the gnat's knickers

Favourite dead not-American actors: an Advent Calendar

Day 21: David Niven 

For me, Niv has long been a perfect example of a certain kind of English gentleman; worldly, debonair, classy, with a lightness of touch that sees him glide through any difficulty with charm and poise. This is mainly because I’d never seen his earlier comic roles (Bachelor Mother, Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife, even The Dawn Patrol to some extent) and so it was a world of joy when I finally did, and it’s the thing that tipped my liking over into something more. 

He is that English gent of course, unruffledly ballooning (Around the World in Eighty Days), or cruising (Death on the Nile) while lesser men stumble, and it’s a persona he delightedly reinforced with his skill as a raconteur and a memoirist. It’s easy to be deceived by into thinking he is not an actor of depth and substance, but his against-persona Major Pollock in Separate Tables shows his quality, and he often shows the intelligence and character beneath the flippant surface (The Guns of Navarone, Dawn Patrol). And he can turn his hand to real, likeable sincerity when he chooses (The Way Ahead, Wuthering Heights) which makes him an incredibly attractive actor to watch. 

Favourite Role: Poet-turned-bomber-pilotPeter Carter in A Matter of Life and Death (1946). Like most people, Niv does his best for the Archers, and although it’s a peach of a role, he also has to sell the romance with Kim Hunter in the first five minutes, which he does beautifully. Plus he has a delightful rapport with Maruis Goring’s Conductor 73, as well as wonderful chemistry with Roger Livesey’s Doctor Frank Reeves. If you never knew where to start with Powell and Pressburger, start here. 

“What after all is a halo? It’s only one more thing to keep clean.”

Instead of a song, tonight we have a clip from the 1987 production of Christopher Fry’s The Lady’s Not for Burning with Kenneth Branagh.

This scene is from the first act of the play:

The play takes place during the year “1400 either more or less or exactly,” and the costumes are described as being “as much 15th century as anything else.” The action of the play takes place in “a room in the house of Mayor Hebble Tyson.”

Thomas Mendip is a recently discharged soldier who is tired of the world and wants to be hanged. He enters the mayor’s house and engages in brief conversation with Richard, the mayor’s copying clerk. Alizon, the future wife of Humphrey, the Mayor’s nephew, soon enters. She and Richard immediately feel a connection. Soon Nicholas, Humphrey’s brother, enters, declaring that he has killed Humphrey in a battle over Alizon, and thus is deserving of her hand in marriage. Margaret, Nicholas and Humphrey’s mother and Mayor Tyson’s sister enter. Nicholas and Richard are sent to get Humphrey from the garden, where he is lying, quite alive, after the fight with Nicholas. Noises outside the house make a witch-hunt known, and Thomas repeatedly reminds everyone that he is there to be hanged, and asks why doesn’t anyone do anything about it. The Mayor enters, declaring that Thomas shall not be hanged without reason, as there is absolutely no precedent for such an action. Thomas then says he has killed two people, so he is deserving of the gallows. The Mayor does not believe him. Jennet then enters. She is the accused witch. After recounting the wild tales they tell about her mystical powers, and laughing over their ludicrous nature, she is shocked to hear that the Mayor shares the crowd’s opinion that she is a witch. The mayor sends Richard to get the constable to have her arrested, but Richard does not get the constable; he does not think she is a witch. The Chaplain enters next, apologising for his tardiness to evening prayers, explaining that the world is so amazing, it is hard not to be distracted doing every day things. Thomas tells everyone that he is the devil, and that the world will soon end. The Mayor has both him and Jennet arrested…

– from wikipedia

I loved this version of the play so much that I taped it when it was shown on television and then taped the soundtrack onto a cassette so that I could listen to it on my Walkman (yes, I’m very old!).

@anarfea , @spyvstailor , @petratodd and everyone else who is chiming in, I’m so glad there’s actually people who know and like this band. My dad listened to them all the time when I was little. Unfortunately anything strongly associated with my dad makes it kind of a bittersweet nostalgia, but it’s very nostalgic nonetheless.

@mizjoely I think Sylvia’s Mother is my favourite song, and it actually makes me cry a bit!

