Compare and contrast

Rushing off this morning, but simply had to quickly tell you that the entire Commentbox family saw "Avatar" in 3-D last night and I'm very much looking forward to describing all of our reactions.

However, in the interests of brevity at this very moment, I just want to say that the 2-D beauty of "Bright Star" (story aside for now) surpasses James Cameron's digitally enhanced genius, and nobody is more surprised at this than I am!

There is a scene in BS when Fanny's mother walks into her room, which Fanny has been using as a butterfly "farm," and she swats at the butterflies as she makes her way towards her daughter who's laying in her bed and pining for her beloved John. All of Avatar's stunning scenes of Pandorian jungle beauty (and it is beauty of the most wondrous sort) do not even come close to that butterfly scene.

But then, I don't really think that I'm the primary target audience of Avatar.

Mr. CB is!

Hollywood's new star

Saturday night plan to attend screening of "Bright Star" in my local cinema, Master CB dropped off at a friend's place for the night, boysenberry choc-top in hand, purple pashmina around shoulders (air conditioning at local cinema arctic, also necessary to feel stylish while watching the film). Seated between Mr. CB and Miss CB, in front of 4 elderly women speaking Hungarian and coughing, behind a group of 7 girls, probably around 12 years old, texting, munching on crisps and giggling. As the movie starts Mr. CB turns to me, "This isn't that film about the poet is it?" I nod, "You tricked me," Miss CB and I high-five each other.

I was, at first, excited by the type of audience this film had attracted. "How wonderful," I said, "to see both girls and elderly women enthusiastically waiting for the film to start. And just look at all the men," I pointed out to Mr. CB, "why...there's several gentlemen here wearing ties, and the younger men seem to be quite happily accompanying their arty-looking wives." As the lights dimmed, however, the girls' pleasant chatter continued, becoming annoying and rude. The booming voice of an anonymous man was heard - "Settle down now girls, settle DOWN." I nodded happily in Mr. CB's direction, I had predicted that many of the audience members would be English teachers.

The movie started, and there was Fanny Brawne (Abbie Cornish) sewing, I smiled happily to myself thinking of all my crafty blog-friends who would enjoy this scene. Each of the following scenes made me swoon with delight - the fabrics of her dresses, the colour combinations, the hats, the ribbons, at one point she wore a tiny jacket which seemed to be made out of a multitude of tiny granny squares, exquisitely precious granny squares mind you. The photography, the colours, the light, such a shame that Ben Whishaw (Keats) isn't really my type, but hey, I'm not a young woman now I am? That's when I noticed that the young women in the audience were not particularly enthralled either. The girls began talking and giggling, a few turned their phones on and I wondered if they were already texting their friends "CRAP FILM, KEATS FUGLY" One of the elderly women hissed at them quite aggressively but this just made them giggle even more maniacally, and then half of them left the cinema while the other half made their way to the very front of the cinema where they lay down beside the first row and continued to chat.

Not that the elderly Hungarian women sitting behind me were much better. They were coughing so often, and so loudly, that they made poor Keats look like he was merely suffering from a common head cold. During the scenes which were clearly meant to be heartbreaking, one of the Hungarians sighed dramatically, and although I am unfamiliar with the language, I was pretty certain from her tone that she was telling her friend that this film was not meeting her expectations. During the very last scene of the film that same woman let out a loud, sharp snort. There was no doubt whatsoever what that snort meant - "I've lived many years, I've loved and been loved and I KNOW some things about love, and this, right here, this is not the real deal."

So here's a film about the beauty and passion of first love, and it seemed to have failed to touch both the young and the old members of its target female audience. And what about ME you ask? What did I think of the film? Well.

I do think that I am the target audience Jane Campion had in mind when creating this film, and I did enjoy it, but it was hard work to do so. What I mean by that is that there is really no story here, he loves her, she loves him, and we all know he's going to die. This means that the film is an artistic meditation on young love, not a gripping story, not a multi-faceted characterisation, but a very very beautiful painting which just happens to move along a screen. If I had a bit more of a backbone perhaps I might say that "Bright Star" is boring, slow and dull, because that IS what I thought for two thirds of the film. But at the very end of the film, when Fanny is told that Keats has died, I found myself crying. Yes, I know, tears were POURING down my face and it came as a complete surprise as I hadn't, up until that scene, really cared at all about that pale, simpering, egotistical young poet. But it seems I did care a great deal about Fanny, and I cared even more about the feeling of loving someone with such passion. When she kneeled on the floor and sobbed, pointing to her heart and calling for her mother to come and help her because she couldn't breathe, well....I really believed her. Thank you Abbie Cornish, actress extraordinaire.

