Thurnley Abbey

Thurnley Abbey is a well-regarded 1908 ghost story by Perceval Landon. It begins,

Three years ago I was on my way out to the East, and as an extra day in London was of some importance, I took the Friday evening mail-train to Brindisi instead of the usual Thursday morning Marseilles express. Many people shrink from the long forty-eight-hour train journey through Europe, and the subsequent rush across the Mediterranean on the nineteen-knot Isis or Osiris; but there is really very little discomfort on either the train or the mail-boat, and unless there is actually nothing for me to do, I always like to save the extra day and a half in London before I say goodbye to her for one of my longer tramps. This time -it was early, I remember, in the shipping season, probably about the beginning of September- there were few passengers, and I had a compartment in the P. & O. Indian express to myself all the way from Calais. All Sunday I watched the blue waves dimpling the Adriatic, and the pale rosemary along the cuttings; the plain white towns, with their flat roofs and their bold "duomos," and the grey-green gnarled olive orchards of Apulia. The journey was just like any other. We ate in the dining-car as often and as long as we decently could. We slept after luncheon; we dawdled the afternoon away with yellow-backed novels; sometimes we exchanged platitudes in the smoking-room, and it was there that I met Alastair Colvin.

Colvin was a man of middle height, with a resolute, well-cut jaw; his hair was turning grey; his moustache was sun-whitened, otherwise he was clean-shaven -obviously a gentleman, and obviously also a pre-occupied man. He had no great wit. When spoken to, he made the usual remarks in the right way, and I dare say he refrained from banalities only because he spoke less than the rest of us; most of the time he buried himself in the Wagon-lit Company's time-table, but seemed unable to concentrate his attention on any one page of it. He found that I had been over the Siberian railway, and for a quarter of an hour he discussed it with me. Then he lost interest in it, and rose to go to his compartment. But he came back again very soon, and seemed glad to pick up the conversation again.


Of course this did not seem to me to be of any importance. Most travellers by train become a trifle infirm of purpose after thirty-six hours' rattling. But Colvin's restless way I noticed in somewhat marked contrast with the man's personal importance and dignity; especially ill suited was it to his finely made large hand with strong, broad, regular nails and its few lines. As I looked at his hand I noticed a long, deep, and recent scar of ragged shape. However, it is absurd to pretend that I thought anything was unusual. I went off at five o'clock on Sunday afternoon to sleep away the hour or two that had still to be got through before we arrived at Brindisi.

Once there, we few passengers transhipped our hand baggage, verified our berths--there were only a score of us in all--and then, after an aimless ramble of half an hour in Brindisi, we returned to dinner at the Httel International, not wholly surprised that the town had been the death of Virgil. If I remember rightly, there is a gaily painted hall at the International--I do not wish to advertise anything, but there is no other place in Brindisi at which to await the coming of the mails--and after dinner I was looking with awe at a trellis overgrown with blue vines, when Colvin moved across the room to my table. He picked up Il Secolo, but almost immediately gave up the pretence of reading it. He turned squarely to me and said:

"Would you do me a favour?"

One doesn't do favours to stray acquaintances on Continental expresses without knowing something more of them than I knew of Colvin. But I smiled in a noncommittal way, and asked him what he wanted. I wasn't wrong in part of my estimate of him; he said bluntly:

"Will you let me sleep in your cabin on the Osiris?" And he coloured a little as he said it.

Now, there is nothing more tiresome than having to put up with a stable-companion at sea, and I asked him rather pointedly:

"Surely there is room for all of us?" I thought that perhaps he had been partnered off with some mangy Levantine, and wanted to escape from him at all hazards.

Colvin, still somewhat confused, said: "Yes; I am in a cabin by myself. But you would do me the greatest favour if you would allow me to share yours."

This was all very well, but, besides the fact that I always sleep better when alone, there had been some recent thefts on board English liners, and I hesitated, frank and honest and self-conscious as Colvin was. Just then the mail-train came in with a clatter and a rush of escaping steam, and I asked him to see me again about it on the boat when we started. He answered me curtly -I suppose he saw the mistrust in my manner- "I am a member of White's. I smiled to myself as he said it, but I remembered in a moment that the man -if he were really what he claimed to be, and I make no doubt that he was- must have been sorely put to it before he urged the fact as a guarantee of his respectability to a total stranger at a Brindisi hotel.