@sunken-standard that’s quite the interesting little factoid, i did not know that.

Everything is connected!

You make my face wanna grin

celebrity/fan au - Fun! Thanks, Gee!! This turned out a wee bit longer than I intended. Hope you like. ~Lil~ (I’ve got lots more to fill. I’m working on them and appreciate them all!)

John Watson was pissed. There were about a thousand places he’d rather be at the moment. (Like on a date with the lovely Miss Morstan, which he had to cancel when Sherlock had stormed into the clinic, demanding his presence just as he was getting ready to leave!) Riding in the back of a cab on the way to some book signing with his broody best friend was nowhere on that list. 

“Are you going to explain this?” he asked. 

When Sherlock had said ‘book signing’ John had waited impatiently for the upshot. Where was the murder? Where was the puzzle?

“No,” the detective answered.

The doctor clenched his fist and cracked his neck. He’s your friend. You will not strangle him in the backseat of a cab. John took in the other man’s appearance for a moment. That’s when he noticed the difference. Sherlock The Body’s Just a Transport Holmes always wore the most expensive clothes and took far too much care with his hair to really believe in that ‘beauty is just a construct’ nonsense. But today… today the man was polished within an inch of his life! Also, he was undoubtedly nervous. John couldn’t remember ever seeing the man so unsettled.

“Sherlock? Are you..?” 

The detective’s head whipped toward him. “What?” he asked with thinly veiled aggression.

There is something going on here. Though Sherlock often pointed out that his friend didn’t see ‘certain things’ - not observing, he called it - John had learned a lot about the man sitting next to him in their two years of friendship. That’s when it hit him; he had to force himself not to smirk.

“Does this have something to do with that book? The pathology book?” John asked, almost certain that he had it figured out. 

Baker Street was never quite ‘clean’ (even though John bitched at his friend like an old fishwife) but it was somewhat better than when he had first moved in and the man-child did make some effort to put away his toys. In the last month, however, John had often noticed a book sitting next to Sherlock’s chair. Then he noticed it in the kitchen late one night and on the settee the next afternoon. He even found it in the bathroom one day. At one point he had wondered if the detective didn’t own several copies of the damn thing. 

“This isn’t a case at all. You just want to meet the author of that book.”

The detective smirked, though it lacked his usual confidence. “It seems I’m finally rubbing off on you, John. Keep paying attention and soon you’ll know the difference between a suspect and a witness.”

“At least I know who the prime minister is,” he mumbled under his breath.

Twenty-five minutes later they were walking into a small bookstore in Soho. 

“Not much of a turnout,” John commented. There were no lines and the store wasn’t much bigger than the sandwich shop below their flat. 

“How many people do you suppose are interested in forensic pathology?” He said the word ‘people’ like it was tantamount to a single cell organism. And one that he didn’t particularly like.

“Still…” John started as they made their way to the back of the shop. That’s when he saw her. A tiny smiling woman sitting next to a mountain of books talking to a spotty faced teenaged girl in large, ill-fitting glasses.

“… if you’re really interested, leave me your email and I’ll send you some information,” the woman said. 

The girl gasped. “You’d do that?”

“Of course! I wish I had someone to point me in the right direction when I was younger. I’d love to help in any way I can,” the woman returned, smiling brightly.

“I… I…” the teen stammered. “I don’t know what to say. I mean… you’re my favourite pathologist of all time!” 

Favourite pathologist? Do people have favourite pathologists? For a moment John thought the girl was going to cry, but she managed to write down her email and shake hands with the author before hurrying off to join a group of girls standing to the side. They all squealed as they left. Weird. 

He was so distracted by the spectacle that he almost missed Sherlock’s approach. 

“Hello, Dr. Hooper,” the detective said as he handed her his worn copy of the book. 

I didn’t even notice that! Him and his damn pockets! John did notice, however, that his friend’s voice was even deeper than usual. 

“Hi!” the woman said as she took the book, smiling and blushing up at his friend. 

John had seen this before… many, many times. That man’s looks were such a waste! The woman I could have pulled with those damn curls! He could make a witness, of the right sexual persuasion, sing like a canary with the slightest hint of fake flirtation.

