The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave

The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Graveis a 1971 Italian gothic-style giallo horror film. It's about a man who has recently been released from a psychiatric hospital where he was placed after he murdered his wife. Scantily clad/unclad women are prominently featured. You'll be safe skipping this one entirely, trust me on that. I didn't finish it. There's a trailer at this Youtube link.

1000 Misspent Hours says, "If only it made any sense, it could have been one of my favorite Italian horror flicks of the early 70’s." HorrorPedia has screenshots and screenshots. Rotten Tomatoes has no critics rating at all and an audience score of 38%.

The Colors of the Cattle

The Colors of the Cattle is the 19th book in Alexander McCall Smith's #1 Ladies Detective Agency series. I'm reading these in order as they come out in paperback. The characters are a delight to get to know.

from the back of the book:

When Mma Potokwane suggests to Mma Ramotswe that she run for a seat on the Gaborone City Council, Mma Ramotswe is unsure, until she learns that developers plan to build the flashy Big Fun Hotel next to a graveyard. Her opponent is none other than Mma Makutsi's old nemesis, Violet Sephotho.

Meanwhile, to impress a new girlfriend, Charlie volunteers to take on the role of lead investigator in a case for an old friend of Mma Ramotswe's late father. With Charlie's inquiries landing him in hot water and election day fast approaching, Mma Ramotswe will have to call upon her good humor and generosity of spirit to help the community navigate these thorny issues nd prove that honesty and compassion will always carry the day.

Kirkus Reviews closes with this: "Readers familiar with this venerable series ... will know that the race will be run in McCall Smith’s own patented tempo. But it bears all the quiet weight they’d expect before reaching a particularly appropriate ending." Publishers Weekly closes by saying, "Smith continues to bring joy to his readers through his insights into the human heart."

I've also read these:

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
The Good Husband from Zebra Drive
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built
The Miracle at Speedy Motors
The Double Comfort Safari Club
The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party
The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection
The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon
The Handsome Man's De Luxe Cafe
The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine
Precious and Grace
The House of the Unexpected Sister

The Lady Confesses

The Lady Confesses is a 1945 film noir starring Hugh Beaumont. What's a gal to do when her husband-to-be's dead wife turns up very much alive?

On a lighter note, I offer Tea Time (1911):

by Helen Galloway McNicoll, who died on June 27, 1915, at the age of 35. Please join me for a cuppa at the weekly T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.

The Story of a Summer

The Story of a Summer, or Journal Leaves from Chappaqua (1874), by Cecelia Cleveland, is described as "a simple record of a pleasant summer's residence at Chappaqua". I'm reading it to fulfill the non-fiction requirement for June. This is delightful! You can read it online here. It begins,

CHAPPAQUA, WESTCHESTER Co.,
New York, May 28, 1873

Again at dear Chappaqua, after an absence of seven months. I have not the heart to journalize tonight, everything seems so sad and strange. What a year this has been—what bright anticipations, what overwhelming sorrow!


May 30.

I have just returned from a long ramble over the dear old place; first up to the new house so picturesquely placed upon a hill, and down through the woods to the cool pine grove and the flower-garden. Here I found a wilderness of purple and white lilacs, longing, I thought, for a friendly hand to gather them before they faded; dear little bright-eyed pansies, and scarlet and crimson flowering shrubs, a souvenir of travel in England, with sweet-scented violets striped blue and white, transplanted from Pickie's little garden at Turtle Bay long years ago.

Returning, I again climbed the hill, and unlocked the doors of the new house; that house built expressly for Aunt Mary's comfort, but which has never yet been occupied. Every convenience of the architect's art is to be found in this house, from the immense, airy bedroom, with its seven windows, intended for Aunt Mary, to a porte cochère to protect her against the inclemency of the weather upon returning from a drive. But this house, in the building of which she took so keen an interest, she was not destined to inhabit, although with that buoyancy of mind and tenacity to life that characterized her during her long years of weary illness, she contemplated being carried into it during the early days of last October, and even ordered fires to be lighted to carry off the dampness before she tried her new room. By much persuasion, however, she was induced to postpone her removal from day to day; and finally, as she grew weaker and weaker, she decided to abandon that plan, and journey to New York while she could. In two weeks more she had left us forever.


June 1.

