I must register my impressions of "The Name of the Rose", even though my understanding is necessarily very imperfect. It is wonderful, it engendered in me a breathless pounding of the heart not known since I first read "Dracula" in its horrid relentlessness, and it made me truly grateful for a book, the genius of the author and the circumstances that placed it in my hands. After it I could not do much but lie in a contented heap for almost a quarter of an hour. It is at once a splendid detective story and a tortuous historical ramble set in a mediaeval Italian abbey, what delightful elements those already are, then we are faced with the delicious prospect of mingling with monks of all humours involved in grisly murders with Biblical allusions (or not), and a dewy observer narrated by a stuffy, much older version of himself, who yet recalls his first (and only) love with luscious longing. Pure enjoyment.
Saw "De-Lovely", which was light waffle for the first part, but became rather good in the second, when Ashley Judd revealed something in her eyes, and Kevin Kline something else in his voice.
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So 2046 is a room, and a year, and some strange city of the imagination. Whatever. What I cared about, and got in gorgeous abundance, were drenched shots of dirty walls against which leaned sordid women, who spat delicious Mandarin at slovenly Lothario Tony Leung, and were grabbed and kissed roughly, and whose glitter and lipstick were smeared artlessly in so artful a fashion. There was pretence, and overindulgence, but there were also moments of complete beauty and minutes of rarefied emotion too strange and breathcatching to be described. There was Faye Wong, unutterably innocent, her limbs at awkward tangents to her terrified doe-stare, gripped in a cancer embrace by the mad, sad Japanese man. And there was also Gong Li, who cried as if from the bed of an ancient river, purged in violence from the riven entrails of the earth. Zhang Ziyi, so pert, so suffused with desire, her waist singing a carol of want and her lip tremulous like an icicle in spring, pink with the transient salmon splendour of butterflies. It almost seemed to be without meaning, and it was brilliant like sunrays through stained glass, or play beads.
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Watched "Sky Captain & the World of Tomorrow", which was as wonderfully campy and frivolously noir as claimed, but I was so sleepy during the airfight scenes it all became a bluish blur. Thought Angelina a hoot, and Gwyneth palely gorgeous. Would have preferred Ewan to Jude Law, but he appeals more to girls I suppose. Yesterday we traipsed around Paragon, and saw Kit Chan, and she had curly tai-tai hair and flawless white makeup, and an ugly blouse. Am reading "The Great Gatsy" but keep getting caught by sentences. Why must he write so beautfully. Anyhow saw a DVD of said novel at HMV, with Robert Redford and the palely wonderful Mia Farrow, and it was wretchedly dear. J may be in London, and it is so annoying. I shall compensate by watching "The Talented Mr. Ripley", which has such gratifyingly dark scenes of Venice and a tanned Gwyneth. |