The term 'epic' applies to this book, and in many many ways. In the most literal sense, it is a nine hundred and ninety six page novel and the second part of a trilogy. Does that sound epic enough? How about its status as part of an autobiographical account of a legendary arcanist and adventurer, being related from his own self-imposed retirement behind the guise of a modest innkeeper? No? Gosh, you're difficult to please. Let's add in 'rites of passage' and 'coming of age' to the list of characteristics and move on.
Nine hundred and ninety six pages is an awful lot of paper, and my getting through the whole thing without resorting to another book for a break is a testament to the power of the prose, the humour of the author, and the sheer amount of enjoyable detail built into the world he's built. This is certainly a trilogy that has been built with a lot of thought, and a lot of heart. As with so many things admired here at the Quirky Muffin, that solid emotional presence at the core of the book is what makes it work, above everything else.
Two whole paragraphs down and still no substantial non-spoilery clues to the nature of the novel. As a second book in a trilogy, it's not at all essential to have read the first as I never have and didn't miss it at all. 'The Wise Man's Fear' is an epic fantasy novel, chronicling the middle part of the story of Kvothe, as told by the man himself, a legend in his own lifetime. It's a fascinating endeavour, and one that works spectacularly well. If the first book was about the childhood, then this is the adolescence and coming of age, and it does veer towards the mature side of things from time to time as a result. There were periods of some embarrassment during the reading, although that could be an overstatement as I was thrown out of saint academy for being too pure, and for naming all the candles after characters from Peanuts.
It's quite hard to classify 'The Wise Man's Fear', as it begins in an arcanist (wizard) university, segues into a court intrigue in a far off country, then a mercenary mission, and finally a fairly naughty fairy tale before finally returning to the university through the aftermaths of each of the intervening tales. That's what you can do when you're playing with almost a thousand pages, if you're a brave and thorough author. What kind of brain do you need to be able to write something like this? Is it all plotted out on the side of a building somewhere, do you think? For all my writing life, advance plotting has always been the thing I can barely even approach to handle. That's why all the stories here go on indefinitely, without ever seeming to get anywhere at all, and also why I admire such an accomplishment.
Of course, there is an emotional cost to reading a thousand page novel, and that has to explain the tears that flowed at the end. It's not necessarily a sad ending, but the implications are clear. Big things are clearly to come in part three, whenever that volume finally emerges. A very good epic fantasy. Now I might have two current authors to follow!
O.
Note: This might be a 'man' book. If anyone has any comments on that, then please let me know!
Friday, 13 March 2015
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Circumstantial
What was I going to write about today? It was always a mystery. The interview yesterday was a massive and impenetrable barrier in time, a black wall through which nothing could penetrate. Now only questions remain. What questions! What oddities! What are we all thinking when we do the silly things of life? Why do so many people exert themselves so badly and bury themselves under pressure for money they don't need? Why are we talking about money? What just happened?
<reboots head>
What would it be like to be good at interviews? To not panic and turn into a mental mush? To give a presentation that doesn't trail off into a messy pile of nonsense halfway through? Anyone who has seen one of my presentations will attest to that fuzzy vagueness, or the alternate frenzy that can drive the presentation through at double speed straight into the bushes that mark 'no man's land', next to the nuclear blancmange lake and the fossil rhubarb. Good grief, how do people do all they things they do for money without going utterly crazy? Ah, that's an assumption, perhaps they have all gone utterly crazy, and I'm right in the padded wagon with everyone else, just looking out the window from time to time. What kind of world is this?
Introspection is fascinating, and so easily forgotten. It had utterly slipped my mind that I get sick when I do things for money. Some people get sick when they break their word and lie, while others have a breakdown if put under the slightest of pressures, and a few suffer all of these things at the same time and go through life being far too sensitive to the world around them. Tick me in for the last box. What to do in that situation? Aim high and breakdown under the unnecessary pressure, or do something that makes you happy and content with your lot in life and not prone to emotional shock and trauma?
