The Last Rites of Spring

Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky

Another French film at the Tyneside. This one tells the story of the intense 'love' affair between Chanel and Stravinsky. It seemed to be a strangely glacial affair, utterly lacking in romance, warmth or affection. Lord, the film was slow . . . tedious. . . brooding. Nothing much happened. . .twice (as the saying goes). Plus, yet another disappointing leading man. Stravinsky looked, quite frankly, like a bit of a weirdo. Strange, ferrety eyes blinking behind rimless spectacles, a sallow, sour expression. He resembled a bitter and repressed Edwardian botonist. He did get his arse out every 20 minutes, but was not enough to convince me he was a passionate man. Even Coco Chanel maintained her slightly bored, aloof and unruffled demeanor during their lovemaking. That made me suspect that, in the bedroom at least, Igor failed to hit all of the right notes.

So, during the film there was lots of tortured and angry banging on the piano accompanied by long lingering shots of sorrowful, sunlit autumn leaves. Yawn. And the occasional heaving Ruskie arse. Double yawn. BUT, I have to say, the film was saved for me by the divinely opulent costumes and sets. I spent the whole time wishing I lived in an elegant Parisian art deco palace and wondering what lipstick Chanel was wearing. It's a bit like Midsummer Murders - I can happily sit through hours of John Nettles' woefully dreary crime drama just admiring the Agas and chintz sofas.

I did think the actress who played Coco Chanel was spectacular. She portrayed a prickly, steely determination, a beautiful, talented but cold and emotionally distant woman. Last year, Audrey Tatou's Chanel was a little to girly and twee, in my opinion.

Overall then, unless you have a passionate interest in costume, art deco design, lipstick, Ruskie arses or autumn leaves then I suggest you give this film a miss.

Shabby Chic

I have been teaching myself to sew. I confess, I am making slow progress. I can only sew cushion covers. Still, I have reupholstered many of my sofa's cushions this holiday and made some squashy floor cushions. OK. It is fair to say that my creations exist more at the 'shabby' rather than chic end of the shabby-chic continuum. But, I am proud of them nonetheless. Particularly as my favourites (the green satin) cost only 50p each to make.

A treat

You all know that I adore Lola Rose jewellery. I did break my spending-fast to buy this simple and chic ivory stone necklace. I had admired it with Madam Noir in John Lewis many times. Today it was half price. I had to have it. I love the feel of the smooth, cool semi-precious stones. Plus, inspired by the Chanel/Stravinsky monochrome mise-en-scene (if not the film itself), I love the simplicity and purity of the creamy white tones.

Don't you like colour Madamoiselle Chanel?

Well, of course. As long as it's black. Or white.

At last - my new foster lurcher

This is Freya. She will be living with me for a couple of weeks. She is an RSPCA girl, looking for a new home. She wasn't doing so well in kennels.

I agreed to take Freya as a tribute to beautiful, big-hearted Angie, the RSPCA volunteer who rescued hundreds of lurchers. With any luck this little girl find a home before I go back to school. I WILL NOT BE KEEPING HER!!! I keep saying this to people and they keep sniggering. Honestly. This is just temporary. I swear.

But, the thing is . . . I love her already. She is such a gentle and sweet little girl. And, she looks just like a mini-version of Miss Hetty. Here they are together on the sofa.

Partir

Sorry for the blogging hiatus. The end of term was crazy, so I have spent the last few days decompressing and washing the School of Hard Knocks out of my hair (metaphorically speaking - that is NOT a reference to nits).

So, lots of beach walks, laundry and pigging out on the many boxes of Poundshop chocolate bought for me by my heartbroken class. Actually, they weren't quite as heartbroken as I would have liked, after all, I had taught some of those children for 2 years! I didn't notice ANY kids weeping on our last day together. Not even when I prodded them with sharpened HB pencils. Not even when I stabbed them with compasses. Not even when I beat them with meter sticks. It was most irritating. Until, just for old time's sake, as they were lining up to go home, I revealed the ace up my sleeve.

"Year 3/ 4, before you go, let's try this one more time. What is 2p + 2p?"

It worked like a charm. The lamentations were almost biblical.

