While We're At It

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Rather Amused Indeed, Actually

Ah, The Young Victoria. Who could deny the lavish costumes, the lovely sets, the Rupert Friend? Not I, not I. But just how Victorian was the eponymous royal?

Not very, I guess, if the movie is to be believed (please let me believe the movie). I mean, yes, there were little dogs and corsets and hats, and she apparently had to be accompanied up or down any staircase, until she became queen and told everyone in favor of this rule that they were as loony as loons on loon tablets (I so want her to have died from falling down some stairs, though, just for the universe's sake. The universe needs things like that to keep it going). She was all, get that scary Mark Strong away from me, he didn't let me learn things when I was a girl, and even though I'm still a lowly female I'm the QUEEN, DAMMIT. And scary Mark Strong was sent away! And of course, she had lots and lots of sex with her dreamy husband. At one point, Albert is shot, and I told my sister, "Not to worry, he doesn't die, they have about eight hundred more kids." I mean, Victoria dies at the age of 81 (the movie didn't say whether or not stairs were involved, pity), which is basically her just laughing in the face of Victorianism if you ask me. "You thought I was going to die from a case of the sniffles when I was 17, didn't you! DIDN'T YOU! Well take that, 1800's!"

And they did take it, because it was 1901 by then. But also, she had provided basically every European royal family on the map with a rousing case of hemophilia, which is a pretty Victorian thing to do if you ask me.

When you get right down to it, it was a feature-length version of this comic, and really, what more could you ask for?

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Another Thing...

Sarah is right here. Since my parasol didn't match the wallpaper (or the drapes but that is an entirely different crisis altogether that would take up the better part of an hour to whine about), I have decided to have my father send a telegram to the parasol repairman to tell him to blast the thing.

Parasols be damned! I'm buying a new corset, to hold in my knowledge. As we all know that knowledge makes ladies husky and unattractive. Bad enough I haven't made a single spelling mistake in this entire blog entry. I'll never find a suitor this way...

Withering Heights

Why oh why did I start watching the new BBC/Masterpiece Theater version of Wuthering Heights? I will tell you: because it was readily available on Netflix Instant Play, and because yesterday my only goal was to find out whether or not Burn Gorman is attractive.

If this is your only aim in life as well, let me be brief: not in this, he isn't.

I read Wuthering Heights a few years ago, and hoped for my own death and those of the fictitious characters taunting me throughout the ordeal. If everyone could just stop whining all the time, that would be brilliant, thanks. And how could anyone ever see Catherine and Heathcliff as nice, romantic kiddos just trying to get by? It makes me wonder if maybe Kate Beaton is wrong (heaven forbid), maybe Emily Bronte really did know an alcoholic dickbag when she saw one, and everyone else (I'm looking at you, Stephenie Meyer) simply can't. Then again, she was a Victorian, so probably not.

Anyhow, everyone in the film does their job admirably. By which I mean, if the only people you end up liking are Hareton and Nellie, then congratulations! You have a soul. Cathy is a bit of a slag, frankly (and unfairly gorgeous, but that is another matter), and Heathcliff is evilly evil, with nothing else to recommend him. Poor old Burn is sad, sad Hindley, and I was so disappointed that the movie didn't include my favorite scene from the book (I say favorite, it may have been the only readable one), where Hindley drops his baby from a second storey balcony, and Heathcliff miraculously catches it. Health and safety gone mad, I suppose.

In the end, we are left with some terribly Victorian themes: dying in childbirth, marrying in vengeance, tight corsets, high boots, and some seriously confusing names: Catherine Earnshaw marries Edgar Linton to become Catherine Linton; their daughter is named Catherine Linton, and she sort of marries her cousin named Linton, who dies of being way too Victorian; but then it's assumed that she's going to marry her other cousin, Hareton Earnshaw, so that her name will be Catherine Earnshaw. Basically, it is impossible to pick up this book at any random page and pretend to know what is actually happening. Which is probably what old Emily had planned all along, that silly wench.

Uncovering the Latest Research

We've done some research and discovered some new and painfully accurate facts about Victorians.

Brett: another thing about victorians is the stupid hats that make the ladies look like dogs who aren't allowed to chew on themselves.

Sarah: although i was watching some blackadder today, and i rather liked the men's ruffle thingies

Brett: men are allowed to have ruffles, because they do all of the work. victorian ladies can't do anything for themselves. probably because of their hats.

Sarah: go put that on the blog

Brett: blogger is currently unavailable!?

Sarah: WHAAAAAAT

Brett: wtf did the victorians do when the internet didn't work?

Sarah: killed themselves

Brett: rightfully so. i'd kill myself if i had to wear hats like that.

We have also concluded that Victorians' clothes were so tight that it was too physically painful to laugh, and that's why they were not allowed to tell funny jokes.