What’s up?

Where else would you find Catholicism, Veganism and neo-Monasticism (yes that’s a thing now) thrown together in one blog? Welcome to my world. This blog is about my 2014 journey in faith, recognizing my body for the gift it is and striving to be worthy of that gift. It’s in the nature of man to seek out community and I’m no different, so please feel free to interact with my via comments or email. An important component to any successful change is a strong support network, and while I feel like I have that (for the most part) in my religious life, beginning a new dietary regime is quite a change for me. I’ve come to this decision for several ethical and spiritual reasons that I’ll hopefully explore in upcoming posts.

Let the documentation begin!

Just a Pinch of Cyanide

by Peter Farrugia

Photo by Jacob Sammut

Premiering on Broadway in 1941, Arsenic and Old Lace is finally playing to a Maltese audience at the Manoel Theatre under the direction of Josette Ciappara. With whimsical touches, she’s managed to find a balance between expectations brought on by the popular film (starring Cary Grant and Boris Karloff) and some zany innovations of her own.
The story centers on two sisters, Martha and Abigail Brewster (Marylu Coppini and Polly March), who have found a calling to “release” old men from lonely and solitary lives by offering them lodgings, and then disposing of the poor souls with a glass of arsenic-laced elderberry wine.

They live with their muddled nephew Teddy (played by a boisterous Colin Fitz), who’s convinced that he’s Theodore Roosevelt – and is propped up in the delusion by his relatives and neighbours. Fitz attacked the role with gusto, perhaps playing it so close to the film version that it came across a little too much like the reflection of a reflection – a cardboard character that, in a cardboard world of wacky strangeness, didn’t so much seem out of place as a little lacklustre.
The aunt’s favourite nephew is Mortimer (Edward Mercieca), a dandy theater critic and the only “sane” member of the Brewster clan (though you’d be forgiven for thinking he’s as nuts as the rest of them). Edward Mercieca, as usual, turns in a creditable performance although his energy is likely to wear an audience down with all his bounding and bellowing.

To offset this, March and Coppini’s able turn as the two gentle poisoners is required to keep the show on an even keel. They’re delightful in their roles and sit at the heart of the performance.
The third nephew, evil Jonathan, was played to good effect by Joe Depasquale. His tittering, neurotic psychopath routine actually brought something new to the role. It wasn’t Karloff’s detached, authoritarian evil but something altogether more strange. Depasquale made the character a twisted sort of schoolboy, combining charm and menace to good effect. It was certainly the most original characterization in the show.
Mortimer is engaged to marry Elaine Harper (Kate de Cesare) the beautiful daughter of a prissy old reverend (well played by Chris Hudson, it’s a shame he wasn’t in it for longer). De Cesare spent most of the play fretting about the stage, wringing her hands and shrieking – she did all of that very well, and was funniest when confronted by the wicked Jonathan. However the chemistry between Mortimer and his fiancee never really gelled, and (as the romantic fulcrum of the story) that presented a few problems.
When Jonathan gate-crashes the Brewster home, in desperate need of a hide out, he’s accompanied by his trusty plastic surgeon Dr Einstein (Renato Dimech, who did an excellent job of it) – the two actors worked together seamlessly and their antics on stage were amongst the funniest. It’s interesting to note that the play contained a lot of its best moments when parallel characters were on stage – the Brewster spinsters, Jonathan and his doctor, the film critic (Mercieca) and an aspiring playwright (Colin Willis as Officer O’Hara).
There were several other policemen, whose attempts at American accents were by turns hilarious and cringe-worthy – Steve Hili pulled it off with some aplomb, and the kind of “you dirty rat” diction that would make James Cagney blush.
MADC have pulled off a tight and funny performance, with able actors and a darkly funny script. Perhaps a lot of the Roosevelt gags fall flat, the buttoned- Victorian aunts are a parody of themselves, the world has changed and Arsenic and Old Lace is an artifact, with laughs at the period’s mores as much as the black comedy.

Still, audiences can be sure of an entertaining night out, revisiting a film many of us remember as one of Hollywood’s kookiest productions. Enjoy!

The Magician & The Fiddler

Image Copyright: Krista Bonello Rutter Giappone

Marvin the Marvel takes Browning’s advice, ‘a man’s reach should exceed his grasp’, a little too literally. Alas, all his vaulting ambitions are matched by a capability only adequate to plunging off the end-of-the-pier – where he belongs – into the murky depths below. Stick to children’s parties and seaside resorts, is my advice to him.

Harry reread the review, over his morning cup of Earl Grey tea. He mouthed the words to himself, lingering over their shapes, framed by a pleasant, mild tea-taste. The grapefruit juice that chased it down was bitter. He felt the tiniest pang of guilt; but decided that he loved his job after all.

‘Were we too harsh?’ asked Monica, folding her newspaper and setting it beside her.

Harry shrugged.

‘I mean, it was terrible, there’s no denying that,’ Monica rationalised.