Today I went to the Tyneside Cinema to see Partir (Leaving). It's a French film with Kristen Scott Thomas. It's been described as a modern-day Lady Chatterley's Lover. I love the brittle fragility of Kristen Scott Thomas. She appears doomed to be typecast in every role she plays. She is always a repressed, upper-class nut-job. She is constantly bedecked in expensive but rumpled linen. This rumpling, of course, communicates her emotional turmoil and her artistic 'caring liberal' sensitivity. I was looking forward to Partir. I was intrigued as to who would be playing the 'Mellors' role. Oh dear: that was a disappointment. In Lady Chatterly Mellors is a brooding, monosyllabic gamekeeper. I imagine him manfully felling trees, gently hand-rearing baby woodcocks, striding, stripped to the waist, through sun-dappled woodland. Mellors is the archetypal swarthy rogue. Sadly, in Partir, the Mellors character was a rather nondescript, mono-browed plumber. Rather than being ravished in a field of daisies and buttercups, the seduction of KST took place in a French B&Q. I felt somewhat cheated by that. Of course, the film ended tragically. Romantic dalliances with mono-browed, swarthy rogues are always fated to end tragically. I have learnt that sorry lesson myself on more than one occasion.

Speaking of Mellors reminds me of the time when Madam Noir, in her pre-lezza days, had a brief infatuation with a swarthy rogue of her own. We called him 'Mellors.' He was a stubbly, Yorkshire tree surgeon. He would refer to Madam Noir as 'me duck'. (I do love Yorkshire accents, there is something very sensual and earthy about them). I think Madam Noir and I were both guilty of romanticising her Yorkshire Mellors though. Nothing came of this dalliance. Madam Noir, who has very exacting standards in all things, could not overlook:

• The oaf had teeth like tombstones. Indeed, his teeth made Shane McGowan look like Tom Cruise!
• His brain was addled and paranoid from years of daily weed-smoking.
• He hadn't had sex for about 10 years. This, not surprisingly, greatly troubled Madam Noir.
• He wasn't really a tree surgeon, we discovered he was actually more of a school caretaker. At the time, school caretakers were not held in very high regard, thanks to Ian Huntley.
• He lived in a caravan. Or was it a tent? (Madam Noir - remind me please.)
• I also have in my head that he drove a Reliant Robin van, although, I may have just imagined this 'fact'.

I wonder if the whole 'Mellors' experience turned Madam Noir lezza?

Anyway, I would recommend you check out Partir, despite the down-at-heel Mellors. I was similarly disappointed with the male love-interest in last year's film, Broken Embraces. I loved that film. I thought it was quite beautiful, moving and pleasingly noir-ish. Penelope Cruz was as radiant and luminous as ever. As usual, her eyeliner was equisite. (Why is it that whenever I try to recreate the Penelope Cruz look myself I end up looking like Marilyn Manson?) But, in Broken Embraces, the character Penelope was in love with, her great, all-consuming passion and desire was played by an actor who looked like Ted Rogers, Ted Rogers of 321, Dusty Bin fame. With a little bit of Russ Abbott thrown in for good measure. And a very unconvincing wig. Seriously. Another perfectly wonderful, darkly romantic film ruined. Whatever next, Heathcliff played by Benny Hill? Rochester played by Tommy Cooper? Count Vronsky played by Bobby Thompson?

Swedes and Sexpots

A round-up of my week. The highlights.

I have nothing to report on the internet dating front. I fear my heart is just not in it. Every man who contacts me is immediately and brutally discounted. One for referring to me as 'honey', another because the picture he attached was a novelty Wild West 'Wanted' poster in which he was wearing a Stetson. I am sure he doesn't wear it whilst doing his milk-round in Grimsby, but even so. It was too much of worry. Oh, and his favourite past time was going to 'theam' parks. So, not only are we woefully incompatible in terms of hobbies, but the rascal also can't spell, which is another pet hate of mine. If a man is too apathetic to use a spell-check then what chance of foreplay?

I also received this heartfelt treatise.

my name is ahmed .i living uk last 15 years.i was busy 4 my business n previously i am cheated by my ex,i am alone in this country that is why i am looking 4 a honest ladey some time who can look after my business n my other property..i am brown skin asian man,if u like brown skin n honest person u can winks me take care loveyly ladey

Trust me. I didn't 'winks' him.

There is a fundamental problem with all of them, you know. They are just not Rochester. They are lacking in eyebrows and irony. Eyebrows and Irony. Sounds like the title of a Pulp album, don't you think?

So, let us swiftly move on to other matters.

Wallander

I love wallowing in things dark and depressing. I have been really enjoying the BBC's dramatisation of Wallander, It is utterly bleak. Kenneth Brannagh is a revelation. Take him out of his RSC leotard and add sprinkling of stubble and he really is very attractive. The program is set in Sweden and the landscape is starkly beautiful: vast, leaden, empty skies and miles and miles of bleached, windswept grassland. The whole programme has a haunting, morbid lyricism.