P.S. Miss CB and I would like to thank you all very very much for your kind comments and good wishes regarding the last post. It means so much to me to have this circle of encouragement and support and I send you my love in return!

An education

Miss CB received her final results for the HSC and did extraordinarily well. She is very happy, as are we all, and now we look forward to a very special family holiday in New York and Boston. In the meantime, Miss CB is out celebrating with friends and I am sitting here, still in my pyjamas, thinking about her.

As Miss CB finishes one stage of her education, her mother (that would be me) is beginning a new stage of her own. I have been accepted into the Graduate Diploma in Screenwriting and will begin my studies next year. I'm literally shaking with excitement as this is a dream come true for me in many ways.

But I may have lied to you about something in a previous post, and I must set the record straight. Poirot was NOT my first love, oh no, indeed, despite the beauty of his little grey cells. My first love was in fact Christopher Plummer (although Anthony Hopkins will also always have a place in my heart).

A sample of the many possible interpretations of Sophie Calle's break-up letter:

Mother

I'm afraid he really is, and always will be, a literary man and not a simple man. I can understand your sadness and, in spite of it all, I am not surprised by this letter which reeks of self-obsession. Well, in his defense, he does things properly: "disquiet" (not bad), "masquerade" (tragic), "irreparable" (solemn)...

He certainly has literary talent, and what a blessing that is!

Headhunter

Applicant with a convoluted form of speech.

Latinist

To translate "tell you what I have to say out loud" I write: "say, I present you to present," as a pastiche of the famous formula used by Suetonius (Life of Titus, VII) when Titus leaves Berenice: Berenicen dimisit inuitus inuitam (he dismissed her against his will, against her will).

Teenager

(in text message)

He thinks he's cool!

Diplomat

The first thing that struck me about X's letter is that he opted to express his unilateral decision in writing, as if he was worried that a discussion or confrontation with the protagonist might undermine his determination to put an end to a relationship that seems to be important to him, but that he can no longer cope with.

French Intelligence Officer

Encoded the letter using the Vigenere encryption system, keyword chosen for the encryption was "Rupture."

Talmudic exegesis:

At the end of the debate we say:
"Teku." It cannot be decided. Cowardice or sublimity?


[The Talmud uses the word "teku" to indicate that the rabbis could not reach a decision on the matter under discussion. Derivation uncertain, possibly from "tekum" meaning "it will stand/remain a question." May also be an acronym of the Aramaic phrase "Tishbi yetaretz kushiot v-abayot" - "The Tishbite [Elijah] will answer all unresolved questions" [when the messianic age is proclaimed].


Some responses to "Take care of yourself" (which ends the break-up letter)-


Consultant for savoir-vivre and protocole:

At last, he is thinking about someone other than himself.


Graduate of the Ecole Normale Superieure:
"Since you have not taken care of me"? "Since I am incapable of doing so?" "Do what you can with all this"? The lexical field remains admirably consistent: care is the only avenue in this viral climate, in which love is like an incurable sickness.

Linguist, semiologist, medievalist:
Has it occurred to you how a woman might feel when you tell her that?

Psychoanalyst:
And the final murderous sentence: "Take care of yourself." Here we grasp the brutality of the vacuity of this action...The nerve! Of course, because I will no longer be taking care of you.

107 interpretations

My parents, who are enjoying a holiday in London at the moment, spoil me terribly. It's a tremendous burden, but I do the best I can with what I have been given. In this particular case, I have been given an armchair holiday, meaning that all I must do is sit back and enjoy their travels stories, while occasionally needing to stand up and open my front door so as to accept the latest package they send me.

Their apartment is walking distance from this shop. Needless to say, a package is on the way. Dad says it'll arrive on Friday, and I believe him. Dad loves tracking parcels and often calls me 5 minutes after I have signed for a package to tell me: "You just received the package, I know."

Another package arrived yesterday, and Mom (I write the American "O" in Mom, but only for my mom, because she's American and hates being "Mum") had already told me that "It's a book from the most wonderful exhibition, well...we liked it...but we kept saying that YOU should have been there." See what I mean, spoilt rotten. Sigh.

