Is it my Aunt Doris?
While on the move today in London, I was browsing through The New Yorker (Ooo! Get him!) and encountered this photograph from a recent production of Strindberg’s Miss Julie. Who’s the scantily-clad lady being groped by Jonny Lee Miller? Quickly, …
While on the move today in London, I was browsing through The New Yorker (Ooo! Get him!) and encountered this photograph from a recent production of Strindberg’s Miss Julie. Who’s the scantily-clad lady being groped by Jonny Lee Miller? Quickly, quickly. No Googling, Martindale.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, love.
It’s Ms Sienna Miller. Maybe I have some very precise, very obscure mental condition — Miller-Obscurist Syndrome, perhaps — but, like some character in an Oliver Sacks case, I simply find it impossible to recognise Miller when I see her. Over the last few years, I’ve bored readers with a series of cheap jokes on this matter. However, I was not joshing when I said that, every time she reappeared on the screen during Cassanova, I thought a new character had arrived. “Who’s she? Why does everybody seem to know her already? Nurse, they’re stealing my pills again,” I tended to say. Is it just me? Or is this condition common among the populace?
Moving to non-Miller matters, the film of the week is, without question, Michael Haneke‘s austere, gripping, deliberately confounding The White Ribbon. If you want something a little more mainstream — though no less grim — then check out Michael Caine in the cracking vigilante flick Harry Brown (no relation to the journalist, incidentally). It’s every bit as dubious as Death Wish, but rather brilliantly made and energised by a terrific late performance from the splendid Mr Micklewhite.
This week, Screenwriter is listening to: Radioactivity by Kraftwerk. Radio-act-iv-ity. Discovered by Madame Curie.
This week, Screenwriter is reading: Buddenbrookes by Thomas Mann. I think I was led in that North German direction by The White Ribbon.
This week, Screenwriter will be watching the following telly: The Making of Modern Britain by Andrew Marr. He does overdo the theatrics, but it remains fun.