Brannagh plays your typical lonely, dour, cynical, anti-social detective. Is there any other kind of literary copper? Let's face it, they're never portrayed as chirpy, happily married family men, are they? Kurt Wallander makes Inspector Morse look like Ken Dodd.

This week's episode was particularly somber: murder, torture, betrayal, cancer and revenge were the very Shakespearean themes. But, in the midst of all that bleakness Wallander fell in love. He met his 'soul-mate' (or if you are a man on match.com, 'sole-mate'). How did he know she was 'the one'? Well, I shall tell you. It transpired that he and the lady in question shared the same painting. What a co-incidence. The print was a rather menacing, Munch-inspired forest scene, all twisted silvery branches and lengthening shadows.

Obviously this startling co- incidence hinted at a deeply soulful and sensual connection between the two. Although, I think the film-makers did miss a trick here. The film was so distressing in its themes that I think a welcome note of levity could have been introduced at this point. Imagine how the oppressive tension of the piece would have lifted had the painting in question been of dogs playing pool?

I was compelled to email Rochester about this though, given that on his first visit to my Art Deco midden, he was astounded to see we had a shared picture. That was not dogs playing pool (no, he had the poker version), but a lovely and rather obscure print from the Laing Gallery called The Bathing Pool.

Meatballs and Dimebars

The Swedish theme was continued later in the week with a trip to Ikea, (yes, it was a legitimate need, I had to buy things for my class, more of that another time). I have a huge affection for Ikea meatballs, and the gloopy packet sauce that accompanies them. I know they represent the antithesis of healthy, natural, organic food. They are environmentally friendly though, those meatballs. They are made with recycled Volvo tyres, pulverised Scholl sandals and Kenneth Brannagh's redundant leotards. That accounts for the rather odd, rubbery texture.

I also bought dozens of Dimebars, to be dipped in Yorkshire tea, whilst partaking in my favourite bed activity: watching Mad Men on DVD.

Mad Men

Now, I am rationing myself with Mad Men. I have only watched the first 4 episodes, but I love it so. I shall be devastated when it is over. I'll have to find something else to do in bed then. Reasons to buy Mad Men on DVD.

• it has razor sharp dialogue (written, mostly, by women, you know)
• gorgeous costumes and super stylish retro settings (I love admiring decor, I can even watch Midsumer Murders just for sheer pleasure of admiring the Agas. They are so much more interesting and expressive than John Nettles)
• it is gleefully politically incorrect - all that smoking and those old-fashioned gender roles. 'it was like watching a dog play the piano really well.' one guy says, after a woman somehow manages to write a great line of copy for a lipstick ad. You know, I wish I lived in a time where men were men and women were women. I can't help but think things would be simpler.
• the character of Joan, who is just such a gloriously arch and beautifully juicy sexpot. Here she is in action.

As you can see from the picture at the top, Cecil the Maine Coon is a big fan of our cosy Mad Men nights in. Now, excuse me while I settle down with episode 5.

Guilty Pleasures

Last night, in bed, I was thinking about this post. Having done a considerable amount of t'internet dating over the past 2 years I have encountered many rogues who aim to impress with their rather highbrow, pretentious favourite books/ films/ music.

Did I really believe Rochester when he claimed his favourite book was 'Crime and Punishment'? If the swarthy rogue was faced with a 12 hour journey on a National Express bus, would that really be his first choice? I am not sure. I would have thought Razzle would have been more his cup of tea.

I dated a theatre director who initially claimed his favourite film was Jules et Jim. Later, over milky coffee, the cove sheepishly admitted his most loved movie was the rather cheesy Michael J Fox classic The Secret of My Success.

The first time I visited Senor Boldon's lair he attempted to seduce me with a shrill Edith Piaf CD. (Senor Boldon is Rochester's brother, a McDonald's executive). I don't for one moment imagine Edith Piaf's greatest hits is actually the Burger Baron's CD of choice. I don't think he comes home, exhausted from Herculean gherkin inventories and arduous Mcflurry audits, slumps on the sofa and unwinds to Non, je ne regrette rien. Little Sparrow? What a din! Copulating Seagull would be a more fitting moniker. I had to ask the Lexus Lothario to switch the CD off, the combination of the froggy caterwauling and his beloved green tea made me quite ill.

I am possibly guilty of the same thing though. In this post I aim to confess to my own guilty pleasures: the books, films, music etc that I love, but that I wouldn't necessarily confess to on a first date, for fear of ridicule.

Winner: Film

Doc Hollywood

I love this film! It is an 80s delight starring Michael J Fox and has the classic Chesney Hawkes I Am the One and Only as its soundtrack.