Our first Sunday at Chappaqua. We have a little church for a next-door neighbor, in which services of different sects are held on alternate Sundays, the pulpit being hospitably open to all denominations excepting Papists. Three members of our little household, however—mamma, Marguerite, and I—belong to the grand old Church of Rome; so the carriage was ordered, and with our brother in religion, Bernard, the coachman, for a pioneer, we started to find a church or chapel of the Latin faith. At Mount Kisco, a little town four miles distant, Bernard thought we might hear Mass, "but then it's not the sort of church you ladies are used to," he added, apologetically; "it's a small chapel, and only rough working people go there."

I was quite amused at the idea that the presence of poor people was any objection, for is it not a source of pride to Catholics that their church is open alike to the humblest and richest; so with a suggestive word from Bernard, Gabrielle's spirited ponies flew

"Over the hills, and far away."


A perpetual ascent and descent it seemed—a dusty road, for we are sadly in want of rain, and few shade-trees border the road; but once in Mount Kisco, the novelty of the little chapel quite compensated for the disagreeable features of our journey there. A tiny chapel indeed—a plain frame building, with no pretence to architectural beauty. It was intended originally, I thought, for a Protestant meeting-house, as the cruciform shape, so conspicuous in all Catholic-built churches was wanting here. The whitewashed walls were hung with small, rude pictures, representing the Via Crucis or Stations of the Cross, and the altar-piece—not, I fancy, a remarkable work of art in its prime—had become so darkened by smoke, that I only conjectured its subject to be St. Francis in prayer.

Although it was Whit-Sunday the altar was quite innocent of ornament, having only six candles, and a floral display of two bouquets. The seats and kneeling-benches were uncushioned, and the congregation was composed, as Bernard said, entirely of the working class; but the people were very clean and respectable in their appearance, and fervent in their devotions as only the Irish peasantry can be.

The pastor, an intelligent young Irishman, apparently under thirty, had already said Mass at Pleasantville, six miles distant, and upon arriving at Mount Kisco he found that about twenty of his small congregation wished to receive Communion, as it was a festival; consequently, he spent the next hour not literally in the confessional, for there was none, but in the tiny closet dignified by the name of a vestry. From thence, the door being open, we could with ease, had we had nothing better to do, have heard all of the priest's advice to his penitents.

This ceremony over, the young Father came out in his black cassock, and taking up his vestments which lay upon the altar-steps, he proceeded with the utmost nonchalance to put them on, not hesitating to display a long rent in his surplice, and a decidedly ragged sleeve.

The Mass was a Low one, and the congregation were too poor to have an organ or organist. Quite a contrast to a Sunday at St. Stephen's or St. Francis Xavier's, but the Mass is always the same, however humble the surroundings.

*******

There's a letter:

"GERMANTOWN, TENNESSEE, July 6, 1847.

"MR. GREELEY:

"DEAR SIR:—Sitting to-night 'all solitary and alone,' my mind has wandered back upon scenes that have past eleven years ago, though vivid now even as yesterday. It was about that time that I saw you first, and indeed saw you last.

"Little did I then dream that I beheld in that modest personage one who is now acknowledged as the 'distinguished and accomplished Horace Greeley.'

"You well remember your first visit to the South, I dare say. You cannot have forgotten many incidents that occurred at a little village of North Carolina, called Warrenton? No, there is one circumstance I feel assured you never can forget while memory lasts, and there are others to which I claim the right to call your attention: for instance, do you remember your first meeting with a certain Miss Cheney at the house of Squire Bragg, the father of Capt. Bragg, who lately distinguished himself at Monterey and Buena Vista? Do you now remember to whom you related the secret of your visit, who procured the parson, and what persons accompanied you to church, and then with your beautiful bride returned to breakfast? We saw you take the solemn vows, we witnessed the plighted betrothal, and when you bore away from us this prize, you also carried our best wishes that you might be ever blessed, and she be made always happy. May it not have been otherwise."

.… "I would, my dear sir, be pleased to hear from you, and to learn something of the results and changes which time has brought about in your own family.

"Be pleased to remember me to your sweet wife, and if there be any, or many little G———s, my kind regards to them also.

"Very respectfully,
"A. L. YANCEY."

which struck me because it is from Germantown, TN, which was founded in 1825 and incorporated in 1841. Germantown is a suburb of Memphis,

Waiting for Godot (1961)

Waiting for Godot is the 1961 TV adaptation of Samuel Beckett's play. This stars Zero Mostel and Burgess Meredith. I liked the play when I first read it in high school and enjoyed watching this.