So far, every career I've tried or considered has been overwhelming, dominating both worktime and leisure time. Teaching would be that, academia was that, and it prevails wherever you see large salaries and the word 'professional' tagged to a job. You don't get to spend your evenings writing blogs, learning Greek, practicing your juggling or doing anything else. That is the principal stumbling block to, if it's an accurate idea. Is it accurate? Are you better off having a simpler job, but one that lets you do some interesting things in your spare time, instead of planning lessons until oblivion or reading papers that go on forever?
Such questions, and such troubles!
O.
PS Some times soon, expect a book review for Patrick Rothfuss's 'The Wise Man's Fear', and a retrospective for the 1993 television series 'Moon Over Miami'. Oh, 'Moon Over Miami', the only bootleg I ever bought... Also, 'Oneiromancy' is on deck right now, and will be driven to its conclusion. Somehow. Someway. Somewhen.
<reboots head>
What would it be like to be good at interviews? To not panic and turn into a mental mush? To give a presentation that doesn't trail off into a messy pile of nonsense halfway through? Anyone who has seen one of my presentations will attest to that fuzzy vagueness, or the alternate frenzy that can drive the presentation through at double speed straight into the bushes that mark 'no man's land', next to the nuclear blancmange lake and the fossil rhubarb. Good grief, how do people do all they things they do for money without going utterly crazy? Ah, that's an assumption, perhaps they have all gone utterly crazy, and I'm right in the padded wagon with everyone else, just looking out the window from time to time. What kind of world is this?
Introspection is fascinating, and so easily forgotten. It had utterly slipped my mind that I get sick when I do things for money. Some people get sick when they break their word and lie, while others have a breakdown if put under the slightest of pressures, and a few suffer all of these things at the same time and go through life being far too sensitive to the world around them. Tick me in for the last box. What to do in that situation? Aim high and breakdown under the unnecessary pressure, or do something that makes you happy and content with your lot in life and not prone to emotional shock and trauma?
So far, every career I've tried or considered has been overwhelming, dominating both worktime and leisure time. Teaching would be that, academia was that, and it prevails wherever you see large salaries and the word 'professional' tagged to a job. You don't get to spend your evenings writing blogs, learning Greek, practicing your juggling or doing anything else. That is the principal stumbling block to, if it's an accurate idea. Is it accurate? Are you better off having a simpler job, but one that lets you do some interesting things in your spare time, instead of planning lessons until oblivion or reading papers that go on forever?
Such questions, and such troubles!
O.
PS Some times soon, expect a book review for Patrick Rothfuss's 'The Wise Man's Fear', and a retrospective for the 1993 television series 'Moon Over Miami'. Oh, 'Moon Over Miami', the only bootleg I ever bought... Also, 'Oneiromancy' is on deck right now, and will be driven to its conclusion. Somehow. Someway. Somewhen.
Monday, 9 March 2015
Story: Oneiromancy, XVI
(Part O , XV , XVII)
Excerpt from the diary of an evil entity.
"I've been trapped here a long time. It's possible that I've gone utterly mad. How would I know? Even when out in the world my greatest playtime was senseless destruction, and that was already supposedly insane. Ha ha.
You might wonder how I manage to keep a diary in this dreamspace, where everything is fluid and malleable to the mind. It was a tricky habit to develop, but now maintaining the diary in its whole costs almost no effort. I can flick backward and review the entries, and they are eidetically just as I remember writing them. Perhaps, though, it's all a delusion and really I'm locked up somewhere in a straitjacket, frothing at the mouth. So many people were ruined in that University incident, after all, and just to prove an academic point...
Academic points are most important, you know, the reasons why we progress at all. It was such an important one, too, even if the results were just a teensy bit messy.