That evening, as we cleared the red and green harbour-lights of Brindisi, Colvin explained. This is his story in his own words.

You can read it online here, and listen to it here:

Jiraiya the Hero

Jiraiya the Hero is a 1921 Japanese silent short (20 minutes) film directed by Shōzō Makino.

There are interesting special effects.

The Golden Egg

The Golden Egg, which takes place in Autumn, is the 22nd book in the Donna Leon mystery series featuring Commissario Guido Brunetti. I can't recommend this series highly enough. There's the perfect balance of engaging characters, fascinating plots, and Venetian atmosphere. You can't lose with these. This one is sadder than most of them and probably wouldn't be the one I'd suggest stating with. A tragic story.

from the book jacket:

Over the years, the best-selling Commissario Guido Brunetti series has conquered the hearts of mystery lovers all over the world. Brunetti is both a perceptive investigator and a principled family man, and through him, Leon has explored Venice in all its aspects: its history, beauty, food, and social life, but also the crime and corruption that lurks behind the beautiful surface.

In The Golden Egg, as the first leaves of autumn begin to fall, Vice Questore Patta asks Brunetti to look into a minor shop-keeping violation committed by the mayor's future daughter-in-law. Brunetti has no interest in helping his boss amass political favors, but he has little choice but to comply. Then Brunetti's wife, Paola, comes to him with a request of her own. The mentally handicapped man who worked at their dry cleaner has just died of a sleeping pill overdose, and Paola loathes the idea that he lived and died without anyone noticing him, or helping him.

To please his passionate wife, Brunetti begins to investigate the death. He is surprised when he finds nothing on the man: no birth certificate, no passport, no driver's license, no credit cards. As far as the Italian government is concerned, he never existed. And yet, there is the body, and Brunetti knows both the place and cause of death. Stranger still, the dead man's mother refuses to speak to the police, and assures Brunetti that her son's identification papers were stolen in a burglary. As secrets unravel, Brunetti suspects that the Lembos, an aristocratic family, might somehow be connected to the death. But why would anyone want this sweet, simple-minded man dead?

The New York Times calls it an "unusually reflective detective story" with a "melancholy mood". Kirkus Reviews has a positive review. Publishers Weekly concludes, "Brunetti amply displays the keen intelligence and wry humor that has endeared this series to so many."

I've read the following from this series:

#1 Death at La Fenice (1992)
#2 Death in a Strange Country (1993)
#3 Dressed for Death (1994)
#4 Death and Judgment (1995)
#13 Doctored Evidence (2004)
#18 About Face (2009)
#19 A Question of Belief
#20 Drawing Conclusions

Marty

Marty is a 1955 award-winning film starring Ernest Borgnine as a good-natured man (he says, "I'm a fat, ugly man.") who has given up finding a wife. Tastes differ so widely that I always hesitate to call any film a must-see, but I highly recommend this one. You can rent it for about $3 here at Youtube. We bought a DVD and will be keeping it for re-watching. Ernest Borgnine is a treasure.

trailer:

Film Site describes it as "the poignant, simple character study of a lonely, unmarried, lovelorn middle-aged, 34 year old son who works as a Bronx butcher and still lives with his love-smothering mother." Variety has a glowing review. Empire Online says, "Released in an era of widescreen epics and extravagant musicals, Delbert Mann's ode to working-class life found much favour... becoming the first film to bag both the Best Picture Oscar and Cannes' Palme D'Or."

AV/Film Club says,

That this perennial bachelor earns the audience’s empathy, not its pity, is thanks largely to the man playing him: Ernest Borgnine, the late character actor and unlikely romantic lead, who cut his teeth portraying villains and scoundrels. ... it’s hard to imagine anyone besting the delicate balance of weariness and optimism Borgnine achieves here. He too won an Oscar, overcoming stiff competition from Spencer Tracy, James Cagney, Frank Sinatra, and James Dean...

