As one of those people who knows all the words to Sondheim’s 1979 musical, I was certain to hate the movie, even as I secretly hoped for the opposite. I had heard clips of Johnny Depp singing and it had incensed me, and I threw myself into repeated listens to the Len Cariou original cast recording. “Why are they compromising on voice?” I asked anyone who would listen. “It’s a musical!”

Because, as I found out last night, the mechanics of Depp’s vocal cords make no difference when a movie is this beautiful. I hardly noticed the little deficiencies of his and Helena Bonham Carter’s instruments in the thrill of seeing a movie of a musical I loved and loving it, too.

Burton’s London is a comic book inhabited by his personal avatars (Carter and Depp) looking strangely attractive despite their deathly pallor and moral decrepitude. For those who don’t know, Sweeney Todd concerns the return and revenge of a mild-mannered barber turned to bloodthirstiness by the machinations of a lustful judge, who sent him away on a trumped-up charge to gain access to Todd’s wife. He now holds Todd’s daughter, Johanna, in his house, and may have designs on her as well. Todd’s neighbor, Mrs. Lovett (Carter), is an unsuccessful meat pie seller who remembers Todd and aligns herself with him in a scheme to kill the judge and revitalize her pie shop. Oh, and they sing.

For those who fear the musical part, I should inform you that the music and lyrics are significantly darker than anything you’ve seen on screen. It’s not Mary Poppins up here. One song cut from the film includes the line “Lift your razor high, Sweeney/Hear it singing, ‘Yes!’/Sink it in the rosy skin/Of righteousness,” and Burton doesn’t shy from demonstrating what happens when you do so. Gallons of red blood suffuse the dim landscape of blacks, whites and blues. The design rides a fine line between realism and Burton’s characteristic style—very successfully, in my opinion. The supporting cast is excellent, young Johanna resembling a blonde Christina Ricci and Alan Rickman deliciously lecherous as Judge Turpin. Sacha Baron Cohen as Pirelli the rival barber is outrageously perfect as well.

What works about Sweeney Todd despite my prior reservations is that the actors on screen are arresting, no matter how they sound. The music alone could support worse, and the experience of watching Depp mitigates my problems with his singing. I wouldn’t, couldn’t listen to this soundtrack on its own. But in the course of the film I hardly noticed. Likewise the numerous cut songs, some of them among my favorites—I will allow it in the interest of finally seeing a good movie made of a musical I like. And this is a good movie, surprisingly so in my opinion. And I think that if musical geeks like me can get around our vocal dubiousness, non-musical fans might be able to get over their resistance to people singing their plans to one another. It won’t be all things to all people, but it’s an amazing accomplishment and I, for one, am happy to have been proven wrong.

Richard Matheson’s 1954 novella I Am Legend is one of the best stories I’ve read recently. It concerns the last man in a post-apocalyptic world which has been decimated by a vampire-like infection, but it deals with the details of his extraordinary yet mundane existence in such a gripping fashion I didn’t want it to end. So I was cautious about the new film version. I steeled myself for the changes, and consoled myself with the fact that the trailer looked good, even if it didn’t look like the book. That was fine, I thought. The transfer between mediums can excuse a lot.

The extra background info, for instance, might be a consideration for Hollywood audiences who don’t want to jump right into the post-apocalypse trope. Robert Neville’s dog, Sam(antha), gives Will Smith something to act against, essential if we’re to know him without the benefit of narration. And New York City in ruins is inherently interesting. The film could certainly have Hollywoodized things more than they did. Essentially, we watch a surprisingly good Smith wander around the city with his dog, stuck in an endless loop of video “rentals,” zombie-hunting and a futile search for a cure. He is the only one left, but he cannot give up. Because what else would he do? It is only when someone else does show up that we see how damaged Neville really is; how far apart he has grown from “humanity,” just like the creatures he hunts. What’s entertaining about the film (and book) are the little details of execution; Neville’s daily life, his rituals, the archived television broadcasts and clipped newspaper articles. Though I was disappointed to see that Hairspray is still on Broadway in 2009.

Now, this all sounds like I’m pretty happy with the film. And I was, until about ¾ of the way through. The minute Neville shouts that there is no God, that we did this to ourselves, I knew that the film was going to have to prove him wrong—no mainstream movie in America could get away with that sort of sentiment unpunished. Indeed, the film moves from being understandably updated from the book to being a complete repudiation of Matheson’s essential, and essentially dark, point. Neville is not a legend because he is a beacon of hope to guide humanity into some promised land; he is a legend to the inhuman creatures who seek to wipe him out. Hollywood has, for once, preserved enough of the original to make my sense of betrayal that much greater.

Because for an hour, I thought someone had gotten something right. And that little beacon of hope turned out to be less real than that which Neville offers humanity. It’s almost better when I know they’ve only stolen the title and don’t have to see the travesty.

Who didn't I take this from? Text ganked from inlaterdays:

I know very little about some of the people on my friends list. Some people I know relatively well. I read your journals, or we have something else in common and we chat occasionally. Some of you I hardly know at all. Perhaps you lurk, for whatever reason. But no matter what, I love that you give a damn enough to stop by my place.

But here's a thought: why not take this opportunity to tell me a little something about yourself? Any old thing at all, the more trivial and fascinating, the better.

I'd love it if every single person who friended me would do this. Yes, even you people who I know really well. Then post this in your own journal and see what gems of knowledge appear.

Also, feel free to ask any questions about me that you would like answered.

To sum up: everyone on my flist, please tell me a little something about yourself. Ask me what you want to know in return (if anything).

And I hope even those of you who might be reading but haven't friended and/or I haven't friended back would pipe up; I'd love to know who you are.

In 1962, b-movie mogul and directorial impresario Roger Corman made a black and white “problem film” about, well... black and white. It is notable for two reasons: it tackled the tricky subject of a small town's reluctant school integration, and it starred one William Shatner.

( Yes. That William Shatner. )

My brother and sis-in-law's Christmas present:


Dylan by ~my-daroga on deviantART

I have a bad habit of reading books just before seeing the movies they’re made in to. It’s the perfect formula for disliking something—the comparison is almost never flattering. In the case of The Golden Compass, I hadn’t been blown away by the first book in the trilogy. Even so, the film is a mishmash of prettily illustrated Cliffs Notes; interesting as a companion, but incapable of standing on its own.
( Read more... )

I've made a little thingy you can put up to advertise/link to The Fifth Cellar:



Feel free to take and put up anywhere you like. Or if you think it sucks and want me to/want you to make a new one, let me know that, too!

Thanks for all your support so far. I really like where this is going and I'm overjoyed to have good Phantom fic to read!

Here it is, folks! Page 2, as fast as I can get it.
( dun dun dun! )

As you may know, tkp now resides at whatever-we're-calling-my-house. You may not know that she is a secret Phantom of the Opera fan. Inspired by Mr. Daroga's high school collaborative comics, we decided to do a little experiment: each of us will draw a page of a comic about "ourselves" going back in time and landing in Phantom (like a real bad!fic!) and leave the word bubbles open for the other to fill in. And we do it one page at a time, so there's no planning and no telling where it'll go.

Here's page one.
( Read more... )

Now that it's arrived at its intended destination, I can post this publicly:


Darmoth by ~my-daroga on deviantART

Made for darmoth's mommies; he's a good, happy boy who was hit by a car as a puppy and lost the use of his hind legs. But M&M have given him an awesome life.

I love Sarah Jane Adventures. Partly it's a matter of expectation; the stuff that doesn't add up doesn't seem so serious when it's "meant" for children. But it's full of lovely people who don't totally fail at family. And the potentially trite light-sf plots are also about family and optimism and friendship. And so far, it seems to be trumping New Who in terms of consistency.

Though I have no idea how Alan and Chrissie were ever married. He's just way too awesome.
( thoughts about 'Whatever Happened to Sarah Jane' and arrested development )
( The Lost Boy )

I'm fairly confident that this is the cutest creature who ever lived:


( MOAR )
After my parents moved onto a boat, Dylan went to live with my (older of two but still younger than me) brother. I was sad. But now I have Mr. Darcy, so it's all good.

All of my dogs have had D-names. Dickens, Dylan, Darcy.

The Pew Research Center and NPR have just released the results of a poll which raises some interesting questions. What's being pulled out most is the idea that class, rather than race, is what segregates America these days; 37% of black people say that the values held by poor and middle class blacks have grown more different over the last five years. Likewise, 37% of black people also question "black" as a single racial identity. It's not a majority, but it's more than it used to be. A growing number of black people agree with Bill Cosby that it's not racism, but black people who are bringing themselves down.

What makes this interesting to me is the touchy ground where race and class meet. I can't speak to the numbers here, and I'd be ill-qualified to answer these questions or speculate about the results. But I do know that the most prevalent form of racism I've seen in my immediate life is the kind leveled by black people against other black people for acting "too white." A few years ago I was being trained on the job in an environment where I was the only white girl, and my trainer had to endure taunts like, "You better go listen to some James Brown, get that Elvis out of your system" because she was, apparently, talking like a white person in order to communicate with me. (As an aside, that was by far the most pleasant work environment I've ever been in, and I really miss those guys.) But it seems to me the "you're not black enough" argument is losing relevance in a world where black identity isn't tied to a certain lifestyle or income bracket. Where no two people can define "black identity" the same way.

Some really interesting semantic debates could open up over whether X is "racism" or "classism." Racism is still prevalent in our society, but the line where it becomes classism is fuzzy. Where, for example, should we classify criticism of hip hop culture? And would it be different depending on the race of the critic? Is it more excusable to be classist, because it ignores the race question? Or is that a smokescreen, "the new racism"?

I'm not even going to try to answer that. What's interesting to me is that this has become a question at all. Will it change the dialogue about race and culture and class?

I married into the PKD cult. It was more or less a requirement for our involvement, a love for We Can Build You. Combined with an instinctual hatred for Blade Runner. So it was interesting, on Saturday, to go see a new play about him and a screening of the aforementioned film in its new, “Final Cut” incarnation. The play is called 800 Words: The Transmigration of Philip K. Dick, written by Victoria Stewart and premiered here at the Live Girls theater (a dangerous name, seeing as it's a group committed to staging new works by women rather than to taking their tops off).

PKD died three months before Blade Runner came out, having only seen a few minutes of it. He didn't live to see the plethora of adaptations of his works, most of them atrocious, or to feel his influence. Or to see plays written about his final days and talking cat. If you think that last one would have been impossible, you don't know Dick.

The play is entertaining; it weaves one of Dick's ex-wives, an FBI agent, Stanislaw Lem, Sacha the cat, and a muse/seductress/other half who is by turns his dead twin Jane, an East Berlin communist, and a teenage drug dealer. The playwright knows a lot about him, and the stuff she gets wrong seems to be intentional. “History is not kind to Linda Ronstadt fans,” the playwright-as-actress tells Dick late in the play, after proving he's in a play by pointing out that the first act was accompanied by the Beatles, whom he hated. This being a play about Dick, reality is mutable and authorship in question.

Unfortunately, Stewart isn't as smart as Dick. I think the same would be true for nearly anyone—no one was better at adulterating our senses through mere words than Dick, and he is the only person I believe was qualified to write this play. Maybe Tom Stoppard. There are some touches of genius, however: the talking cat, played by a puppet and an actress dressed in black from head to toe, is a perfect commentator and companion for both the reclusive Dick and the audience, and knows more than she lets on. There is some nice play with theatrical conventions. But what should have been a gradual breakdown of reality until neither we nor Dick knows what's going on is more like a stab at revelation; the point seems to be that the character Dick knows he's in a play. It reads like one of the spate of new films which plays with meta-cinema but only coyly--I Heart Huckabees comes to mind.

The acting was variable, with the cat and Jane/Commie/Muse/Girl With Dark Hair as the standouts. Phil was excellent in some scenes, and generically manic in others. Then again, he's on stage the entire play and the part isn't simple. I thoroughly enjoyed it, since it was far better than I expected; but it could have been so much more.

After a run through Subway, we found ourselves in front of the enormous Cinerama screen downtown. Both Mr. Daroga and I had seen the film before, separately, and both hated it. It seemed, however, that if we were ever going to give it another chance, this was the time. And that turned out to be a good decision.

I enjoyed “The Final Cut” much, much more than the original film I saw. I don't remember enough of either the book or the other versions to honestly review its differences. In short, Blade Runner captures the atmosphere it should and in Rutger Hauer as Roy finds a heart. But it is a shallow reflection of a much larger work; my emotional involvement came wholly at the hands of the enemy android, whose performance lends him more sympathy than I suspect he was supposed to get. I'm not saying the film is unambiguous, but I'm not convinced Hauer was supposed to be quite that good. The new version seems seems to do a better job at drawing the subtle inference that anyone (hint hint) might be a replicant, and mercifully cuts out the pointless voiceovers. The music by Vangelis and Sean Young's shoulder pads are the only dated things about the film, so it holds up well.

It's just not PKD. The play is more true to his spirit, but there is no replacing him. Imitators beware.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NONONONONONOOOO

( S3 spoiler )

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

I don't know why this bothers me so much. Please don't let this be true.

If you please, go to phuck's journal and tell me which characters I'm most like.

If you think that sort of thing is fun.

I am pleased and proud to announce the opening of The Fifth Cellar, a new, all-inclusive Phantom fiction archive. Our goal is to create a home for all types of quality Phantom fiction, searchable by canon, characters, and many other genres and story types. It's in its infancy, so feel free to make suggestions, but most of all I hope you join and post and review others' writing.

I know there have been a few archives before this, and you've probably posted your fic other places only to have it disappear. Please consider this my vow of commitment to this project and to making a good archive fun. All kinds of stories are welcome!

Please join us.

x-posted everywhere

I thought you'd be interested in reading each other's requests, so here are the answers. Anyone else?

vervassal - Christine/no one ("Think she could do it?")
( 1 )

inlaterdays - Mulder/Krycek
( 2 )

dangerousdame - Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler ("outside the verse")
( 3 )

vampire_cookies - Buffy/Faith ("I personally find them kind of hot, but in
the grand scale of "plausibility," does it make sense to you?")
( 4 )

metalmyersjason - Erik/Nadir
( 5 )

girlflesh - Erik/V
( 6 )

A meme from lafemmedarla:

Comment with any ship from a fandom you know I like or am familiar with. I will then go on about said ship for at least one hundred words. Perhaps more! Feel free to comment with ships I like,ships I hate, or ships where my opinion is neutral or unknown. I'll be honest and diplomatic about all of them, with a bit of added flail for the OTPs.

In Stanley Coren's Why We Love the Dogs We Do: How to Find the Dog that Matches Your Personality, the psychologist and author of The Intelligence of Dogs seeks to provide a fool-proof method of choosing the right sort of companion for your personality by combining research into historic figures and a new breed classification system based on temperament, not AKC groups.

Unfortunately, while it is somewhat interesting to read about why Eugene O'Neill loved his Dalmatian, this reader has been woefully misled and misunderstood.

In Coren's new system, there are seven breed groups: Steady, Self-Assured, Consistent, Friendly, Protective, Independent, and Clever. You take a personality test, which measures Extroversion, Dominance, Trust and Warmth on a scale from Low to High, and match up the best groups for each of those aspects. This gives you eight breed groups (two for each score) and from that, you can supposedly rest assured that any dog from a group that appears more than once will be a good match. Under no circumstances, actually, should you own a dog in one of the groups that appears only once or not at all.

What's particularly exciting about my case is that while I feel the personality test gave me accurate results, it returned every group at least once and Consistent dogs was the only one to appear twice. So what kind of dog should I have?

Bedlington Terrier
Boston Terrier
Chihuahua
Dachshund
Dandie Dinmont Terrier
French Bulldog
Italian Greyhound
Japanese Chin
King Charles (English Toy) Spaniel
Lhasa Apso
Maltese
Pekingese
Pomeranian
Pug
Sealyham Terrier
Skye Terrier
Tibetan Terrier
Whippet

Do you see anything wrong with this list?

I like to think I like all dogs. I'm certainly capable of enjoying individual dogs of all varieties. And my score does reflect that my preferences aren't strong. But this is probably the very last group I'd want a dog from. And it's not just my prejudice against their size and squished faces. "Consistent" is about the last thing I care about in a dog. According to these scores, I shouldn't have gotten along with any dog I've ever loved.

Obviously it's just a guide, and I wouldn't have posted about it if I'd just found that site which has stolen Coren's test. But this is a book specifically designed to guide you, and in which Coren is vehement about never choosing a dog from a breed group you don't match. Of course he has to, it being his book. But I believe that unless I'm some kind of freak of nature, this rubric is useless.

Oh, by the way? I scored low on Extroversion, medium on Dominance, High on Trust, and Medium on Warmth. Which I'm not much surprised about.


Take the test yourself!