‘It’s our duty to keep our readers informed – and forewarned,’ Harry said cheerfully. He stood up and stretched, turning towards the window. ‘It’s a lovely day outside.’

Harry had no reservations about writing bad reviews; indeed, claims of moral duty aside, Monica suspected he enjoyed them rather more than was strictly necessary. Monica’s qualms, on the other hand, may have had something to do with her own insecurities as a fiddler. She had never attempted public performance – she suffered from a mortal terror of critics. Instead, she played an accompaniment to the crickets living in the hedgerow behind the house. She found this made for a more comforting arrangement of sounds.

Harry and Monica were theatre critics for different newspapers. Which meant they often got sent to watch and review the same shows. Last night’s had been a random addition – the RSC had cancelled their production of The Spanish Tragedy, and they’d decided to review a much-hyped magic show instead. Years of experience as the panto dame at the local corn exchange comprised the extent of Harry’s knowledge – quite a reasonable qualification, he thought.

Marvin the Marvel, magician and author of such esoteric volumes as Dangerous Fabrics, Voodoo for Beginners, The Multiple Uses of Cats, and one detective novel – Long-Distance Murder, had just launched his first solo show. It was cheap and tacky entertainment fare. It might have gone down quite well at Butlins, thought Monica – but Marvin was well out of his depth with last night’s audience, and he didn’t know the first thing about dealing with hecklers – the show started its slow grind towards an agonisingly awkward drawn-out halt as soon as the little girl in the audience yelled out, ‘I can see the string!’ Marvin had ended the show on an – admittedly spectacular – finale, going up in smoke. Everyone had cheered; no one harder than Harry. Monica had held her breath too long, and had simply been grateful for the opportunity to release her pent-up laughter.

With no work till tomorrow night – press night for another re-visioning of Beckett’s Endgame – Monica decided to devote her time to practising on the fiddle, and Harry idly contemplated doing some work in the garden. He wanted to see how the strawberries were coming along.

The phone call was a little out of the blue, but Harry and Monica had learned to expect the inconveniences that came with being a critic – the angry letters bristling with hurt pride, the deadly shards of glass, the occasional death-threat.

Monica answered.

‘Hello, it’s Marvin the Marvel here.’

Monica could barely contain herself. ‘Oh, hello Mr Marvel.’ She couldn’t manage any more than that; the urge to giggle was rising like an irrepressible tide.

‘I read the reviews.’ Silence.

‘Oh, that’s – good.’ She drew in deep breaths and steadied her quavering voice.

‘You will regret this.’

Marvin spoke in intensely dramatic tones, every word seemingly calculated to conjure up a spell. This was too much for Monica. Peals of laughter tore away at her reserve. ‘I’m sorry…’

‘You will be.’ The line went dead.

‘Guess who that was.’ She told Harry. The shared laughter over the affair raised their spirits, and cast its happy glow over the rest of the day.

That evening, they had a couple of glasses of red, and a lively discussion on hubris in Julius Caesar.

Monica crawled out of bed at 11am to answer the doorbell, the next morning. She signed for delivery, and waited for the parcel to be unloaded. ‘It’s the whole truckload, miss. Would you like any help?’ She shook her head.

She circled the truck in bemused wonderment. What could it be? Stage props? Scenery? Their own independent production of her play, Where has all the marmalade gone? (a cross between cutting social satire and Winnie the Pooh) wasn’t due to enter the rehearsal-process till September.

Did Harry mean to surprise her?

‘I have no idea where it came from. Have you tried looking inside?’ Harry eyed it quizzically.

‘No. I wanted to wait for you.’

‘Well then, let’s see, shall we?’

Monica threw open the door. Inside were rows upon rows of shelves, stacked to the heights with books. Mostly lurid paperback novels, tattered vintage comics – books with screaming titles that marched across the spines – and occasionally dripped blood-red ink – pursued by a series of exclamation marks.

There was one particular row of horror paperbacks – more lurid affairs, like bound volumes of lost Victorian penny-dreadfuls. An entire series of volumes, each dedicated to a monster; there was one on ‘Werewolves’, one on ‘The Undead’, another on ‘Frankenstein’s monster’… yet another on ‘Mummies’.

Monica’s eye caught something on a higher shelf, leaning with its back to the wall, frontcover facing out. As her gaze tried to focus, she read disappearing snatches… something about the Transformations of Fredric Marsh… Richard Mansfield… The cover-picture was a garish drawing of Mansfield clutching a beaker, face twisting itself into impossible shapelessness.

She climbed up the shelves towards it, Harry’s entreaties to ‘be careful’ vague muffled echoes on the edge of hearing. A nasty laugh cut through the dreamhaze. Though she knew it was there, the book vanished as soon as she reached out for it. Her grasp scooped air and insubstantial colours, that broke their containment and spread outwards in ripples as her fingertips dipped into the cover-that-was-no-longer-there. She groped around in the place where she was sure it had been, knowing that it was still there – merely inaccessible to her senses.