Rotten Tomatoes has a critics rating of 100%.

Downhearted Blues

Downhearted Blues (1923):

sung by Tennessee-born Bessie Smith, who died on this date in 1937 at 43 years of age. She was injured in a car crash on U.S. Route 61 between Memphis, Tennessee, and Clarksdale, Mississippi. The description at Wikipedia of the chain of events leading to Smith's death is horrifying. Her grave was unmarked until 1970.

Here's Empty Bed Blues from 1928:

Turkish Cafe

Turkish Cafe (1914):

Turkish Cafe 2:

by August Macke, who died on September 26, 1914, at the age of 27 at the front during World War 1. You can see more of his work here, here, and here.

Looking at these paintings I find myself wanting to pull that chair up and sit with her. Or maybe I could invite her to join me instead. Here was my view yesterday morning as I was getting this post ready to schedule:

Please join me in visiting with the bloggers who participate in Bleubeard and Elizabeth's weekly T Stands for Tuesday gathering.

Nagin

Nagin is a 1954 Hindu film about lovers from enemy tribes who seek a way to be together despite the sworn enmity between their peoples. Award-winner Hemant Kumar's musical score is much praised and reason enough to watch the film.

The Hindu says, "There are only a few movies that can be counted for their musical score, and “Nagin” remains one of them."

On the Patio

Yesterday was the Autumnal Equinox, so it seemed a good time to highlight some of the seasonal changes on the patio. We got another rain earlier in the month, perhaps a sign that Autumn is coming:

We haven't seen as many butterflies this year as we usually do, but there've been some swallowtails and some pretty yellow ones, a number of little white butterflies, and I got this picture of an orange butterly (a Gulf Fritillary?):

and some photos of an entirely different kind of orange butterfly, (perhaps a Monarch?):

The swallowtails still come to the flowers, but are looking quite ragged this late in the year.

We've had a hard time attracting cardinals, but we finally found a feeder that does the trick:

The problem is that the feeder the cardinals like is readily accessible to the squirrels and chipmunks *sigh* They should just call them chipmunk feeders and be done with it:

This female cardinal ventured down for water:

The hummingbirds pulled a stunt I'd never seen, with one hanging upside down from a Dracena leaf while the other poked and prodded until they both flew away.

I find hummingbirds hard to photograph, but I got a couple of videos. In this one you can see and hear the hummingbird up in the dogwood tree:

and in the one below you see the hummingbird at the feeder:

We still have some coneflowers blooming:

and some caterpillars on the rue:

The opossum has been a new visitor we get a kick out of watching. She (he?) has only come twice, several days apart around 11:00 PM, and hunts bugs with enthusiasm:

She patrols the perimeter, looks in the door at us, and gets a drink. We're in favor of anything that keeps bugs at bay and doesn't want to come inside.

Yesterday was a gray, drizzly day with a high in the low 70s -perfect weather for the equinox observance!

An Aimless Bullet

An Aimless Bullet is a 1960 South Korean tragedy about life in South Korea after the end of the Korean War. Originally banned by that government, it was eventually released to praise.

Reviews online are scarce.

The Langoliers

Today is the birthday of Stephen King, a day I've never paid any attention at all to in the past, but the host at the Incipient Wings blog is having a party -I'll put a link here to that post when it goes live. In that birthday party spirit I thought I'd watch something by King that was new to me, and The Younger Son suggested The Langoliers. It's a 2-part mini-series based on a 1990 novella. This tv adaptation stars Patricia Wettig, Dean Stockwell, and David Morse. People yell and scream a lot. It's slow, but the journey makes for an interesting ride. Wikipedia begins its plot description with this:

During a red eye flight of a Lockheed L-1011 from Los Angeles International Airport to Boston Logan International Airport, the plane flies through a strange light, and most of the passengers and flight crew disappear, leaving behind only personal artifacts. Only those passengers who were asleep remain, and discover the predicament when they wake. Pilot Brian Engle, deadheading on the flight, takes the controls; unable to contact any other airport, he decides to land the plane at Bangor International Airport because of its long runway.