Everybody Must Stay Home

Everybody Must Stay Home a parody of Bob Dylan's Everybody Must Get Stoned:

There's a Memphis mention in the lyrics:

You can get it if you've got the Memphis blues.
You can get it if you've got nothin' to lose.
You can get it if your name is Abraham.
You can get it if you are the weather man.
Honey, I know that you're feelin' all alone,
But everybody must stay home.

The Longest Hunt

The Longest Hunt, also known as Shoot, Gringo, Shoot, is a 1968 spaghetti western starring Brian Kelly and Keenan Wynn.

Spaghetti-Western.net says,

This is the Spaghetti Western. The definitive example of the genre. It has a handsome yet mean anti-hero, a quick gunned pretty boy, comedy, saloon fights, Mexicans, twists, suspense, pretty women, and lots of shooting. Many would and will argue against this, probably opting for a Leone film to represent the genre. But Leone's films, no matter how good they are, are not really mainstream Spaghettis. They are longer, quieter, and more beautiful films and this is all mostly due to Leone's personal style. There are many different films and styles in the genre, but even if most are different than each other, they all have certain aspects seen in Eurowesterns with American elements thrown in. This film is purely Spaghetti.

Rule 42 of the Code

Clearly stated in the preface of The Hunting of the Snark:

The helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes; he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, “No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm,” had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words “and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one.” So remonstrance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards.

You can read the entire poem by Lewis Carroll online here.

The Last Scout (2017)

The Last Scout is a 2017 science fiction thriller film about the post-nuclear holocaust scout ships sent to find a new home for humankind. You can watch it online at tubiTV or on Youtube.

trailer:

SciFiHistory.net has a positive review. HorrorNews.net has a negative review.

La Soupe

La Soupe:

by Albert Gleizes, who died on June 23, 1953. Please share a drink reference of some sort and join us for the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.

*******

About the new Blogger interface:

I schedule posts. And by that I mean I have posts scheduled for months in advance, even years in advance for things like "42" posts where I only want one a month to appear. In the current Blogger I can easily go to the page of posts I want by toggling that function on the top right of the dashboard. That takes me to the page where my next scheduled post is. In new Blogger it looks like my only option is scrolling forever down the page until I finally reach the post scheduled for the next day. This will Not Do. I've sent feedback but don't have much hope that'll make a difference. I've forgotten what WordPress was like, but I'll be revisiting that option if old blogger doesn't remain available.

Does anyone else have this problem?

Sweeney Todd (2006)

Sweeney Todd is a 2006 drama starring Ray Winstone, Essie Davis, David Warner, and Tom Hardy. It is based on the Penny Dreadful villain in the 1800s. This is not the Tim Burton/Johnny Depp version. This version is not lighthearted or a musical but is quite sad and a tragic story. I watched it on Amazon Prime.

trailer:

International Yoga Day

Happy International Yoga Day!

I've loved yoga since I was in high school and continue doing it both because I love it and because it's good for my health. I have a series of poses I do every day shown on my blog here. I also like the videos online that have an entire yoga session in one video, and sometimes I use one of those instead. I've gotten to where I prefer video yoga sessions that are at least 30 minutes long.

This one is for beginners or senior adults and is 30 minutes long:

There are chair yoga options readily available if that's where you'd like to start. Here's one from the popular Yoga with Adriene Youtube channel:

Here's one from Yoga with Kassandra:

Many others are available using a chair yoga Google search.

I'd love to know if you do yoga.

Tarzan and the Amazons

Tarzan and the Amazons is a 1945 Johnny Weissmuller film. In this one Jane is re-cast and returns from England where she's been aiding the war effort. We have this as part of a set. I don't see it available free online. It can be rented, but why? So many movies, so little time...

trailer:

A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain

A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain is a Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of short stories by Robert Olen Butler. Wikipedia says,

Each story in the collection is narrated by a different Vietnamese immigrant living in the US state of Louisiana. The stories are largely character-driven, with cultural differences between Vietnam and the United States as an important theme.

You can read one of the stories online here. Crickets begins,

They call me Ted where I work and they've called me that for over a đecade now and it still bothers me, though I'm not very happy about my real name being the same as the former President of the former Republic of Vietnam. Thiệu is not an uncommon name in my homeland and my mother had nothing more in mind than a long-dead uncle when she gave it to me. But in lake Charles, Louisiana, I am Ted. I guess the other Mr. Thiệu has enough of my former country's former gold bullion tucked away so that in London, where he probably wears a bowler and carries a rolled umbrella, nobody's calling him anything but Mr. Thiệu.

