Always, I love old movies. If not the plot, their mere soul, the temperament, the visuals. Like a well-written book, no matter what it says, it shapes you.

Sure, there isn't much logic to their love story in the 1955 remake, but my GOD isn't it beautiful!!! My jaw unhinged within the first 5 minutes. Wealthy indian locations get me every time, it's just hypnotic to me.

The white smoking jacket...the pink chiffon dress..the mannerisms

The corridors! The walls! Only in India would they manage such a rich spectrum of colours in a single corridor



Her neckace! The maharajah is enthrawlling. I try to emulate this hard as i can in summer. There's a huge import of indian clothes and jewelery in Ibiza, some very good, and i find it very hard to get my hands off it.



And the hunt for the tiger...you forget it once existed.

THAT WALL

And finally the horrific power of the rain..

Her Highness' bedroom art..

*sigh*  Lana Turner, as impertinent as magnetic all the way through

I could happily not watch a post 70s movie again. Everything is lost, there's just no point. I went to see Sherlock Holmes the other day, and sure I liked it, but really, any effort beyond the beauty of photography/locations, and a good script, is wasted on me. The special effects fighting bits offer me no more stimulation than a black screen, and I usually disconnect for the length of it and dive straight into my own thoughts. Then I'm so absorbed in my mental wander that I miss half the story once conversations resume.

That said, looking forward to watching The Artist tomorrow, I've heard the greatest reviews. If they don't talk much that might be a good thing, I haven't heard a good dialogue in years.

I can hear June's paws outside my door..i better go tuck that very naughty doggie  into her own bed again now. 

No related posts.