I'm not a fan of movies or books or TV episodes about time travel, time wars, time streams, time distortions, time whatever, but at least this concept is different.

trailer:

Empire Online gives it 3 out of 5 stars and calls it "Honourable, but longwinded." Entertainment Weekly says it's "slow going in spots, but it’s also a lot more fun than most TV movies." Rotten Tomatoes has a critics rating of 50%, so it looks like half like it and half don't. Take a chance.

Other works by King I've seen or read and blogged are below.

Books:

The Shining (1977)
The Gunslinger (1982)
Pet Sematary (1983)
The Drawing of the Three (1987)
The Waste Lands (1991)
The Stand (1994)
Wizard and Glass (1997)
Bag of Bones (1998)
Wolves of Calla (2003)
Susannah (2004)
Duma Key (2008)
Just After Sunset (2008)

Movies:

The Dead Zone (1983)
Children of the Corn (1984)
The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
The Green Mile (1999)

The Hobbit

The Hobbit is a 1937 fantasy novel by J.R.R. Tolkien. It has never been out of print, and there have been many adaptations. I've read it to myself and to my children numerous times and recently re-read it. It never gets old. If you haven't read it you will improve your life by remedying that lack. It's a delightful story.

from the book jacket:

When The Hobbit was first published in this country, the American Library Association's reviewer said in the ALA Bulletin:

"At this time of writing, still under the spell of the story, I cannot bend my mind to ask myself whether our American children will like it. My impulse is to say if they don't, so much the worse for them..."

By now, The Hobbit has become a classic, and the Horn Book's prophetic review gives some hints as to why: "The background of the story is full of authentic bits of mythology and magic and the book has the rare quality of style. It is written with a quiet humor and the logical detail in which children take delight ... this is a book with no age limits. All those, young or old, who love a finely imagined story, beautifully told, will take The Hobbit to their hearts."

This book seems universally beloved, so quotes from reviews seem unnecessary.

The Lady Eve

The Lady Eve is a 1941 Preston Sturges screwball comedy starring Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda. Priceless!

You can watch it online here:

The Telegraph calls it Sturges' best film. Filmsite calls it "a sophisticated romantic/sex comedy (with light romance and mock seduction scenes) -a classic screwball film, a quintessential Preston Sturges work of art and the director's first real commercial hit." It's on Roger Ebert's list of Great Movies. Rotten Tomatoes has a critics score of 100%.

Still Life With Casserole

Still Life With Casserole (1955):

by Fairfield Porter, an American painter who died on September 18, 1975 at age 68. You can read more about him here and see more of his art here and here.

I don't have a casserole dish like that and always used those clear 9x13 or 8x8 Pyrex dishes. My easiest casserole recipes from 40+ years ago when I was first learning to cook:

Tuna Casserole:

Chunk Light Tuna, packed in water -2 cans
Condensed Cream of Mushroom soup -1 can
Egg Noodles -2 cups
Bread crumbs -to taste for topping

Preheat oven to 400 F.
Cook noodles.
Place cooked noodles in the bottom of greased baking dish.
Spread tuna over noodles.
Spread soup over tuna.
Bake for 20 minutes.
Top with bread crumbs.
Cook 10 more minutes.

Green Bean Casserole:

French-style Green Beans -2 cans (16 oz each)
Sliced Water Chestnuts -1 can
Condensed Cream of Mushroom soup -1 can
French Fried Onions -to taste
Shredded Cheddar Cheese -as desired for topping

Layer in greased baking dish.
Bake in pre-heated oven at 350 F 20 minutes.
Top with cheese and bake another 10 minutes.

And Chicken Casserole:

Long-grain White Rice -1 cup, uncooked
Chicken Breasts -4-6, depending on size
Seasoning to taste -for chicken
Condensed Cream of Celery soup -1 can
Condensed Cream of Mushroom soup -1 can
Water -2 cups

Preheat oven to 350 F.
Place rice in bottom of baking dish.
Arrange seasoned chicken on rice.
Mix other ingredients and pour over chicken.
Cook 1 1/2 hours.