I hear myself sometimes and I sound pretty bitter, I guess. But I don't let that out at the refinery, where I'm the best chemical engineer they've got and they even admit it once in a while.

Subarnarekha

Subarnarekha is a 1962 Bengali film that deals with the aftermath of the 1947 partition of India. It appears on several lists of greatest films.

Traces of Crime

Traces of Crime is an 1865 mystery story by Mary Fortune. You can read it online here. It begins,

THERE are many who recollect full well the rush at Chinaman's Flat. It was in the height of its prosperity that an assault was committed upon a female of a character so diabolical in itself, as to have aroused the utmost anxiety in the public as well as in the police, to punish the perpetrator thereof.

The case was placed in my hands, and as it presented difficulties so great as to appear to an ordinary observer almost insurmountable, the overcoming of which was likely to gain approbation in the proper quarter, I gladly accepted the task.

I had little to go upon at first. One dark night, in a tent in the very centre of a crowded thoroughfare, a female had been preparing to retire to rest, her husband being in the habit of remaining at the public-house until a late hour, when a man with a crêpe mask—who must have gained an earlier entrance—seized her, and in the prosecution of a criminal offence, had injured and abused the unfortunate woman so much that her life was despaired of. Although there was a light burning at the time, the woman was barely able to describe his general appearance; he appeared to her like a German, had no whiskers, fair hair, was low in stature, and stoutly built.

With one important exception, that was all the information she was able to give me on the subject. The exception, however, was a good deal to a detective, and I hoped might prove an invaluable aid to me. During the struggle she had torn the arm of the flannel shirt he wore, and was under a decided impression that upon the upper part of the criminal's arm there was a small anchor and heart tattooed.

Now, I was well aware that in this colony to find a man with a tattooed arm was an everyday affair, especially on the diggings, where, I dare say, there is scarcely a person with who has not come in contact more than once or twice with half a dozen men tattooed in the style I speak of—the anchor or heart, or both, being a favourite figure with those "gentlemen" who are in favour of branding. However, the clue was worth something, and even without its aid, not more than a couple of weeks had elapsed when, with the assistance of the local police, I had traced a man bearing in appearance a general resemblance to the man who had committed the offence, to a digging about seven miles from Chinaman's Flat.

It is unnecessary that I should relate every particular as to how my suspicions were directed to this man, who did not live on Chinaman's Flat, and to all appearances, had not left the diggings where he was camped since he first commenced working there. I say "to all appearances," for it was with a certain knowledge that he had been absent from his tent on the night of the outrage that I one evening trudged down the flat where his tent was pitched, with my swag on my back, and sat down on a log not far from where he had kindled a fire for culinary or other purposes.

These diggings I will call McAdam's. It was a large and flourishing goldfield, and on the flat where my man was camped there were several other tents grouped, so that it was nothing singular that I should look about for a couple of bushes, between which I might swing my little bit of canvas for the night.

After I had fastened up the rope, and thrown my tent over it in regular digger fashion, I broke down some bushes to form my bed, and having spread thereon my blankets, went up to my man— whom I shall in future call "Bill"—to request permission to boil my billy on his fire.

It was willingly granted, and so I lighted my pipe and sat down to await the boiling of the water, determined if I could so manage it to get this suspected man to accept me as a mate before I lay down that night.

Bill was also engaged in smoking, and had not, of course, the slightest suspicion that in the rough, ordinary looking digger before him he was contemplating the "make-up" of a Victorian detective, who had already made himself slightly talked of among his comrades by one or two clever captures.

"Where did you come from mate?" inquired Bill, as he puffed away leisurely at a cutty.

"From Burnt Creek," I replied, "and a long enough road it is in such d–—hot weather as this."

"Nothing doing at Burnt Creek?"

"Not a thing—the place is cooked."

"Are you in for a try here, then?" he asked, rather eagerly I thought.

"Well, I think so; is there any chance do you think?"

"Have you got a miner's right?" was his sudden question.

"I have," said I taking it out of my pocket, and handing the bit of parchment for his inspection.

"Are you a hatter?" inquired Bill, as he returned the document.

"I am," was my reply.

"Well, if you have no objections then, I don't mind going mates with you—I've got a pretty fair prospect, and the ground's going to run rather deep for one man, I think."

"All right."

So here was the very thing I wanted, settled without the slightest trouble.