It is so sweet and nostalgic, it's a homage to small town America. It is the kind of charming film that James Stewart would have starred in 50 years earlier. Basically, arrogant and ambitious M.J.F. is a doctor on his way to LA to take up a lucrative post as a plastic surgeon. He ends up stranded in a small town in the Deep South, and finds himself falling in love with the kooky place and the kooky people who live there. It is a film with a big heart. It is funny and whimsical.

I love anything Deep South. Give me a book or film with a Deep South setting and I am a happy girl. The place seems so romantic to me, all those trees strewn with silvery Spanish Moss, wooden ramshackle houses with creaking porches, iced-tea, Gone with the Wind, eerie gothic literature. I'll go there one day, I hope.

Runner up

Gregory's Girl

One of my favourite films when I was growing up. It reminds me of my own school days. Claire Grogan was so cool in it. I think this film inspired me to buy my first beret, but I don't think I was ever brave enough to wear it. This was grey, grimy, strike-ruined Easington Colliery after all. Believe me, no good would come from wearing a beret in such a place.

Winner: Book

Forever Amber by Kathleen Windsor

A thrilling bodice-ripper. Quite addictive (it has to be, it is almost 1000 pages long). Published in 1944, it was originally considered deeply shocking. I seem to remember a thinly veiled reference to anal sex at one point.

Amber is an ammoral, grasping, vain and selfish woman who sleeps her way to greatness, survives the Great Fire of London AND the Black Death. But, of course, despite her tremendous guile and many triumphs, she never gets what she wants: the man she really loves. Be warned. The ending to this book will break your heart, it is quite simply, unbearable.

Runner Up

Agatha Christie: Miss Marple series

These books are perfect cosy, comfort reading for chilly autumnal days. You'll need a coal fire, a pot of tea, some cheese on toast and a hot water bottle. I love Miss Marple, her spry wit, her love of cardigans, gossip, knitting and afternoon tea. There is something elegantly nostalgic about the 50s settings. There is something terribly comforting about a world where the bleakest, darkest, most evil deeds can be briskly sorted out by an elderly spinster.

Nemesis is my favourite Miss Marple book. Its central characters: 3 batty, witchy old ladies guarding a terrible secret, are almost Shakespearean.

Let us never speak of the recent ITV adaptations of these wonderful books, too awful for words. The Joan Hickson versions however, are just wonderful.

Winner: Music

Barbra Streisand: Woman in Love

'Life is a moment in space, when the dream is gone, it's a lonelier place.' Ahh. Barbra. What can I say. I just love this song. Rochester once told me he had a thing for Barbra in his youth. He saw her in Funny Girl, bouncing on a sofa in a pair of big knickers and that was it. He was smitten. However, it was a short-lived adoration. When Spitting Image began to portray her as an anteater he just couldn't feel the same about her anymore. Men are such fickle creatures.

Runner Up

It's Immaterial: Driving Away from Home

I love this. I have it on my i-pod and it always makes me smile. I remember them performing it on Wogan. I am sure they were stoned. Terry, full of sprightly, twinkly-eyed charm, attempted to interview them. They could barely stand up straight.

Winner, Trashy Food

Curry Chip Butty

Very northern this is and hardly sophisticated, but I still have quite exacting standards and requirements. The chips and sauce should come from a Chinese take-away (I can't abide flabby, soggy, chip-shop chips). But, ideally the butty should also have some crispy batter, which is only available at a traditional English chip shop. You see the dilemma. The butty should be made with floury white stotty cake, plastered with salted butter.

Runner up

Crumpets with Golden Syrup

This is what you eat when you've been dumped and are in need of comfort. It is essential the crumpets are slathered with salted butter. The joy of this dish is the contrast between the salty butter and the sweet, sweet, unctuous syrup. Culinary Prozac.

TV Program: Winner

Dallas

What can I say. This is an absolute joy. I am so in love with JR, his gleeful villainy, his wisecracking, his penchant for safari jackets.

Sue Ellen (all slurry and petulant): Tell me JR, which slut will you be looking at tonight.

JR: Well, I don't rightly know darlin', but she's bound to be a lot more appealing than the slut I'm looking at right now.

I could write a whole thesis on Dallas.

Runner Up

Cagney and Lacey

In the 80s I was seriously addicted to Cagney and Lacey. I love it still. Glamorous Christine: alcoholic, date-raped, independent, grouchy, ambitious. She had a great apartment, lots of interesting (but short-lived) boyfriends and sexy clothes.