“It seems I got in right under the wire,” Sherlock said.

“Yes. You might just be my last victim,” she replied with a giggle. 

When he smiled John realised that something was off. That wasn’t Sherlock’s false ‘get what he needs from a woman smile’. The man looked genuinely happy. What the hell?

“You’re much better at forensic analysis than comedy, Miss Hooper,” he said with none of the bite of his usual commentary.

Her face started to fall, but Sherlock quickly followed up with, “That wasn’t an insult. This book is brilliant, doctor. But you know that, don’t you? How many weeks has it been a bestseller?”

“A few.” She bit her lip and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Um, whom do I make this out to?”

Ah, John thought, who will Sherlock be today? Nigel Britwistle? Ridgewell  Luckinbill, perhaps? Felix Pickles was one of his personal favourits.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, causing John to do a double take. 

“That’s an unusual name,” Dr. Hooper said as she began to write. “Old English?” 

“It is,” Sherlock answered, practically beaming.

When she finished, she handed him the book and stood up. “Well, I’m finished for today,” she said as she started to box up the books from the table. 

“Did you have a good turnout?” Sherlock asked and then he did the strangest thing of all… he started to help her! 

“I did, actually. About five hundred, since lunch. Yesterday’s turnout was better.”

“Yes, I had wanted to make it to your signing at Waterstone’s. Unfortunately, I had a case,” Sherlock said as he added another book to the box.

Waterstone’s? That store was huge! John was more than a bit shocked. It seemed that this Dr. Hooper was the J.K. Rowling of forensic pathology!

“A… case?” she asked. “What sort of case?”

“I’m a detective,” his friend responded far less arrogantly than usual.

“You’re a..?”

“I should clarify, I don’t work for the Yard. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world, actually.”

There’s the arrogance.

“Really?”

“Yes. I invented the job,” he explained as he finished up with the books. “I’d love to tell you more if you’re not busy.”

“Ahh…” She looked at John (possibly for the first time) and then back to Sherlock, seemingly a bit apprehensive.

“Coffee, I thought, if you like,” Sherlock said in a rush. “There’s a decent shop just around the corner.”

She hesitated for a moment longer before saying, “Just let me speak to the manager to let him know that I’m all finished.” She started to walk away but paused and gave them both a pointed look. “And where we’re going, of course.”

Once she was out of hearing distance, John turned to his friend. “All right. I’m flummoxed. What the hell’s going on?”

Sherlock was watching her as she spoke to the store manager. “I believe that I have a date, John. Do keep up.”

“A date? You don’t date! What do you need her for? A case?” he asked, then thought for a moment. “Oh! You found a mistake in her book and want to reopen one of her old cases.”

“That book is flawless, John. As is her work. It’s not a case.”

“Are you trying to recruit her to work at St. Barts?” Nearly everyone at the hospital basically hated the man! “I doubt she’ll give up a lucrative book deal to be your personal whipping boy, no matter how many time you use that voice on her. She seems too smart for that.”

Turning to him with a glare, Sherlock said, “Of course she’s smart, John! She’s brilliant! And I don’t need another whipping boy, I’ve got you for that. No, I need her for something else entirely.” His tone softened at the end and his face… well, that was a look John had quite literally never seen before.

“And what is that, exactly?”

Sherlock smiled brightly then turned his attention back to the woman across the store. “Pay close attention, my friend, because I believe you’ve just met the future Dr. Holmes.” 

After several seconds of stunned silence, John finally found his voice. “Are you screwing with me?”

“Or perhaps I’ll take her name, who knows?”

“You’re joking!”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking the woman’s name. Don’t be so provincial.”

“I’m not talking about that, you tit!” John hissed. “Are you winding me up, because…”

“No, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “Not about this. Not about her.” He picked up his signed copy of the book and looked at the inscription with a grin before turning back to his friend. “Come with us and have one cup of coffee, then make some excuse and bugger off. Got it?”

