I finished proofing Black Helicopters yesterday, and now I'm left with what seems like a hundred odds and ends before I can say, "I'm done with this," before I can send it back to Subterranean Press. And there's the issue of compiling a bibliography. If I genuinely am going to do that, for inclusion in this edition, it will likely, at the very least, take me two days.
I've written no new prose since, I think, early or mid November. No, the Dark Horse Stuff absolutely doesn't count, nor does the Secret Project. I mean prose. That's truly bizarre. And once these galleys are out of my way, I'll get to work on a piece for Sirenia Digest #108.
The sun doesn't look the least bit warm.
I have the new Decemberists album today, and I also have Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins' Rabbit Fur Coat, so I'll drag myself to night on new music.
Yesterday, I read "A reassessment of the Late Jurassic turtle Eurysternum wagleri (Eucryptodira, Eurysternidae)" and "Cranial anatomy of Erlikosaurus andrewsi (Dinosauria, Therizinosauria): new insights based on digital reconstruction," both in the November issue of the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology.
Last night, RP in The Secret World, then a couple of episodes of The West Wing, and then I watched Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992). It's really such a mess, such a strange, strange train wreck, that film. I used to feel like it succeeded, as a whole, but over the years, the film hasn't aged well. Or my opinion has become less burdened by the combined effects of my vampire and Gary Oldman fetishes. I still adore it, and Gary Oldman's performance is fucking brilliant. Tom Waits, inspired. Anthony Hopkins also does an excellent job. Sadie Hopkins is certainly the most memorable Lucy Westenra ever filmed. All four, though, are hobbled by an – at best – uneven screenplay and by overwrought direction. I don't even mind that its a love story (a frequent complaint); in fact, I rather like that about it. The visual effects, cinematography, art direction, costuming, and in-camera SFX are breathtaking. Indeed, the greatest triumph of Coppola's Bram Stoker's Dracula is its look, its feel. It's a technical masterpiece.* And it's sexy as hell. The film is always straining – admirably – to be something from another era, whether it's the Golden Age of Silent Film or the Golden Age of Hammer. It's a big-budget experiment. It's three quarters of a brilliant film. But a table with three legs tips over. And looking at this film twenty-two years farther along, I have to admit, reluctantly, that Bram Stoker's Dracula tips over. Oh, I can still watch it again and again and fucking again. Because I'm still very pleased by the three quarters that's brilliant.
*The film won three Academy Awards, for Best Costume Design (Eiko Ishioka), Best Sound Editing (Tom C. McCarthy, David E. Stone) and Best Makeup (Greg Cannom, Michèle Burke, Matthew W. Mungle) and was nominated for Best Art Direction/Set Decoration (Thomas E. Sanders, Garrett Lewis).