Dowdy Mary Beth: shabby apartment, breast cancer, unruly teenage sons, rather sleazy, unemployed husband, Harvey who used to drone on about politics all the time. Mary Beth had some truly atrocious clothes, lots of paisley blouses and nylon A-line skirts.

I also loved the bouffant-haired fanny-rat Isbecki, the precinct lothario. Oh, and the sweet and gentle detective La Guardia, a dapper little fellow in a bow-tie.

What a great show.

The Odd Couple (and my 100th post)

Oh, how I love this film.

My oldest friend, Nell, used to work as a police officer. A job she loathed. The only fringe benefit was being based in Durham City gave her carte blanche to ticket/ arrest/ harass the very annoying, spoilt and snooty university students (and occasionally the stuttering, tweedy fuckwit Durham University lecturers too). Anyway, at one point in her career she was on the receiving end of the arduous attentions of a very persistent female officer called Sheila. Now, the only lavender fantasies Nell has ever indulged in are purely of the L'Occitane bath product variety. I asked Nell what Sheila was like. She shuddered.

'Like Walter Matthau, only not as feminine.'

I love Walter Matthau. And The Odd Couple has a particular place in my heart. I watched The Odd Couple 2 this week (made 30 years after the original). In truth it was dire, although it did have the odd moment of genius.

Walter: I was sorry to hear what happened with your last wife. I heard she went very quickly.

Jack: She did. She left while I was sleeping.

There is something rather wonderful about Walter Matthau's face. I have often thought the character of Oscar is terribly Rochester-esque. He is, lets face it, an unreliable, sardonic, fanny-ratting, egotistical slob. He has the disheveled charm of a randy, homeless mongrel. The kind you find rummaging through your bins at midnight. The kind you really should shoo away, but somehow you find yourself stroking tenderly and hand-feeding fillet steak. Of course, you regret it when he pees on the carpet and you find him shagging your favourite Laura Ashley cushion. In short, he is a charming, panama-hat-wearing rogue. A swarthy rogue.

However, what only occurred to me whilst watching The Odd Couple 2, is how much like Senor Boldon (Rochester's brother) the Jack Lemmon charcater is. Felix is riddled with obsessive compulsive traits, paranoid about what he eats, ordered, conservative, routine-obsessed and rather forlorn when on his own.

So, for a tribute to the wonderful film The Odd Couple, and very possibly a penetrating insight into the motley psychology of Senor Boldon and Rochester click here .

Enjoy.

xxx

p.s. Watch out for the look on Walter's face after the 'You're tops with me.' line. It is pure, hang-dog, comic genius. I tell you what, give me Walter Matthau over feathery stroker Brad Pitt or lisping nanny-shagger Jude Law any day. A real man.

The Birds

I've just had an email from Madam Noir.  She has been going through a bit of a Hitchcock phase, and tells me she watched The Birds last night.

The Birds is my favourite Hitchcock film by a country mile. Of course, the Daphne du Maurier connection helps.  Such a strange and twisted story.

Now, I can't help think the chap in The Birds reminds me of Rochester. It's an eyebrows thing.  Or possibly just the synchronicity of a swarthy rogue whose life is violently decimated by his chaotic and unhealthy relationship with birds.

The Way We Were

I am concerned that I am turning into a recluse. These last few Saturdays I have not even managed to get dressed. Today I tidied the house in a silk nightie whilst listening to Kate Bush on the i-pod. I then watched a video of The Way We Were and wrote reports for the children in my class.

Now, I have always loved pottering around at home, but even I have to admit I am taking things too far. If I don't get a grip I shall spend the entire Easter holidays in bed with a Hotel Chocolat Easter Egg and a pile of Agatha Christie books and never see a soul.

So, the start of British Summertime must signal a new beginning. I need to pull myself together somehow and stop this hibernation. I miss Rochester. That is all. I keep looking for ways of making sense of it all. I hate the random cruelty of life. I do not believe that 'everything happens for a reason.' I feel like garroting people who say that to me. But I also hate the bleakness of the alternative view. I met him, I fell in love, I got hurt. That is all there is to it. There is nothing to understand, no forensic picking over the ashes will help me, yet I can't stop this perpetual soul-searching.

Anyway, The Way We Were. I love the character of Katie, her passion and energy. The way she loves Hubbell so intensely and unconditionally. Yet Hubbell is a very flat, vacuous and dull character. What exactly does she love about him so much? I have never really understood that. Redford appears to be playing the traditionally female role, that of the beautiful, empty-headed love-interest. Hubbell doesn't deserve Katie. The freckled fanny rat is (to quote a great line from Hannah and Her Sisters) 'a haircut masquerading as a man'!!!