Yes, people died, but the point was proven and the 'civilized' people locked me up in this pathetic dreamspace, little knowing what havoc might be wrought by someone quite so ruthless and diabolically inclined. Modesty is not something I treasure, being born to greatness before having it ripped away. Not a person has left this place that entered it during my incarceration, and the details of every single extermination lie here in this diary, waiting to entertain me whenever the tedium of this place drives me to the greater depths.
The problem with gleefully eliminating every confused person who wanders into this place is that it has become ever so quiet. A quiet that stills the bones, or the memory of bones, and dulls the senses as this half-life continues in whatever environment the last wanderer leaves behind them. Maybe a sane person would leave some of them alive, just for the conversation and opportunities for entertainment they provide? Indeed, who knows, perhaps they provide far more opportunities even than that.
It has been so so long to be alone..."
End of excerpt.
Excerpt from the diary of an evil entity.
"I've been trapped here a long time. It's possible that I've gone utterly mad. How would I know? Even when out in the world my greatest playtime was senseless destruction, and that was already supposedly insane. Ha ha.
You might wonder how I manage to keep a diary in this dreamspace, where everything is fluid and malleable to the mind. It was a tricky habit to develop, but now maintaining the diary in its whole costs almost no effort. I can flick backward and review the entries, and they are eidetically just as I remember writing them. Perhaps, though, it's all a delusion and really I'm locked up somewhere in a straitjacket, frothing at the mouth. So many people were ruined in that University incident, after all, and just to prove an academic point...
Academic points are most important, you know, the reasons why we progress at all. It was such an important one, too, even if the results were just a teensy bit messy.
Yes, people died, but the point was proven and the 'civilized' people locked me up in this pathetic dreamspace, little knowing what havoc might be wrought by someone quite so ruthless and diabolically inclined. Modesty is not something I treasure, being born to greatness before having it ripped away. Not a person has left this place that entered it during my incarceration, and the details of every single extermination lie here in this diary, waiting to entertain me whenever the tedium of this place drives me to the greater depths.
The problem with gleefully eliminating every confused person who wanders into this place is that it has become ever so quiet. A quiet that stills the bones, or the memory of bones, and dulls the senses as this half-life continues in whatever environment the last wanderer leaves behind them. Maybe a sane person would leave some of them alive, just for the conversation and opportunities for entertainment they provide? Indeed, who knows, perhaps they provide far more opportunities even than that.
It has been so so long to be alone..."
End of excerpt.
Saturday, 7 March 2015
The Patch
In a past age it would be embarrassing to admit that I took needlework at school instead of metalwork or woodwork. The rooms for those hardcore disciplines were alone daunting, and what about all the banging and bending tools?! Yikes! Actually, it was a just bit too noisy and violent, and home economics had a super scary teacher, so needlework happened by default. All strange things happen by default! If you look up 'default' in a picture dictionary you would probably find a person walking across a bridge made out of banana peel and wincing.
Hang on, why did I begin with an embarrassing admission? Oh, because this is entitled 'The Patch'. Of course! When do you use a patch? When the rip is too large to be sewn together conventionally. Some damage is just too big to repair without extra material. This can be extended metaphorically to any situation, as long as you can rationalise the nature of the material. What does a psychotherapist use for a patch? His own psyche. A cook? Pastry. A comedian? Well, nothing, as they're extremely vulnerable and probably just collapse off stage. Darn, I didn't want that to end sad.
My hope is that the upcoming week won't require some remedial patchwork in the aftermath, involving as it does some possibly traumatic or triumphant events. Will the final PGCE interview day go well? Will it go badly? Is any of it a good idea? Is Worcester a real place, or a trap set by some nefarious schemers out to capture the rogue? You can never be too careful, especially when you're still wanted dead or alive by the Hungarian National Symphony. Good grief, who would have thought they would have had a problem with an infatuation for Pam Dawber from 'Mork And Mindy'?! I'm just glad I never mentioned Carolyn Jones from 'The Addams Family'!