I don't generally cook casseroles at all any more, and these recipes don't look like they've aged well.

There's nothing in the carafe or the pitcher in this painting, but I have faith that water and wine will be on offer any minute now. Please join me at the table, and we'll enjoy those lovely flowers and visit with one another in the meantime. Please join me at the weekly T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.

The Diary of a Madman

The Diary of a Madman is an 1886 short story by Guy de Maupassant. Wikipedia says this:

In his later years he developed a constant desire for solitude, an obsession for self-preservation, and a fear of death and paranoia of persecution caused by the syphilis he had contracted in his youth. It has been suggested that his brother, Hervé, also suffered from syphilis and the disease may have been congenital. On 2 January 1892, Maupassant tried to commit suicide by cutting his throat, and was committed to the private asylum of Esprit Blanche at Passy, in Paris, where he died 6 July 1893.

Guy De Maupassant penned his own epitaph: "I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing." He is buried in Section 26 of the Montparnasse Cemetery, Paris.

He was 42 years old at the time of his death.

This story begins,

He was dead -the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate whose irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France. Advocates, young counsellors, judges had greeted him at sight of his large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes, bowing low in token of respect.

He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak. Swindlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to read the most secret thoughts of their minds.

He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red trousers had escorted him to the tomb and men in white cravats had spoken words and shed tears that seemed to be sincere beside his grave.

But here is the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk where he had kept the records of great criminals! It was entitled:

WHY?

You can read it online here.

Dance, Girl, Dance

Dance, Girl, Dance is a 1940 musical film starring Maureen O'Hara, Lucille Ball, Ralph Bellamy, and Maria Ouspenskaya. Ouspenskaya is a treasure, and any movie she's in is worth watching. You can watch it online via this link.

I can't find a trailer, but here's Lucille Ball doing her version of a hula dance:

Senses of Cinema says, "Dance, Girl, Dance is a milestone in the dance film and musical" and says it "could be classed as high camp, but it has much more to offer than this implies".

The New Yorker says,

The movie lives up to its title—its subject really is dancing. Arzner films it with fascination and enthusiasm, and the choreography is marked by the point of view of the spectators and the dancers’ awareness that they’re being watched.

This film is included in the book 1,001 Movies You Must See Before You Die. Rotten Tomatoes has a critics score of 80%. FilmReference.com has an article.

Morning 42

A little something just to see if the walkers are paying attention?

It's a Gift

It's a Gift is a 1934 W.C. Fields comedy. It's a funny movie, and short and easy to watch if you'd just like a taste of this kind of film. Wikipedia says,

the film is perhaps the best example of the recurring theme of the Everyman battling against his domestic entrapment. Historians and critics have often cited its numerous memorable comic moments.

This film is included in the book 1,001 Movies You Must See Before You Die. Filmsite says it "is often cited as W. C. Fields' best and funniest picture - it is undoubtedly one of the greatest, classic comedies ever made". Rotten Tomatoes has a critics score of 100%.

Makers

Image from BoingBoing

Makers is a 2009 science fiction novel by Cory Doctorow. There's a strong Disney connection, and I found it interesting, even if I never connected with the characters. You can read it online here. It begins,

Suzanne Church almost never had to bother with the blue blazer these days. Back at the height of the dot-boom, she'd put on her business journalist drag -- blazer, blue sailcloth shirt, khaki trousers, loafers -- just about every day, putting in her obligatory appearances at splashy press-conferences for high-flying IPOs and mergers. These days, it was mostly work at home or one day a week at the San Jose Mercury News's office, in comfortable light sweaters with loose necks and loose cotton pants that she could wear straight to yoga after shutting her computer's lid.

Blue blazer today, and she wasn't the only one. There was Reedy from the NYT's Silicon Valley office, and Tribbey from the WSJ, and that despicable rat-toothed jumped-up gossip columnist from one of the UK tech-rags, and many others besides. Old home week, blue blazers fresh from the dry-cleaning bags that had guarded them since the last time the NASDAQ broke 5,000.

