valadilenne: (Whimsy: Bowling for Geishas)


It's a wacky movie about the story of Sita and Rama, told in funky animation and with 1920s jazz music. Sita is faithful to Rama when she's abducted by a god, but he doubts her and makes her go through a trial by fire. She gives birth to his sons, and he doubts her again, sending her away. Eventually she shows him up by being swallowed into the earth as proof of her fidelity to him.
valadilenne: (Movies: Madeline on the rocks)


I think this is my favorite scene in film basically ever.

If you've never seen The Third Man, it's about a man who visits Vienna thinking that his friend Harry Lime is dead. As you can see in this clip, not so much. The guy's alive and kicking and has been secretly following the main character everywhere.

When the light hits Orson Welles and he gives that "oh haha whoops the jig is up" smirk to Joseph Cotton, it makes me want to scream and tear my hair out over how gorgeous he looked back then. Even in 1949 Welles was an ass--he showed up to shooting 2 weeks late and the director had to do alternate shots with body doubles.

Still... I'd resurrect a young Orson Welles to see that expression in real life again.

P.S. Edit: I'm watching the 1944 version of Jane Eyre and I am in complete agreement with the uploader who says that "Mr. Rochester enters, gruffly played by an inexplicably sexy Orson Welles," except that I would change sexy to sexual. It's compounded by the fact that he stalks around the foggy moors wearing a giant cape that floats around him and shows off tight trousers. Yeah, it's full of cognitive dissonance.

I mean, even Joan Fontaine looks like she's about to either faint or is starting to maybe kinda think about having an orgasm in every scene she's in with him. That confused WTF IS GOING ON OH GOD look.
valadilenne: (Alice: smoking caterpillar)
Why does it snow at home and then not here? Baffling.

Today I picked up the "Sea of Blue" cross-stitching project again, which is a very odd name for a picture of an overgrown path running through a forest of bluebells. I'm working on the path, so it's not very blue, but mostly a tarnished brass color at the moment.

It does feel good to get back into the rhythm of counting, making endless Xs and marking them off on the chart. It's so like paint by numbers, really, but I stay away from the American stuff. It's just not modern enough for me. Maybe I like a bit of irony in my pictures, but roosters on tea towels are too much and video games aren't really my scene right now (though I am thinking of getting a DSi [my DS touchscreen doesn't respond very well anymore], but I need to conserve $$ for Oxford).

I watched MST3k 618, "High School Big Shot," and the beginning short was weird but funny.

This weather has really got me down. I've been lolling in the freedom of Saturday, but I'm sort of lonely and I can't really leave the house even though I'm hungry. I want something from The Earth.
valadilenne: (Darkplace: Sanch AHHHHHH)
I don't think a composer can achieve the levels of sincere madness you find in the scores to Psycho and North By Northwest unless he has a touch of the reds.





It certainly helps that both sequences involve pounding strings (I won't say jarring because it's cliched, but it's true) and those crisscrossing lines smashing and creating the credit titles. Nothing's more important than those lines.

Psycho, North By Northwest, and Vertigo are all tied for my favorite movie.
- Psycho has depth and texture and meaning in every shot. The use of black and white, mirrors, the taxidermied birds, all these elements are written about in any decent film book, but they never fail to strike a chord with me. I love watching it to pick out symbolic set pieces in the background.
- North By Northwest's opening credits are really very good, while the story and chemistry between Grant and Saint was lukewarm for me. I especially like that the opening credits sound like a chase scene (on horses, in my mind), but when the lines disappear and the picture comes in, it's nothing but swarms of New Yorkers fighting with each other over who's going first, who's going to get there before me. That anonymity, who cares if you're the wrong person? Who cares if we're all just playing a part, playing dress up spies and chasing each other around Mount Rushmore? Who are we, really.
- Vertigo has the best story--not the psychoanalysis of Psycho, but beautiful costuming and subtle longing that speeds on into sadness and obsession.

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Valadilenne

May 2009

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