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"Help me, Mary..."
Sometimes I feel like I live in some eerily similar parallel universe, where South West Trains is a giant octopus-like organisation whose entire efforts are bent on destroying my life. Some may call this a somewhat solipsistic fantasy, but I think it’s based on reality. I went for the 8.04 train, in a bid to be at work actually On Time (nay, even early, perchance), only for it to turn coy and decline to appear. The 8.10 was late, on a total go-slow, and absolutely crammed. I was half-way down the aisle, and some lunatic kept on at me to Move Down! Move Down Further! There’s Lots Of Room! I’m sorry, I was clearly blind to the giant vortex of space right next to me: from my point of view it looked freakishly like a middle-aged gentleman in a navy overcoat and a copy of the Financial Times against whom I was crammed in a way which under any other circumstances would be frankly inappropriate. So, yes, despite my best efforts, was 15 minutes late for work. I mean, I don’t mind being late for work when I’ve, y’know, not bothered to get up in time for the right train, but I rather bar it when I’ve made the effort and everything. Pah.
So, did anyone else watch Capturing Mary last night? Very Stephen Poliakoff. Well, obviously. I do like a bit of time-slipperiness, I mun say, and you can’t beat a fifties frock, and I like Ruth Wilson, but I found the whole enterprise rather pointless (rather like Mary’s life ended up being, in fact). I mean, it was entertaining to watch, and compelling at times, and I think David Walliams was creepily good as Greville, but it didn’t seem to go anywhere, and the framing device was, despite Maggie Smith, really quite weak. I liked the thought, inside my head, that really Greville hadn’t done anything to Mary’s career at all: she fixated on him as the architect of her failure, but in reality he had done nothing, and her faltering career was simply the victim of the fact that she had been a writer of the moment, and the moment had passed. And she went on, living her life as Greville’s puppet, helpless, but only in her own imagination.
So, did anyone else watch Capturing Mary last night? Very Stephen Poliakoff. Well, obviously. I do like a bit of time-slipperiness, I mun say, and you can’t beat a fifties frock, and I like Ruth Wilson, but I found the whole enterprise rather pointless (rather like Mary’s life ended up being, in fact). I mean, it was entertaining to watch, and compelling at times, and I think David Walliams was creepily good as Greville, but it didn’t seem to go anywhere, and the framing device was, despite Maggie Smith, really quite weak. I liked the thought, inside my head, that really Greville hadn’t done anything to Mary’s career at all: she fixated on him as the architect of her failure, but in reality he had done nothing, and her faltering career was simply the victim of the fact that she had been a writer of the moment, and the moment had passed. And she went on, living her life as Greville’s puppet, helpless, but only in her own imagination.
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I need some kind of icon with a dress. Hmm.