'The Patch' has another reason for being at the top of the page. It has been two hours now that the parental units have been trying to get the cursed sewing machine to work in order that I can patch some pyjamas, being the penniless idiot that I am. All my money goes on international stamps and buying bootleg DVDs of the abortive 1990s detective show 'Moon Over Miami'. (It was a jazz-filled minor television show that happened to be rather lovely, and was so unknown that it's never even surfaced on DVD after more than twenty years.) Yes, it is more important than pyjamas and elephant slippers, of course it is!
Ahem, as this post degenerates into utter stupidity, it's probably time to stop. At any moment we could all fall prey to an oboe equipped with a silencer, or a helium-filled kettle drum, or worse an attack by Stravinski. Quiver quiver.
No, not Stravinski!
O.
Hang on, why did I begin with an embarrassing admission? Oh, because this is entitled 'The Patch'. Of course! When do you use a patch? When the rip is too large to be sewn together conventionally. Some damage is just too big to repair without extra material. This can be extended metaphorically to any situation, as long as you can rationalise the nature of the material. What does a psychotherapist use for a patch? His own psyche. A cook? Pastry. A comedian? Well, nothing, as they're extremely vulnerable and probably just collapse off stage. Darn, I didn't want that to end sad.
My hope is that the upcoming week won't require some remedial patchwork in the aftermath, involving as it does some possibly traumatic or triumphant events. Will the final PGCE interview day go well? Will it go badly? Is any of it a good idea? Is Worcester a real place, or a trap set by some nefarious schemers out to capture the rogue? You can never be too careful, especially when you're still wanted dead or alive by the Hungarian National Symphony. Good grief, who would have thought they would have had a problem with an infatuation for Pam Dawber from 'Mork And Mindy'?! I'm just glad I never mentioned Carolyn Jones from 'The Addams Family'!
'The Patch' has another reason for being at the top of the page. It has been two hours now that the parental units have been trying to get the cursed sewing machine to work in order that I can patch some pyjamas, being the penniless idiot that I am. All my money goes on international stamps and buying bootleg DVDs of the abortive 1990s detective show 'Moon Over Miami'. (It was a jazz-filled minor television show that happened to be rather lovely, and was so unknown that it's never even surfaced on DVD after more than twenty years.) Yes, it is more important than pyjamas and elephant slippers, of course it is!
Ahem, as this post degenerates into utter stupidity, it's probably time to stop. At any moment we could all fall prey to an oboe equipped with a silencer, or a helium-filled kettle drum, or worse an attack by Stravinski. Quiver quiver.
No, not Stravinski!
O.
Thursday, 5 March 2015
Television: 'Crime Traveller' (1997)
Now this is a strange one that may go over a lot of people's heads. 'Crime Traveller' was a science fiction mystery show that ran for eight episodes in 1997, and was then sadly unrenewed allegedly due to their not being a BBC controller in place at the time. As a result, one of the most interesting, cheesy, fun and intricate television shows just got forgotten, and went on to become an enduring cult favourite.
What is the basic idea behind 'Crime Traveller', written by the innovative Anthony Horowitz? It was a detective show based on the unlikely partnership between detective Jeff Slade and police scientist Holly Turner, who has a time machine in her apartment. Upon discovering the time machine he obviously starts using it to solve crimes, as you do, and resurrect his deeply troubled career. So far, so goofy and lovely.
One of the chief fascinations of 'Crime Traveller' is the intricacy of the fixed history time travel. History couldn't be changed, but that didn't mean the two couldn't participate in it. No, it meant that everything they did was already a part of their history, that they had to travel in time in order to establish their own present. Even if it didn't always make sense, it was great fun to identify the incidents and events that may have been orchestrated by the time travellers who had yet to step into machine, and the chemistry between the lead actors Michael French and Chloë Annett was great fun. The show also inherited the luxury of casting from the grand set of British character actors still around in the late 1990s, and the timeslot from the equally fun but less intricate 'BUGS'. Oh, the good old Saturday evening slot was a fun place once upon a time!
