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fictionturnedherbrain

'Touch him for me, Gladys!'

Spinning the roulette wheel of niche obsessions / Sideblog of alphadelta227529

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fictionturnedherbrain · 15 days

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Sooo, I’ve almost finished listening to the audiobook of The Scarlet Pimpernel

#percy x marguerite #the scarlet pimpernel #perfection

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fictionturnedherbrain · 16 days

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Freddie Mercury (1946-1991) Queen - lead vocals and piano Songs: "Bohemian Rhapsody," "Seven Seas of Rhye" Defeated Opponents: Leonard Cohen, Sting, Sammy Davis Jr., Marc Bolan Propaganda: see visual

Brian May (1947-) Queen - guitar Songs: "White Queen (As It Began,)" "The Prophet's Song" Defeated Opponents: Ronnie Lane, John Coltrane, Roger Hodgson, Paul McCartney Propaganda: "He's very tall, his hair is the stuff of legends, his brain is the size of planets, he has a doctorate in astronomy, he built the guitar he still plays to this day (like a god) as a teenager. His songwriting and musical abilities have made him a legend in his own right and he also plays with this little group called Queen. Everyone who's ever met him unanimously say that he's the nicest, most decent person there ever was. Also, he's ridiculously beautiful in every decade he's been on this earth. Need I say more?" "While Freddie is hot and Roger is pretty, Brian stands out as sort of ethereally beautiful. He floats across the stage in Zandra Rhodes while delivering heavy riffs, then switches to self-harmonizing in as light and fae a manner as you could wish." "An Angel singing with his beautiful voice and his very own special guitar. On the best Rock tracks ever! His face like a greek god surrounded by heavenly curls, prancing skillfully on the stage with his long legs in platform shoes."

Visual Propaganda for Freddie Mercury:

Visual Propaganda for Brian May:

#what a crock of shit #'oh wow a tie they are equal'#no you engineered the poll to make them tie #freddie is hot #brian craves attention and gets it

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fictionturnedherbrain · 20 days

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Goodreads has just told me I've read Emma 7 times in 4 years... I definitely have a problem... And that doesn't even count the times I've picked up a copy and read my favourite scenes on a whim

#same #in fact i might just be due a reread #emma jane austen

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fictionturnedherbrain · 20 days

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- the bell jar, sylvia plath

#sylvia plath #the bell jar

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fictionturnedherbrain · 20 days

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Sylvia Plath: Snowblitz

In London, the day after Christmas (Boxing Day) – it began to snow: my first snow in England. For five years I had been tactfully asking ‘Do you ever have snow at all?’ as I steeled myself to the six months of wet, tepid grey that make up an English winter. ‘Ooo I do remember snow,’ was the usual reply, ‘when I were a lad.’ Whereupon I would enthusiastically recall the huge falls of crisp and spectacular white I snowballed, tunnelled in and sledded on in the States when I was young. Now I felt the same sweet chill of anticipation at my London window, watching the pieces of darkness incandesce and they drove through the glow of the streetlight. Since my flat (once the home of W.B. Yeats and so market on a round, blue plaque) has no central heating, my chill was not metaphorical but very real.

The next day the snow lay about – white, picturesque, untouched, and it went on snowing. The next day the snow still lay about – untouched. There seemed to be a lot more of it. Bits plopped in over my boot tops as I crossed the unplowed street. The main road had not been plowed either. Random buses and cabs crawled along in deep white tracks. Here and there men with newspapers, brooms and rags attempted to discover their cars.

Most of the local shops still foundered in a foot or two of fluff, the customers’ footsteps like birdtracks looping from door to door. A small space in front of the chemist’s had been cleared. Into this I gratefully stepped.

‘I supposed you don’t have snowplows in England, heh, heh! I joked, loading up with Kleenex paddipads, black-currant juice, rose-hip syrup and bottles of nose drops and cough medicine (labelled The Linctus in Gothic script) – those sops and aids to babies with winter colds.

‘No,’ the chemist beamed back, ‘no snowplows I’m afraid. We in England are simply not prepared for snow. After all, it falls so seldom.’

This seemed to me a reasonable, if ominous reply. If England was due for a new ice age, what then?

‘Shall I’, the chemist leaned forward with a confidential smile, ‘show you what I have found helpful?’

‘Oh yes, do,’ I desperately said, thinking of tranquillizers.

The chemist lifted, shyly and proudly, a rough six-foot plank from behind a counter of Trufoods and cough pastilles.

‘A board!’

‘A board?’

The chemist closed his eyes and gripped the plank, blissful as a housewife with a rolling pin.

‘With this board I simply push the snow aside.’

