Once more, with feeling

I AM continuing my journey through American playwright August Wilson’s Pittsburgh Cycle. Joe Turner’s Come And Gone, the second of Wilson’s ten plays charting the black American experience through the 20th Century, amply demonstrates that the richness of Wilson’s writing was not confined to his poetic dialogue. How is this for a stage direction:

“Bynum enters from the yard carrying some plants. He is a short, round man in his early sixties” . . so far, so straightforward . . “he gives the impression of always being in control of everything. Nothing ever bothers him. He seems to be  lost in a world of his own making and to swallow any adversity or interference with his grand design.”

Any ideas what these may be?

The first part of last week was busy with outdoor tasks in the continuing dry, warm weather. Standing on top of a stepladder, helping erect two replacement panels on our next-door neighbour’s back fence, I noticed these strange objects sticking up from our house roof.

Posting photos of them on Twitter and Facebook, in the hope that somebody can tell me what they are, has not yielded anything more useful than the suggestion that they fell off a passing jet airliner.

Where do screen turkeys go these days?

WASTE OF TALENT: not even Arkin, Freeman and Caine can save the day.

THE Current Mrs Feeney and I went to see Going In Style at the cinema on Friday evening. Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine and Alan Arkin play three former ex-colleagues who decide to rob a bank when their old company moves production to Vietnam, and closes the pension fund they rely on to pay for their modest retirement.

On paper, it had a lot going for it. Three veteran movie stars with exemplary action credentials, and a topical plot about the way predatory and socially irresponsible international companies and banks treat their customers and workers.

But on screen, it was terrible. The comedy set-ups were predictable and limp; the action sequences were so awful, it was embarrassing to watch.

We were about 30 minutes in when TCMrsF whispered to me: “Should have gone straight to video.” Do turkeys like this still do that?


Just play me a song

I HAVE started reading Born To Run, the Bruce Springsteen autobiography I was given for Christmas. I like his music very much, but am finding the minutiae of his musical development, and the series of bar-bands that the emerging ‘Boss” played in, less than enthralling.

I think this confirms that I am not natural ‘fan’ material. I’d like to believe this is desirable in a journalist, but suspect my lack of interest in who the young Springsteen played, fought or slept with means I would never have been a success as a celebrity reporter.

I can live with this.

Close call

On Saturday morning, I collected from a local art gallery the painting I had bought at a recent show. There was a new one-man exhibition at the gallery, and the owner gave me a catalogue. I was about to say that I didn’t like the work, when she introduced the man standing next to her as the artist.

I said something non-committal, and left.



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