'Crime Traveller', to switch tacks, was a massive collection of clichés that clung together into a daftly entertaining whole. Slade was the very definition of a maverick police officer, his police department was run in a ridiculously television-like and messy way, every simple murder motive was displayed over the course of the eight episodes, all the other police officers were comical to some extent, and the undeveloped romance at the show's core was one of the more promising to ever be cut off before flowering. It was a fascinating mix of all things, and one that alternated between charmingly goofy and goofily stupid. It's not quite a classic, but lots and lots of fun, and people still like it enough for there to be DVDs. Oh, why couldn't it be renewed and not lost in the shuffle?!
According to Horowitz, part of the power was in the shifting of classical murder mystery tropes so that the culminating flashback that explained everything was converted into the time travel jaunt that the detectives use to observe the crime directly instead. If you were doubting the word 'innovative' earlier, you have to dispel those doubts a little now, surely? Also, on the positive side now, there is the greatness of seeing 1997 Saturday evening production values all over again. Yes, that's one retro-silly time machine, and nostalgia demands it be loved.
Love the time machine!
O.
What is the basic idea behind 'Crime Traveller', written by the innovative Anthony Horowitz? It was a detective show based on the unlikely partnership between detective Jeff Slade and police scientist Holly Turner, who has a time machine in her apartment. Upon discovering the time machine he obviously starts using it to solve crimes, as you do, and resurrect his deeply troubled career. So far, so goofy and lovely.
One of the chief fascinations of 'Crime Traveller' is the intricacy of the fixed history time travel. History couldn't be changed, but that didn't mean the two couldn't participate in it. No, it meant that everything they did was already a part of their history, that they had to travel in time in order to establish their own present. Even if it didn't always make sense, it was great fun to identify the incidents and events that may have been orchestrated by the time travellers who had yet to step into machine, and the chemistry between the lead actors Michael French and Chloë Annett was great fun. The show also inherited the luxury of casting from the grand set of British character actors still around in the late 1990s, and the timeslot from the equally fun but less intricate 'BUGS'. Oh, the good old Saturday evening slot was a fun place once upon a time!
'Crime Traveller', to switch tacks, was a massive collection of clichés that clung together into a daftly entertaining whole. Slade was the very definition of a maverick police officer, his police department was run in a ridiculously television-like and messy way, every simple murder motive was displayed over the course of the eight episodes, all the other police officers were comical to some extent, and the undeveloped romance at the show's core was one of the more promising to ever be cut off before flowering. It was a fascinating mix of all things, and one that alternated between charmingly goofy and goofily stupid. It's not quite a classic, but lots and lots of fun, and people still like it enough for there to be DVDs. Oh, why couldn't it be renewed and not lost in the shuffle?!
According to Horowitz, part of the power was in the shifting of classical murder mystery tropes so that the culminating flashback that explained everything was converted into the time travel jaunt that the detectives use to observe the crime directly instead. If you were doubting the word 'innovative' earlier, you have to dispel those doubts a little now, surely? Also, on the positive side now, there is the greatness of seeing 1997 Saturday evening production values all over again. Yes, that's one retro-silly time machine, and nostalgia demands it be loved.
Love the time machine!
O.
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
Confidence
It's one of the great intangibles, something so abstract that it can not be pictured in the mind's eye. The presence or absence of it can change the course of history substantially, and yet many people go their whole lives without ever even thinking the word. It is confidence, the bogeyman of people to whom things do not come easily, the blancmange of desserts, the scourge of things that must not be named for it can never be forgotten.
If you have always had confidence you don't think about it, and if you've lost it then you think about it constantly. The absence is what you feel. One person, faced with a fairly vital interview morning next week, would smile and prepare diligently, confident in their ability to deal with the forthcoming challenge in good spirits. Another would feel themselves tensing up into a mental corkscrew, becoming more and more agitated as the time draws closer, until finally being so much a mental wreck on the day that they end up flunking from sheer exhaustion and second-guessing.
What can be done if your confidence is but a memory? The important thing is to somehow not dwell on it, and build from the positives of what goes on around you. Don't get caught in a negative spiral, but become involved with something else just so things keep moving somewhere. Hold on, this is all very patronising, isn't it? When you're deep in the bowels of that feeling, that horrible feeling, of thinking that nothing will ever go right again, it's almost impossible to believe the contrary. Ultimately, you just need to take a small step and start something new. And then something new again, and again, and build from the horrible feeling to something just a little braver. Just a little. A fall from grace is instant, but the following ascent can be arduous and lengthy, but it's worthwhile at every inch if you don't want to live as a shadow of what could be.
And now, the personal aspect. Oh, great candy glockenspiels, interviews are scary! Another PGCE Primary interview to come, and all the self-criticism of the previous one threatens to burst out, but it shall not prevail! Nerves take over the stomach, sleep tries to defect to the other side, and a random goldfish keeps swimming past the window but insanity will not take over. Or, perhaps insanity already did take over, and the whole world is not making sense for a reason. What a daunting idea. It would explain Putin, the Republicans, all the guns, and blancmange anyway. Ick.
O.
If you have always had confidence you don't think about it, and if you've lost it then you think about it constantly. The absence is what you feel. One person, faced with a fairly vital interview morning next week, would smile and prepare diligently, confident in their ability to deal with the forthcoming challenge in good spirits. Another would feel themselves tensing up into a mental corkscrew, becoming more and more agitated as the time draws closer, until finally being so much a mental wreck on the day that they end up flunking from sheer exhaustion and second-guessing.
What can be done if your confidence is but a memory? The important thing is to somehow not dwell on it, and build from the positives of what goes on around you. Don't get caught in a negative spiral, but become involved with something else just so things keep moving somewhere. Hold on, this is all very patronising, isn't it? When you're deep in the bowels of that feeling, that horrible feeling, of thinking that nothing will ever go right again, it's almost impossible to believe the contrary. Ultimately, you just need to take a small step and start something new. And then something new again, and again, and build from the horrible feeling to something just a little braver. Just a little. A fall from grace is instant, but the following ascent can be arduous and lengthy, but it's worthwhile at every inch if you don't want to live as a shadow of what could be.
And now, the personal aspect. Oh, great candy glockenspiels, interviews are scary! Another PGCE Primary interview to come, and all the self-criticism of the previous one threatens to burst out, but it shall not prevail! Nerves take over the stomach, sleep tries to defect to the other side, and a random goldfish keeps swimming past the window but insanity will not take over. Or, perhaps insanity already did take over, and the whole world is not making sense for a reason. What a daunting idea. It would explain Putin, the Republicans, all the guns, and blancmange anyway. Ick.
O.
Sunday, 1 March 2015
Movie: 'Ball of Fire' (1941)
'Goofy' is definitely one of the dominant words that come to mind when considering 'Ball of Fire'. It has got that goofy charm that glued itself to the best of the films from the golden age of cinema, as you would expect from a movie about a showgirl and gangster's moll who hides out with some encyclopedia compiling professors. Yes, the premise alone is goofy, but it has a heart of gold like most of the old romantic and screwball comedies. It also establishes Howard Hawks as a master of the art in my mind, completing a remarkable hat trick along with 'Bringing Up Baby' and 'His Girl Friday', and not even including the other comedies I've yet to see.
What are the principle strengths of this film, an extremely loose reinterpretation of 'Snow White And The Seven Dwarves', and why does it work? To begin, it was partly written by Billy Wilder, which is a genuine mark of pedigree if ever there was one, even before you add Howard Hawks and his snappy dialogue-driven style into the combination. If that's not enough then the starring duo of Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck, both excellent and naturalistic, must lift your expectations? Okay, what about one of the best constructed supporting casts put together to form the seven backup oddball academics, each imbued with his own distinctive quirk? It's definitely a fascinating film, if nothing else.
What makes a movie fascinating? In this case it's the curious mix of the oddball academics and the hoodlums, both of which converge on the curious charm of Stanwyck's character, the colourfully named Sugarpuss O'Shea? Perhaps it's Cooper's turn as Professor Bertram Potts, an English professor who sets out into the world to update his knowledge of modern slang, one in which he expertly plays himself once again but in the most suitable and appropriate way. The Cooper effect is a fascinating one, evident in 'Mr Deeds Goes To Town' as much as it is here. For someone who does so little, the expression is extraordinary! Maybe the appeal is in the gorgeous sets, which are things I miss very much now, or is it the extraordinary vignette of the professors singing 'Sweet Genevieve' a capella at the impromptu bachelor party? It's extraordinary to find so many gentlemen male characters in one film, so many gentle people in total, and then placed in opposition to hoodlums of the first order. It's sweet, revealing just how much of a soft touch I might be for sweet movies, as well as for snappy dialogue.
So far, and so much said without mentioning Stanwyck to any great extent. She's a curious actress, capable of great extremes in sweetness and worldliness, and yet still somewhat a cipher. She's brilliant in a complex way, while still carrying out the time honoured character reversals to end up with the right man at the end. How many other actresses could conceivably mesh so well with an octet of character actors? Could it have worked out without the dynamite Wilder screenplay and influence of Hawks? We'll never know, but it does work.
Overall, 'Ball of Fire' is a fascinating screwball comedy from the classic mould. That means it's well characterised, snappily written, and in this case rather smart. Where else could you mix split infinitives and yum yum? As I said, one of the operative words is 'goofy' and that's not a bad thing.
O.
What are the principle strengths of this film, an extremely loose reinterpretation of 'Snow White And The Seven Dwarves', and why does it work? To begin, it was partly written by Billy Wilder, which is a genuine mark of pedigree if ever there was one, even before you add Howard Hawks and his snappy dialogue-driven style into the combination. If that's not enough then the starring duo of Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck, both excellent and naturalistic, must lift your expectations? Okay, what about one of the best constructed supporting casts put together to form the seven backup oddball academics, each imbued with his own distinctive quirk? It's definitely a fascinating film, if nothing else.
What makes a movie fascinating? In this case it's the curious mix of the oddball academics and the hoodlums, both of which converge on the curious charm of Stanwyck's character, the colourfully named Sugarpuss O'Shea? Perhaps it's Cooper's turn as Professor Bertram Potts, an English professor who sets out into the world to update his knowledge of modern slang, one in which he expertly plays himself once again but in the most suitable and appropriate way. The Cooper effect is a fascinating one, evident in 'Mr Deeds Goes To Town' as much as it is here. For someone who does so little, the expression is extraordinary! Maybe the appeal is in the gorgeous sets, which are things I miss very much now, or is it the extraordinary vignette of the professors singing 'Sweet Genevieve' a capella at the impromptu bachelor party? It's extraordinary to find so many gentlemen male characters in one film, so many gentle people in total, and then placed in opposition to hoodlums of the first order. It's sweet, revealing just how much of a soft touch I might be for sweet movies, as well as for snappy dialogue.
So far, and so much said without mentioning Stanwyck to any great extent. She's a curious actress, capable of great extremes in sweetness and worldliness, and yet still somewhat a cipher. She's brilliant in a complex way, while still carrying out the time honoured character reversals to end up with the right man at the end. How many other actresses could conceivably mesh so well with an octet of character actors? Could it have worked out without the dynamite Wilder screenplay and influence of Hawks? We'll never know, but it does work.
Overall, 'Ball of Fire' is a fascinating screwball comedy from the classic mould. That means it's well characterised, snappily written, and in this case rather smart. Where else could you mix split infinitives and yum yum? As I said, one of the operative words is 'goofy' and that's not a bad thing.
O.
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