make pretty pictures. Or just look at the hats for a bit. Whatever.
Am now on The Fashion in Shrouds, which, by pure coincidence, follows on with a certain character from Sweet Danger. More than that, it takes place 8 years later, and the change in him, and in the tone of the novel, is so marked it's heartbreaking. I had this lovely theory about detective fiction (like many other clearly-defined 'lowbrow' genres) relying on being static, because it was comforting to know that at the end you would surface in the same place, and the detective would solve the case, and thus there is order to the universe. Even Lord Peter and Harriet develop only in the sense of getting married, after all. But this...the whole plot revolves around someone knowing him well enough to exploit his weaknesses, and the whole point of Campion is that he doesn't exist: he's a fantasy in his own head, playing silly games, and suddenly someone is forcing him to engage in some self-examination, to admit he's now 38 and instead of it being all jolly scrapes and a bit of a lark, it's life, and he's getting a little long in the tooth for daft pseudonyms and secrets. And it's the late 1930s, and everyone's so much more brittle, so much more knowing, than even ten years before. It's all so sad.
Back before he was emo 1930s-style, however, there was The Case of the Late Pig, what I watched on the telly with that nice Mr Davison. The entire plot revolves around gingerness. It's like someone out there is making telly just for me!
There must and shall be icons, and I shall make it so, but to facilitate such things I did cap, quite frenziedly. (This time using VLC, bless it, so they are nice .pngs and not shite bitmaps, hurrah.) 40ish caps under the cut: it's only polite to share, after all. (NB: photobucket is being typically infuriating, so lots of them are wee. If you want a biggerer version of any of them, email me, and I shall furnish you with the Peteyness.)
That's his name! (Except it isn't. It's quite beige to name yourself after a flower, isn't it?)
Mmmmspecs.
No nipples. Not a one.
Albert received his daily dose of fanmail, and dutifully prepares to put on the nice silk dressing-gown in a bit.
OK, hello. I mean, honestly. That sort of thing's quite distracting. And at a funeral too.
Hat #1! All men should wear hats. Hats are brilliant.
See? Look how brilliant hats are. (The director does like Petey in profile. Excellent artistic decision.)
He looks a bit like a goose. A surprised goose.
Hat #2! It's rather spiffy, that outfit. Hilariously short little jumper, and fabulous shoes. And the Hat.
Lugg! Hurrah! Black tie! Also Hurrah!
Lugg reads the fanmail. Apparently the fangirls want a close-up of Petey looking a bit foxy.
Yup, that'll do it.
Well, you've ruined it now.
*squees*
You know, there is something indescribably brilliant about a chap in a field at dawn, still wearing his dinner togs.
Gosh. He looks a bit surprised.
Could it be because, between episodes, the weather has changed beyond all recognition?
Yes. Spectacles. Observe the sky, detective man!
I think we have deduced some clouds that were not there a minute ago.
Michael Gough thinks so too.
I seem to have taken quite a lot of caps from this scene, have you noticed?
Apparently so.
But what's a girl to do when there's an undone black tie flapping louchely on the breeze, eh?
In case that other one was blurry. *coughs*
Look, he's in trouble for being a dirty stop-out!
I love Lugg.
Work that profile, baby.
Boozes!
OK, this one pains me, it really does. Because if the Fifth Doctor walked round looking like a big banana, then Campion is walking around looking like a Custard Cream. Could you resemble mashed potato any more, you inexplicable featureless-yet-strangely-awfully-pretty man?
Ignore gooseface and look at the paisley.
Hat #3! And pockets. :D That suit is utterly impractical for the weather, though.
Run, Albert, run!
Hat #4! Except it is just Hat #3 with a different suit, but yay all the same.
I love Lugg best when they are in the car. They are the Professionals of the 1930s. (Minus the exciting gay subtext, of course.)
Photo op.
Sleepy Albert.
Sleepier Albert.
This made me laugh for about half an hour. It's the legs on the bed that do it.
The return of Hat #2! And some sulking. Aww.
Still sulking.
Getting a mite tetchy.
'Would you like to walk home?'
Feel free to snag them and make pretty pictures. Or just look at the hats for a bit. Whatever.