He nodded mutely still too stunned to respond. Sherlock didn’t do relationships and had never mentioned marriage in the entire time John had know him, at least not reverently. Not only that but he had just met this woman. Even having read her book, how could he possibly be contemplating spending the rest of his life with her? It went against everything he thought he knew about the man. Then there was the woman herself. What if she was married? Or gay? What if she had a deep and burning hatred for tall, curly-haired, cocky bastards who thought they knew everything?

Just then Dr. Hooper walked back up. “Okay, Thomas knows I’m going with you so if my body turns up in the Thames, he’ll know who to blame.” She looked at John and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

Sherlock beat him to the introduction. “This is my best friend, Dr. John Watson.”

John paused before offering the woman his hand. Sherlock had never introduced John as his best friend before. Associate, blogger, assistant and even friend on the very rare occasion, but never ‘best friend’. Finally extending his hand he said, “Nice to meet you, doctor. Sherlock is a big fan of yours.” He was proud of managing that much in his shocked state.

She blushed as released him to pick up her coat and bag. “Nice to meet you too.”

Once she was ready, the three of them proceeded out of the store and onto the pavement. John hung back, letting the pair walk in front of him so that he could observe them. A tiny part of him wanted to see the detective crash and burn, knowing for a fact that Sherlock knew nothing about women, at least nothing about how to date them.

“So, did you have questions about the book?” she asked.

“Not so much, no.” 

She didn’t respond, just looked up at the detective curiously. 

“I’d actually like to know more about you, if I’m honest.”

“There’s not much to tell, Mr. Holmes.”

“I beg to differ. And please, call me Sherlock.”

“Oh, well, then you should call me Molly, I suppose,” she replied with an awkward laugh. “What would you like to know?”

John wondered as well. Sherlock usually knew whatever he deemed important about a person at first glance.

“Everything, I should think. But let’s start with how you got that scar on your left index finger. It’s not a scalpel cut, far too ragged.” He stopped walking and took her hand in his to study closer. “Too old as well. You were eleven? Perhaps twelve.”

“Yes,” the woman answered breathlessly.

Sherlock gently ran two fingers across the old scar then looked up. “A soup can,” he said with a knowing smirk on his lips.

Dr. Hooper had never taken her eyes off of his face the entire time. “How did..?”

“It’s my job to know, Molly. And I’ll tell you all about it.” He started walking but didn’t release her hand.

“You will?” she asked, seemingly unconcerned that she was now holding hands with the man that she’d just met.

“Indeed. But I believe that we have plenty of time for that.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Come now, you’re the famous writer, Molly. Can’t you see that this is just the first page of the book?”

John never knew why Sherlock had brought him that day and he certainly didn’t know why he’d been allowed to witness such an overtly romantic display, but he was grateful nevertheless. 

Besides, it made his best man’s speech a breeze to write.

Jolene (33 R.P.M) - click for .mp3

Unsure where this came from, if not the palsied hands of the good Lord himself.

Simple premise: Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” slipped from 45 to 33 rpm. Nothing more; no studio trickery, no trip hop drum breaks. The guitar lopes back in and around itself. The bass becomes elastic, hot rubber. The violin stabs become sustained cello lines. The backing choir’s split harmony rattles around, slinking ghostly into the corner.  And most importantly, Parton’s once-frantic vocal is transformed from bubblegum country scrawl into something approximating field holler reverence. 

Couldn’t you just imagine curling up on the couch with him watching a romantic movie..

Cuddling into his chest… His fingers gently stroking through your hair… gently kissing your forehead every so often….  

Michael Kitchen in a three-piece suit is in a league of wonderfulness all of its own!

The Hour (2011) 

Whenever I see a post about girls to “LET THEM WEAR MAKE-UP”, well… there’s nothing stopping them or you, really. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. Society pushes you to wear make up and have the most perfect make-up skills ever. And if it takes you 15 minutes for a full contour, shade, highlight, you’re praised.

Seriously, girls get more shit for not wearing make-up.

If you want to fight for the right to wear make-up, please shift to “MEN ARE ALLOWED TO WEAR MAKE-UP”. Also, please fight for the right for girls and women to not wear make-up.

I don’t like makeup. 

I don’t want to wear it. 

Or buy it. 

Or have anything to do with it.