I stumbled out with my bundles. I smiled. Everybody smiled. The snow was a huge joke, and our predicament that of Alpine climbers marooned in a cartoon.

Then the snow hardened and froze. Sidewalks and streets became a rugged terrain of ice over whose treacherous crevices old people teetered, clutching dog leads or steered by strangers. One morning my doorbell rang.

‘Shovel your steps, lydy?’ asked a small cockney with a vast canvas pram.

‘How much?’ I cynically wondered, not knowing the going rate and expecting extortion.

‘Oh, thruppence. A penny.’

I melted and said al right.

Then, foreseeing slackness: ‘Mind you chip off the ice!’

Two hours later the boy was still working. Four hours later he rang to borrow a broom. I glanced out of the window and saw a pram full of tiny icebergs. Finally he had finished. I inspected the job. He seemed to have cleaned between the railing struts with a chisel. ‘Looks like it might snow again.’ Hopefully he surveyed the low grey sky. I gave him a sixpence and he vanished in an avalanche of thanks with the snow mounteined pram.

It did snow again. Then came the cold. The morning of the Big Freeze I discovered the bathtub half full of filthy water. I could not understand it. I do not understand plumbing. I waited a day; maybe it would go away. But the water did not go away, it increased, both in depth and dirtiness. The next day I woke to find myself staring at a stain in my beautiful new white ceiling. As I looked, the ceiling discharged, at various spots, drops of viscous liquid that splopped onto the rug. The ceiling paper sagged at the seams.

‘Help!’ I cried to the house agent from a puddle of black water in the telephone kiosk. I had no home phone because getting one took at least three months. ‘My ceiling is leaking and the bathtub is full of dirty water.’

Silence.

‘Not my dirty water,’ I hastened to add. ‘Water that floods up into the tub of its own accord. I think there is snow in it. Maybe it’s roof water.’

This last information was a bit apocalyptic. Had I seen snow in the tub water? It certainly sounded more dangerous.

‘The water may well be from the roof, ‘ the agent faintly said. Then more sternly ‘You realize there is not a plumber to be had in London. Everyone has the same trouble. Why, I have had three burst pipes in my flat.’

‘Yes, but you know how to fix them’, I resolutely cooed. ‘There is no cold water in the cold water taps either. What does that mean?’

‘We, muttered the agent, ‘shall soon see.’

The builders and the agent’s assistant arrived within the hour, booted and puffing and tracking up black muck. With shovels and picks they crawled through the attic trapdoor and soon great masses of snow were thunking from the roof into the yard.

‘Why does the roof leak?’ I asked the agent’s assistant.

‘These are old roofs. It’s all right when it rains, but when it snows, the snow piles up and up behind the gutters. It’s all right as long as it stays cold.’ He smiled. ‘But when it melts!’

‘But where I come from there is snow every winter and the roofs never leak.’

The agent’s assistant blushed. ‘Well, there is a faulty gutter just over your bed.’

‘Over my bed! Hadn’t you better repair it? If it snows and melts any more I’ll wake up in a mess of wet plaster. Or maybe I won’t even wake up.’

The agent’s assistant didn’t look as if he had seriously considered repairing the gutter. After all, I could see him hoping there might not be any more snow.

‘You better repair it. I don’t want to have to bother you again.’

The men descended and began to swab the discoloured and still dripping ceiling with a general air of having things fixed. I ran into the babies’ room in answer to a crash and a scream. My son, in an access of energy, had just shaken his cot apart, snapping all the screws. When I returned, coddling his sobs I heard the men saying ‘Whoops’ to one another. They were holding a yellow plastic bucket to a geyser of ceiling water with the embarrassed air of covering some obscenity.

‘How long,’ I demanded, ‘is this leakage going to go on? You know it’s like Chinese water torture, don’t you drip drip drip all night. Can’t you put a bucket up in the attic?’

‘Ooo mum, there’s not room to stand a candle in that attic. The gutter lays straight atop your ceiling.’

They left the bucket on the floor, just in case, and with promises to repair the gutter before the weekend, stumped off.

I have not seen them since.

Then the agent himself arrived, with bowler and moisture detector, to see about my leakage, the failure of cold water and the tub full of Alpine fluid.

With the moisture detector he pricked the bedroom ceiling and assured me that it would not, in the immediate future, fall.

‘You realize, though, that you are in danger of having no drinking water.’

I said no, I had not realized it. Why?

‘The builders haven’t properly layered the pipes to the house and they are frozen. I would turn off your immersion heater in case it burns the empty tank. When the water in the upstairs cistern is finished, that’s the end.’

I tried to recall some of the things one cannot do without water beside washing one’s face and making tea. There were many.