In the meantime, the monster-books on the lower shelf were splitting their bindings, and expelling their contents. Mummies stumbled forth, blindly staggering past. Bats burst forth with an explosive flurry. Gnashing wolves tumbled out, flattening Harry under padded feet. The walls of books imploded towards them, in monster-shaped fragments. Monica, thrown off balance by a giant taloned flying creature, fell to the ground. She clutched Harry’s arm, speechless, as a stream of skeletons rattled past.

Marvin the Marvel was standing on the doorstep, ushering his fiendish forces into the house. Monica and Harry ran back in, after his retreating back. The living-room was overrun with the creatures of nightmare – ravens cackled with glee as they dropped the tea-things onto unwitting zombies; werewolves mocked Lily the wire-haired terrier; and Marvin stirred sugar into his tea.

Alarmed at the manner in which they had been ousted from their own living-room, Harry confronted Marvin. ‘What… Just. What?’

Marvin nodded to two ratchety skeletons, who chased the couple through their house, and out the back door.

‘Oh, sorry about all the dirt on your welcome mat…’ Marvin threw back his head and laughed. Harry was about to say something about the whole maniacal performance being rather tastelessly overstated, but thought better of it, as the two sentry-skeletons sat down to guard the entrance. Earth fell from their joints as they marshalled their bones into a cross-legged position.

The crickets were out in full orchestral harmony that night. Monica picked up her fiddle and played, under the light of the moon. The howls of wolves picked up the refrain.

Krista Bonello Rutter Giappone

The Day the Schlinks Stood Still

By Le_Moyne_de_Morgues (La Royale, Jean Randier, p.31)

I think there’s room for both private exploration and group work in Yoga. (Sting)

Trust Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner to come up with something like this. Mind you, it’s a valid point, however this is light years away from what lies within the interests of Schlockanoids, and it’s included here only to have the popular singer’s name tagged in this post and hopefully cyber cheat a couple of extra hits in the process.

Then again, maybe Sting is not the ideal choice for that.

Anyways.

John Lennon (now that’s more like it) crooned about a certain Lucy whose best friends resided in the sky. He always denied the connection between Lucy-Sky-Diamonds and LSD and everybody believed him. NASA, of all people, proved him right because the heavenly drug of choice is NOT LSD but cocaine. CHECK THIS ONE OUT.

No wonder then that Robo Trek was invented. Robonaut 2, or R2, as he is known to close acquaintances, is immune to the allure of the white dust and thus more reliable. Also, considering that it consists of a mere head, torso and pair of arms, it cost $2.5 million to build and this impinged not a little on the recreation budget. No more fancy mind-altering stuff and anti-gravitational nights out- it’s back to Gin Rummy and Tiddlywinks.

Or Planetspotting. According to data acquired by NASA’s Kepler space telescope there could be billions of Earthlike planets in the Milky Way galaxy and thus the chances of having extraterrestrial intelligent life are increased dramatically. God knows if we are in dire need of more Dr Spocks.

Who sing about big hairy feet.

And who are hopefully fans of Michelangelo and Steven Spielberg rather than Tim Burton.

By Tama Leaver

Speaking of which, io9 published a list of great ET spoofs.  Check it out. Do yourself a favour and do not disclose how many of them you have actually seen. And yes, E.T. porn is included and even though it’s nobody’s business but mine, I am attending therapy sessions.

[Sigh.]

Here is the one about Kleeborp.

Image: Orchi

One need not go all the way to a galaxy far, far away to experience the thrill of discovery. There are always tropical rain forests and godforsaken jungles for some good old-fashioned perilous expeditions. Lurking amongst arboriculture that’s gone haywire there might be dinosaurs, for instance, which are just as cool. Look at what horror guru Mick Garris has to say about Irwin Allen’s 1960 adaptation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World. This film is awesome because instead of using models and stop motion animation, the special effects team actually stuck fins and props to real lizards and then filmed them!

IT’S METHOD ACTING LIZARDS, MAN!!!! (Eat your heart out Mr Brando!)

And if it’s not a land that time forgot, it can be a loch in Scotland (ok, I see the similarities too) which houses a creature whose sporadic sightings and much-debated practical use in the grand scheme of things, made it become the stuff of legend. It’s not Ewan McGregor but Nessie, the aquatic perplexity that is at the moment a Disney-in-the-making.

Following more or less the same trajectory, Glendon Mellow has an ubersome cool site full of ubersome cool drawings and paintings collectively known as Art in Awe of Science. There are numerous extrapolations/hybrids of extinct beasts and humanoids that are so high on the WOW factor.

One can explore the sky, one can explore the land but what about the ocean? This is one of the most exciting things ever: if you CLICK HERE, you will find an article detailing how a certain species of algae ‘insinuate themselves into salamander embryos’ allowing them to breathe underwater. If it is possible with salamanders, why not with humans? And as we speak, I bet that James Cameron is knocking on the door of the nearest cosplay shop for that Aquaman costme that nobody ever rents.

And with that, I am going to end this month’s Schlinks. To round things up, here is a gratuitous video tutorial of how to make an origami swan: