The Diary of Queen Mothy |
Hot Pink Curtains! written @ 9:58 PM on June 07, 2004 Friday evening I donned my Hogwarts shirt, Liz took my Gryffindor scarf, Cassie brought her "Hermione for President" buttons, and all of us brought our zeal. Blaring the latest soundtrack, courtesy of John Williams, we went on fiesta in Newport for the 9:30 showing of-- what else?-- Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Wow. "Wow" on many levels. First of all, if you're a Hogwarts purist-- I am not-- you're going to be shocked by the editing job in this film. The screenwriter certainly trimmed away the fluff that gives J.K. Rowling's books their charm. But, with that said, it's a much cleaner film, and the editing is actually one of its strong points. Another strength in this movie? Bravo to Dan Radcliff, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson! Watson, in my opinion, had her strongest performance in Number Three. Dan has come a long, long way from his days on the Sorcerer's Stone set, where he oft stared wondrously out into space. Not so here! Here we have a dynamic character that is the true beginning of Harry's journey through Hogwarts. And good old Rupert! A young master of comedic timing! Bravo! Other show stoppers: Alan Rickman in women's clothing with a stuffed vulture on his head is always worth $7; Emma Thompson nearly stole the show with her performance as Professor Trelawney; Gary Oldman as Sirius Black should have been given more screen time, but his character permeates throughout the entire movie; David Thewlis makes a wonderful, sensitive Professor Lupin who listens to 1920s swing music (!)-- I'm glad I saw him as Lupin instead of Professor Quirrel, which is what he was originally going to be casted for. Tom Felton has also grown leaps and bounds as Draco; I dare say he's more agreeable, as odd as that sounds for the type of character he's playing. The Aunt Marge scene is to die for. Director Alfonso hit the nail on the head. Also fantastic is the time turner sequence AND Buckbeak's subplot. Over all, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban gets the Sam Stamp of Approval! Stamp! Go see it! *** Construction on the sets for Meshugga-Nuns continues on schedule. My hot pink sets are glowing. I ordered fifty yards of this shiny material called tissue lame in fuschia, and I was busy trying to figure out how to make a curtain out of it. Let me tell you about my experiences in sewing: zilch. The extent of my experience goes to mending small holes in clothing (and not very well) and cutting materials to make a quilt that I never finished in the first grade. I never had the patience for it when I was young and still curious about such things, and when I did finally have the patience for menial tasks, I felt sewing was an archaic activity not meant for a progressive woman. I felt I could make more of a statement as a modern woman by admitting I could do jack with a needle and thread and was proud of it. Until I became a props and scenic designer in theatre. Then it became a matter of practicality. Terry kind of looked down his nose at me when I told him I wasn't entirely "capable" of sewing together a 20-foot curtain. Steve smirked and Ron raised an eyebrow in the way that only Ron can do. I tell you, there is entirely too much testosterone in that scene shop. I ordered the materials for this curtain anyway, and every night as I lay in bed about to go to sleep for about a week I pondered how I was going to sew this friggin' thing when I don't even know how to thread a sewing machine. Finally I took a few educated guesses and employed the mystical powers of common sense and embarked on a life-changing journey. Sort of. Ron took me through the process step-by-step for the most part, and then I got Dean from the costume shop (yet another male lending his expertise) to help me cut corners stealthily by threading the machine for me and changing the needles. So that's a total of four men who know how to sew contributing to my continuing theatre education. There were times as I was prodding along with the surger and the industrial sewing machine that I just had to sit back, rub the migraine developing around my temples, and think just how goddamned ironic the past two days have been. And how my priorities were fucked up as a kid. Finally with the grommets attached, the chain pocket in place, the seams sewed (almost) flawlessly, and the ends surged, Steve attached it the track above the upstage portal-- and voila. My first curtain, all shimmering pink and matching the sets quite beautifully, if I do say so myself. And consistently the correct length (dumb luck, that). The sewing machine still intimidates me, but, hell, the day is wasted if you don't learn anything new, eh? Boy, I knew my grandmother-- an expert in upholstery and sewing dresses on her old Singer-- was standing over my shoulder thinking how pathetic I was and how proud she was of me at the same time. Another amusing event occurred before the drama with the curtain went down (no pun intended), involving shaving cream and a pie foil. I bought these aluminum pie foils for the show because there's a great deal of pie-throwing at the end of Act One, and one of the actors who also works in the scene shop, Chris, suggested buying shaving cream instead of Cool Whip so as to cause less damage to the costumes. So I bought this can of Barbasol or Barbacan or Barba-something, and Chris filled up the pie foil and said, "Okay. Hit me with it." I grinned. "This is going to be the highlight of my day, methinks." So I slammed him in the face with the shaving cream pie, while everyone kind of snickered in the background and I flustered with pride. He tried to nail me a few times with what was left, but I dodged him successfully. Then Ron said, "Twenty bucks if you get Director Diabla in her office." Chris and I grinned evilly, and he bounded up the stairs to Diabla's office and announced, with his face still completely covered with shaving cream, that his shaving cream-and-no-Cool-Whip idea was a success. Diabla just kind of stared at him slack-jawed-- as if people walking around with shaving cream pies in their faces wasn't a normal thing! "As you can see by our model," I added, "you get full coverage and the shaving stuff won't burn your eyes--" BOOM. Chris smacked the pie in my face, and I ran screaming through the halls of NKU like a little girl. Diabla, Chris, and Steve thought that was the funniest thing they had seen all day. I was able to wipe most of it away, but my hair still feels ratty and greasy. He got my whole head. *** Then something rather... poignant happened today. My mom, you see, has been trying to get rid of this late 1970s bedroom set that my dad had since his first marriage. When he moved out, he left the bedroom set for her. It was this black-speckled, faded, olive green-ish color that had a matching huge armoire, a long bureau, two night stands, and a bed. By modern tastes, it was as ugly as all hell. But this bedroom set made up my earliest memories. It was a reminder of bouncing into my parents' room at nine in the morning on a Saturday, of jumping on the bed until I could touch the ceiling with my palms singing "Two little monkeys jumping on the bed...", of playing hide-and-seek with my brother, of watching my mother sew and thinking no way in hell you'd ever catch me doing that. I watched the early episodes of The Little Rascals and Gilligan's Island and the Academy Awards on that bed. Hell, I was probably conceived in it. What kind of pained me is that she didn't want to get rid of it simply because it was ugly. "Bad memories, Sammy," she has said in the past few weeks. Well, I've already detailed how I associate objects with memories and how the yard sale about a month ago was an emotional ordeal. If I don't have those objects, I can only wonder at how much longer I'll have my memories until they're lost with age. Beyond that, I have no roots. I've lived in so many places, it's difficult for me to attach myself to anywhere or anyone for very long. Getting rid of possessions from my youth is like denying a gypsy part of her identity. This house has been an emotional menace for me since I moved to Cincinnati six years ago next month, but that's not what I'm going to remember it most of all for. Plenty of good stuff happened, more good stuff than all my years in Pittsburgh and Philly and everything in between combined. So why couldn't Mom associate the good memories with the bedroom set? Perhaps more importantly that the lack of the black-speckled, olive-green bedroom set signifies is what I've known deep down all along: Dad is not coming back. He never tried. And I can say those words now. They don't hurt so much anymore. There's no point in me trying to "save" him. He chose his path, like I chose mine. Here's the thing, though: he doesn't know Mom got rid of the bedroom set. His bedroom set.
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
Latest Entry | Archives | Diaryland |
Profile | Diaryrings | |
Guestbook | E-mail Me | Leave a note |
Art Work (Coming Soon) | Genealogy (Coming Soon) | The-Last-Unicorn.net |