‘I’ll try to get the pipes fixed by tonight,’ the agent promised. ‘The drinking water situation is more important than your tub.’

He stepped onto the snowy balcony to survey the maze of ancient pipes against the wall, then went in to fiddle wit the water taps in the kitchen. ‘Aha!’ He finally said. ‘At first I thought the plumbers might have connected a pie wrong and that the tub water could indeed be coming from the roof. But look!’ He instructed me to stand and watch the tub full of water while he went into the kitchen and ran the hot tap.

Bubbles and rings plopped up from the open drain hole

‘You see’ the agent accused, ‘it is your own water filling the tub. You have a frozen waste pipe, so it can’t escape.’

Then he invited me out on the balcony.

With dazzling glibness he rattled off the sources and origins of the twining pipes. ‘That is your sink pipe, that is your bath pipe, those going up into the air are air pipes.’ I stared in despair. The bath waste pipe alone ran some twenty feet down the wall and along the balcony before it bent to drop its load into an open drain below.

‘Somewhere the bath waste pipe is frozen.\

‘What happens,’ I asked, ‘if you run hot water in the tub?’

‘Oh it just melts the top bit of ice and freezes again.’

‘Then what can I do?’

‘Hold candles on the pipe. Or pour hot water on it. Of course I could have the builders put a blowtorch to it, but you’d have to have it done at your own expense.’

‘But you are responsible for the outside repairs, and the pipes are outside the house.’

‘Ah, but,’ the agent evilly gleamed, ‘the bath is inside. Have you been plugging your drains every night to prevent water escaping and freezing?’

‘No-o. Nobody told me to. But I always turn off the taps very tightly.’

I felt cornered. ‘Granted,’ said the agent loftily, ‘the Water Board should have sent round leaflets telling what to do in such an emergency.’

‘What do you do at your flat?’

‘Oh, I run great douches of boiling water through several times a day and bung up the drains at night. Terrible waste of electricity, of course, but it seems to work.’

After the agent had folded himself into muffler, gloves and bowler and left with his moisture detector, I pondered his advice. Douches of boiling water would do nothing if the pipes weren’t already cleared, and I had a limited, perhaps even now extinct supply of water. The candle cure seemed miserably Dickensian. Still, to be doing something, I filled a bucket with hot water and shivered out onto the balcony. At random I emptied the almost immediately lukewarm water onto a spot of black, recalcitrant pipe. Then went in to look at the tub, hoping for a miracle. There wasn’t any.

The dirty stuff didn’t stir.

All that materialized was the downstairs tenant.

‘Did you happen to empty some water on your balcony just now?’

‘The agent told me to,’ I confessed.

‘The agent’s a fool. There is a puddle leaking through onto my kitchen floor. And my front walls are dripping. That of course is not your fault. But how can I lay carpets over a whole lot of water?’

I said I had no idea.

In the street that evening I passed great frozen fields of water. From, I presumed, burst pipes. At a tap newly raised from the sidewalk at one corner, an old age pensioner stopped to fill a fat flowered china pitcher.

‘Is that drinking water?’ I called above the mean east wind.

‘I suppose’, he croaked, ‘they put it there for that purpose.’

‘Shocking!’ we both cried at the same moment, and passed in the darkness like sad ships.

Later that night I heard the noise of a Niagara overhead and feet thudding up my hall stairs and frenzied knocking. The taps gurgled and choked. I flung open the door and a ruddy young plumber rushed in. ‘Is the water coming?’

I covered my eyes and pointed up on the roaring. ‘You look I can’t Will it flood everything?’

‘Oh it’s just filling the cistern. It’s all right.’

As for the tub, I decided to wait until the thaw – that mystical, unpredictable date when affairs would better. Every day I emptied its dirty contents by bucket into the toilet and flushed them away.

Oddly enough, no one really beefed.

I asked a man holding a small blue gas flame to a button of pipe at the side of the house if the flame helped. ‘Hasn’t yet,’ he cheerfully said.

The cheer seemed universal. We were all mucking in together as in the Blitz. An Indian girl in the Chalk Farm tube told me her house had been without any water for three weeks, when the pipes burst and flooded the lot. They had to go out to eat, and the landlady rationed out buckets of water each day.

‘Sorry to get you out of the warm,’ the milkman apologized, calling for this weekly ten and six. ‘What we got now is nine months of winter and three of bad weather.’

Then came the power cuts.

