In Which He Pouts a Little

Lately Ali and I are feeling kind of "off" Halifax. ("I've gone off London this week. It doesn't do anything for me," says the pouty and foppish fashion photographer in Blowup.) It makes me feel spoiled to admit it, as I really don't know where else could be any nicer. I guess the students all being back has something to do with it. And the recent upturn in random violence. I suppose mostly we're both just feeling in a bit of a rut. Fall's always a good time for a big change.

Speaking of The Fall and depression and fashionably aloof young Englishmen, last Friday we attended the Atlantic Film Festival screening of Control, the new biopic about Ian Curtis from Joy Division, who committed suicide at the height of the band's power. It's really well done: gorgeous black and white; fine acting, especially by Sam Riley as Curtis and Samantha Morton as his long-suffering wife; based on the book written by the latter (character, not actor). And lots of Joy Division songs are performed in the film, which has been making me feel like listening to nothing but ever since. That insistent bass, those robotic drums, that dark, Wire-like guitar... such a perfect environment for Curtis's brooding baritone to feel its way around in. This one's a particular favourite. I've already started working on a JD-inspired song called No Comment: "No one ever comments / On his wiseass blog / Makes him feel unwanted / Like a pedagogue."

In other film-watching news, we've lately rented the complete series of Sister Wendy's Story of Painting and are really enjoying it. I don't know whether you've ever seen it, but this super-loveable nun with awful glasses, horrible buck teeth, and an Elmer Fudd voice takes you through art history from her own personal perspective. She's so passionate and full of sympathy and joy it's infectious, and one soon finds oneself very emotionally involved. Well, these "ones" do, anyway. Marveling at a Brueghel depiction of peasants sitting in front of a fire, she notices that the lady "warming her underpants" turns her face slightly away from the men, who are "warming their, well, lack of underpants."

Oh, and the softball playoffs were last weekend, as I believe I'd mentioned. We lost every game. No one seemed to mind much, though, I must say. It managed to be a pretty fun day of ball.

And now Alison's considering playing next year. She's a bit of a natural pitcher, like her man. We went out for some batting practice with Meg before dinner tonight. Won't be able to do that for too much longer. I can't believe next weekend is Thanksgiving! Oh well, bring it on, I say. I've had enough of summer's light fun and tomfoolery. Time to get down to some serious contemplation in a cold dark room. Now that's what I call a good time.

- Andrew