The man of the hour was Landon Kettlewell -- the kind of outlandish prep-school name that always seemed a little made up to her -- the new CEO and front for the majority owners of Kodak/Duracell. The despicable Brit had already started calling them Kodacell. Buying the company was pure Kettlewell: shrewd, weird, and ethical in a twisted way.

"Why the hell have you done this, Landon?" Kettlewell asked himself into his tie-mic. Ties and suits for the new Kodacell execs in the room, like surfers playing dress-up. "Why buy two dinosaurs and stick 'em together? Will they mate and give birth to a new generation of less-endangered dinosaurs?"

He shook his head and walked to a different part of the stage, thumbing a PowerPoint remote that advanced his slide on the jumbotron to a picture of a couple of unhappy cartoon brontos staring desolately at an empty nest. "Probably not. But there is a good case for what we've just done, and with your indulgence, I'm going to lay it out for you now."

"Let's hope he sticks to the cartoons," Rat-Toothed hissed beside her. His breath smelled like he'd been gargling turds. He had a not-so-secret crush on her and liked to demonstrate his alpha-maleness by making half-witticisms into her ear. "They're about his speed."

She twisted in her seat and pointedly hunched over her computer's screen, to which she'd taped a thin sheet of polarized plastic that made it opaque to anyone shoulder-surfing her. Being a halfway attractive woman in Silicon Valley was more of a pain in the ass than she'd expected, back when she'd been covering rustbelt shenanigans in Detroit, back when there was an auto industry in Detroit.

The worst part was that the Brit's reportage was just spleen-filled editorializing on the lack of ethics in the valley's board-rooms (a favorite subject of hers, which no doubt accounted for his fellow-feeling), and it was also the crux of Kettlewell's schtick. The spectacle of an exec who talked ethics enraged Rat-Toothed more than the vilest baby-killers. He was the kind of revolutionary who liked his firing squads arranged in a circle.

*******

SF Site concludes,

This is not, let me stress, a bad book. But it is not as good a book as it might have been, because neither the message nor the story are quite strong enough to make up for the other's weakness, and because all too often Doctorow seems to buy into the American myth he appears to be intending to subvert.

Strange Horizons says, "Makers is a novel. Which is a pity. It's the least interesting aspect of the book. What Doctorow has to say is important and interesting, but the fiction gets in the way." io9 says, "It's a dense, and always interesting reading experience". Kirkus Reviews was disappointed and calls it "strangely lifeless".

Shadow of Chikara

Shadow of Chikara is a 1977 horror western starring Joe Don Baker, Sondra Locke, Ted Neeley (better known as Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar), and Slim Pickens as Virgil Cane. A small group of men, left without anything after the end of the civil war, go in search of the diamonds left in Arkansas hidden by a dead comrade. The party is followed by the mountain's defender. The 1970s hairstyles and attitudes don't let you ever enter the time period supposedly shown, but many older westerns aren't exactly true to the period. The music is too schmaltzy for words. The plot itself is good and moves steadily forward. The characters and acting are fine. If you'd like to be able to see a horror movie but can't abide blood and gore, and if you'd like horror without "jump" scenes, try this one. There's a nice twist at the end.

via Youtube:

Moria gives it 3 out of 5 stars, praises Joe Don Baker, and calls it "an intriguing effort". The Encyclopedia of Arkansas has an article here.

Madame Aline Gibert

Madame Aline Gibert (1887):

by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, who died September 9, 1901, at the age of 36 from complications due to alcoholism and syphilis.

His was a sad life, and I'm in no mood to dwell on it. The woman in the painting, on the other hand, looks quite content in that comfortable chair with her paper and cup of coffee. There are instructions at this link to brew the perfect single cup pour-over, which I'm sure is what she's drinking. Here's mine:

On the other hand, if we choose to go out I'll take the fresh Colombian:

Definitely the fresh Colombian. I'm sharing this post at the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering. Join us? All it takes is a post with a drink in it.