One soot-colored and frigid dawn I snapped on the two buttons of the electric heater the builders had stuck, like a Martian surgical mask, in the middle of my otherwise beautiful Georgian wall. A red, consoling glow – two bars of it. Then nothing. I snapped on a light. Nothing. Had I blown a fuse with my piecemeal heating – the little mushroom-shaped childproof electric fan heaters I lugged round from room to room (there were never enough). They had been going defunct lately, on by one, fanning out the air. I peered into the grey street. No light showed anywhere. My personal concern must be universal. Still, I felt dismal. What had happened? How long would it last?

I knocked at the flat downstairs. A warm oil stench flooded the hall, from one of those paraffin heaters I would never buy because of my fear of fire.

‘Oh, didn’t you know, there’s a power cut,’ said the tenant who read newspapers.

‘Why?’

‘Strikes. A baby died in hospital because of it.’

‘But what about my babies? They’ve got flu. They can’t do this to us, it isn’t right.’

The tenant shrugged with a resigned and helpless smile. Then he loaned me a green rubber hot water bottle. I wrapped my daughter in a blanket with the hot water bottle and set her over a bowl of warm milk and her favourite puzzle. The baby I dressed in a snowsuit. Luckily I cooked by gas.

Hours later my little girl crowed ‘Fire on.’ And there it was, dull, red, ugly but utterly wonderful.

The next power cut came unannounced a few days later, at tea.

By this time I had flu too – that British alternation of fever and chills for which my doctor offered no relief or cure. You either die or you don’t.

A neighbor popped in with prize booty – night lights. To see by. The shops were sold out of tapers, candles, everything. She had stood in a queue to get these. In the street old people were being helped down the perilous steps of cellar flats by candle light. Candles filled the windows, mellow and yellow.

An electrician told me the generators simply weren’t equipped to take care of the load of new electrical appliances. They were building new generators but not fast enough. The statisticians hadn’t envisioned the demand.

Then, just a month after the first snowfall, the weather relaxed. Eaves began to drip. With a sordid gurgle my bathtub emptied of its own accord. In the street I saw official-looking men sprinkling shovelfuls of powder on the already half-melted ice.

‘What’s that?’ I demanded.

‘Salt and sawdust. To make it melt.’

I also saw my first London snowplow – small, doughty, with a crew of men helping it along by chipping and chopping the truculent remnants and dumping them into an open van. ‘Where have you been all month?’ I asked one of them.

‘Oh, we’ve been coming.’

‘How many plows do you have in all?’

‘Five.’

I didn’t ask whether the five served our zone only, or the whole of London. It didn’t really seem to matter.

‘What do you do with the snow?’

‘We empty it down the sewers. Then there’s floods.’

‘What will you do if this happens every year?’ I asked my agent.

He blenched. ‘Oh it’s not been this bad since nineteen-forty-seven.’

I could tell he didn’t want to think about it – the possibility of an annual snow blitz. Dress up warm, lots of tea and bravery. That seemed the answer. After all, what but war or weather breeds such comradeliness in a big, cold city?

Meanwhile, the pipes stay outside. Where else?

And what if there is another snow blitz?

And another?

My children will grow up resolute, independent and tough, fighting through queues for candles for me in my aguey old age. While I brew waterless tea – that at least the future should bring – on a gas ring in the corner. If the gas, too is not kaput.

[1963]

#sylvia plath #finally finished heather clark's bio #now i want an award #but also to read more of sylvia's prose #like this account of the big freeze 1963

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fictionturnedherbrain · 23 days

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Freddie Mercury (1946-1991) Queen - lead vocals and piano Songs: "Bohemian Rhapsody," "Seven Seas of Rhye" Defeated Opponents: Leonard Cohen, Sting, Sammy Davis Jr., Marc Bolan Propaganda: see visual

Visual Propaganda for Freddie Mercury:

Visual Propaganda for Brian May:

#seriously?#fucking seriously?#it's all very well being nice and sending pity votes for brian #but LOOK AT FREDDIE #that man was beautiful #freddie mercury

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fictionturnedherbrain · 1 month

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"You might not see one in a hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley." - Emma, Jane Austen

Emma (2009) | 1x02

#hahahaha YES #nice passive aggressive penship wentworth #what else can you do?#VOTE KNIGHTLEY #jonny lee miller #emma 2009

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fictionturnedherbrain · 1 month

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Romola Garai and Jonny Lee Miller in EMMA (2009)

Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked.

#the most superior man #mr knightley ftw #jonny lee miller #emma 2009

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fictionturnedherbrain · 1 month

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Semi-Final Two

Propaganda...