Story of Your Life

Story of Your Life is a 1998 award-winning novella by Ted Chiang. You can read it online here. It begins,

Your father is about to ask me the question. This is the most important moment in our lives, and I want to pay attention, note every detail. Your dad and I have just come back from an evening out, dinner and a show; it’s after midnight. We came out onto the patio to look at the full moon; then I told your dad I wanted to dance, so he humors me and now we’re slow-dancing, a pair of thirtysomethings swaying back and forth in the moon-light like kids. I don’t feel the night chill at all. And then your dad says, “Do you want to make a baby?” Right now your dad and I have been married for about two years, living on Ellis Avenue; when we move out you’ll still be too young to remember the house, but we’ll show you pictures of it, tell you stories about it. I’d love to tell you the story of this evening, the night you’re conceived, but the right time to do that would be when you’re ready to have children of your own, and we’ll never get that chance.

The story was adapted for the film Arrival, which is one of my favorite science fiction movies.

*******

Join me for a cup of espresso?

I'll be linking this post at the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.

The Parasite

The Parasite is a 1953 short story by Arthur C. Clarke, a brilliant and influential man. You can read the story online here. You can have it read to you at the bottom of the post. It begins,

"There is nothing you can do," said Connolly, nothing at all. Why did you have to follow me?" He was standing with his back to Pearson, staring out across the calm, blue waters that led to Italy. On the left, behind the anchored fishing fleet, the sun was setting in Mediterranean splendor, incarnadining land and sky. But neither man was even remotely aware of the beauty all around us.

Pearson rose to his feet and came forward out of the cafe's shadowed porch, into the slanting sunlight. He joined Connolly by the cliff wall but was careful not to come too close to him. Even in normal times Connolly disliked being touched... "

5 Centimeters Per Second

5 Centimeters Per Second is a 2007 award-winning Japanese animated film. Barely over an hour long, this sweet film is worth watching. The story involves two young people during their lives from the 1990s-2008.

Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the Painter

Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the Painter is an 1839 story by Sheridan Le Fanu. You can read it online here. It begins,

You will no doubt be surprised, my dear friend, at the subject of the following narrative. What had I to do with Schalken, or Schalken with me? He had returned to his native land, and was probably dead and buried, before I was born; I never visited Holland nor spoke with a native of that country. So much I believe you already know. I must, then, give you my authority, and state to you frankly the ground upon which rests the credibility of the strange story which I am, about to lay before you.

I was acquainted, in my early days, with a Captain Vandael, whose father had served King William in the Low Countries, and also in my own unhappy land during the Irish campaigns. I know not how it happened that I liked this man’s society, spite of his politics and religion: but so it was; and it was by means of the free intercourse to which our intimacy gave rise that I became possessed of the curious tale which you are about to hear.

I had often been struck, while visiting Vandael, by a remarkable picture, in which, though no connoisseur myself, I could not fail to discern some very strong peculiarities, particularly in the distribution of light and shade, as also a certain oddity in the design itself, which interested my curiosity. It represented the interior of what might be a chamber in some antique religious building — the foreground was occupied by a female figure, arrayed in a species of white robe, part of which is arranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, is not strictly that of any religious order. In its hand the figure bears a lamp, by whose light alone the form and face are illuminated; the features are marked by an arch smile, such as pretty women wear when engaged in successfully practising some roguish trick; in the background, and, excepting where the dim red light of an expiring fire serves to define the form, totally in the shade, stands the figure of a man equipped in the old fashion, with doublet and so forth, in an attitude of alarm, his hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword, which he appears to be in the act of drawing.

‘There are some pictures,’ said I to my friend, ‘which impress one, I know not how, with a conviction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes and combinations which have floated through the imagination of the artist, but scenes, faces, and situations which have actually existed. When I look upon that picture, something assures me that I behold the representation of a reality.’

Vandael smiled, and, fixing his eyes upon the painting musingly, he said:

‘Your fancy has not deceived you, my good friend, for that picture is the record, and I believe a faithful one, of a remarkable and mysterious occurrence. It was painted by Schalken, and contains, in the face of the female figure, which occupies the most prominent place in the design, an accurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, the first and, I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My father knew the painter well, and from Schalken himself he learned the story of the mysterious drama, one scene of which the picture has embodied. This painting, which is accounted a fine specimen of Schalken’s style, was bequeathed to my father by the artist’s will, and, as you have observed, is a very striking and interesting production.

It was adapted for television as part of the "ghost story for Christmas" tradition for BBC in 1979 as an episode of Omnibus. I can't find it available to watch.