This is the exhibition, and this is the book. Mom and Dad were quite right, I really should have been there, I ADORE this project by Sophie Calle.

I believe that my experience of blogging is equivalent to Sophie's collection of 107 interpretations. Every time I publish a post, I receive in return interpretations of the words I have sent out to the world. Each interpretation is unique, and each has something to give and something to teach. At times, my words may be misunderstood, just as I may misunderstand my commentboxes, but the free flow of communication continues and everything is better understood in the process.

Some of the women who interpreted Sophie's break-up email:
Cartoonist
Lawyer
Teenager
Talmudic exegete
Children's writer
Schoolgirl
Composer
Ikebana master
Rifle shooter
Latinist
Philosopher
Mother
Screenwriter
Chess player
Diplomat
Sound engineer
Radio host
Translator in SMS language
Psychoanalyst
Headhunter
Nursery school teacher
French intelligence officer


If you like, tell me which one interests you and I might post a few quotes.

Oh, and out of interest, what do you think of letters which end with the phrase "Take care of yourself" ?

The only fictional character to be honoured with a front page obituary in The New York Times

Miss CB and I spent the day together, it's been a busy month and it felt right to take a day off to unwind and reconnect. We ignored our respective to-do lists and settled on the sofa to watch an Agatha Christie mystery. We both love dear Dame Christie, and we both agree that David Suchet is the perfect Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov is a close second).

David Suchet's Poirot almost always wears a tiny vase as a lapel pin, with a miniature flower in it, usually white, but often red and even purple. Is it called a boutonniere? It's more than just a flower, it's a tiny water-holding VASE. Miss CB and I want one each, we have decided Poirot will now be our fashion icon.

But Monsieur Poirot is really much more than that. Poirot is really my first love. Stop it Eurolush, stop LAUGHING, that is NOT funny. Hmph.

Now, where was I? Ah. Yes. I first met Poirot when I was 10 years old and I came across an entire shelf of Agatha Christie books in my local library. I proceeded to read every single Christie starring Poirot, I tried Jane Marple but it just didn't feel right. Only Poirot would do.

I also liked to read Poirot's dialogue out loud, and I often did, so often in fact that my family took it for granted. "Oh, that noise from Eleanor's room? Why, no, she doesn't have a deep-voiced friend with a French accent, that's just Eleanor reading Poirot. To herself. Out loud. It's nothing."

Poirot actually helped me learn English, because a little Israeli girl with a thick Hebrew accent needs to practice reading English quite a bit. That can be pretty dull and often frustrating and difficult, and sometimes a little Belgian friend with a thick accent and a disdain for British pomposity is just what is needed. N'est-ce pas?

Hairstyling and chocolate

I woke up this morning thinking about my friends in the Northern Hemisphere, many of them sitting by their warm fires as snow falls outside. Thought to myself that it's really only fair to share a little hairstylin' secret which I've been using for the past year, because a girl can't be running down to the beach and diving into the ocean every day now, can she? If I were to put together a Christmas present recommendation list this would be number one. Funny thing is - it's made in Sweden.

Last night I attended Mr. CB's company Christmas party, a small gathering organised by a lovely young woman who sat next to me, anxiously looking around the table to check that everyone was having fun. She had placed a small box beside each plate, and inside were three gorgeous little chocolate truffles. We all peeked inside and then continued talking, drinking and eating. Tea and coffee was served at the end of the meal, and I shocked Mr. CB by ordering an espresso (guaranteed to keep me up all night) but it was an Italian restaurant and I had to drive us back home (designated driver). As I began to sip my coffee the lovely young woman beside me leaned forward and whispered to me "I made the truffles myself". I turned and looked at her in surprise. "One is Turkish Delight, and the other is Eggnog," I smiled at her in amazement. "They would go very very well with your espresso." She MAKES CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES and modestly offers them as gifts to co-workers, I know I don't have to tell you how amazingly wonderful that is!! I announced this to the group gathered around the table and suddenly everyone turned to this lovely woman who had worked so hard behind the scenes to make the evening a success. She blushed quite a bit, but it was praise she so rightly deserved.

At the end of the evening she gave me an extra box to give to my daughter, because I had mentioned to her how much Miss CB enjoys baking. She also whispered to me:
"The recipe is from taste.com.au, your daughter might like to know that." I thought that you'd like to know that too. So here is the Eggnog Truffle and here is the Turkish Delight Truffle. Something else I'd add to a Christmas present recommendation list, if I was putting one together.