Mr Knightley (2009):

Johnny Lee Miller as Knightley is JUST SO. I mean the way he says "if I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more" IS JUUUST. The dance scene. The tentative shy smiles. The fact you can see in his eyes the entire time " I am completely in love with this woman. She'll never love me back BUT I DO NOT CARE I'LL LOVE HER FROM A DISTANCE ANYWAY" IS JUUUUUUST

We need to appreciate Mr Knightley more for both his snark and for those soft eyes just so full of love for Emma

GIF by dearemma

I was just going to send in the actual dance but the little panic he has when Emma says she knows his secret is just soo charming. There was some thread on twitter a few years ago about how a romcom man's most important quality is knowing how to look at a woman and JLM is just the master of it in this Emma

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I really feel like the pictures say it all. He stands there, head tilted to one side. He is listening to you. His posture is relaxed. His gaze open, frank, candid. He's not trying at all. He just is.And that's why he is Knightley.

GIF by night-unfurls-its-splendour

Some propaganda, not just for Jonny Lee Miller, but the general interpretation of 09 Knightley. I have some excerpts here from my review of the 09 adaptation:

What I really think is great about the 2009 interpretation of Mr. Knightley is what an easy and comforting presence he is, without being apologetic when he scolds Emma. I think this is communicated especially well by how often we are actually shown Mr. Knightley taking his almost-daily walks to Hartfield, how smoothly he comes and goes, and how happy Emma is every time she sees him coming up the path (usually, just at the perfect moment when she needs something to put her back to rights.)

Here is Emma, feeling lonely after Miss Taylor's wedding. And in the background, walking up to Hartfield--there's Knightley. He's always been there for her, and he always will be.

And also this Mr. Knightley is as understated as ever, but I wanna highlight this outfit and why I love it: This is Knightley’s first appearance in the series and it’s the perfect establishing shot that shows the viewer everything they need to know about Emma and Knightley’s relationship and how it has always been. He sort of materializes, out of focus in the background, but Emma immediately knows he’s there. And to accentuate how much Knightley is part of her home and scenery, his clothes (similar shades of pale tan, white and minty green to the wall behind him) almost camouflage him and make him seem at one with the moulding of her home.

Additionally, Jonny Lee Miller captures Knightley’s playful qualities, and his exasperation is so endearing

GIF by christophernolan

GIF by sashajames

GIF by christophernolan

I can’t be the only one tickled by this Knightley’s frustration with Emma! JLM FTW!

Jonny Lee Miller is mesmerizing in any role he inhabits. It’s 2009 Knightly all the way.

no but can you actually go vote for mr knightley he was FOUNDATIONAL for 16 year old me my favourite portrayal of my favourite austen man cannot fall at this hurdle!!!

He is my ultimate Austen Dream Man, I'm with him until the end. Honestly this adaptation is my very favorite of them all (P&P 1995 is a VERY close second) because it made me fall in love with Emma as a story? Honestly no other adaptation or indeed even my reading of the book made me love it quite as much. My crush on JLM goes back to 1995 and I do think he is one of the better actors of his generation - his range alone is just impeccable. The fact that he can go from Sick Boy to Mr. Knightley to Sherlock to Jordan Chase is really something. Of all the actors I know, his range is the most impressive. But i love how bright and sunny this adaptation is. The colors, it is as vibrant as Emma should be! The Kate Beckinsale Emma is dark and terrifying to me, not at all suitable an adaptation. I like the Paltrow Emma a lot, but it's got the same issue the 2005 P&P has for me -- it's just too short. This is tonally just right, and the casting is lovely, and JLM is just at his dashing best. His face is so expressive, he is so capable of communicating so much without saying a word. His open jealousy of Frank Churchill is delightful to watch. His face when Emma tells him his secret is out at the ball! JLM is maybe the most underrated actor of his generation and I LOVE that he has been multiple Austen heroes. I maintain that in a future adaptation of Pride & Prejudice, an older JLM would make an EXCELLENT Mr. Bennet. He would convey the right amount of grumpy but fond beautifully.

Look. Do people realize JLM hates wearing period clothing AND hates dancing? And yet in Emma he's sashaying around in pink jackets looking amazing and is THAT convincing? That's called BRILLIANT ACTING!!

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A tiny bit of Mr Knightley 2009 propaganda but I love that they put in that bit from the book where he looks like he's going to kiss Emma's hand when he's saying goodbye but then he hesitates and doesn't and I just...it's such a tiny detail but conveys so much!

GIF by myforeverworldofmovie

It’s the only Emma adaptation that really hits the romance notes well. Knightley’s crowning moment of awesome really feels like it (when he rescues Harriet from humiliation) and his subsequent dancing with Emma does make you feel a shift in their relations. Love this adaptation. - This Knightley and Emma in particular are equals. They quarrel, not because he’s telling her off, but because they can have an argument because they know each other, trust each other and care about each others opinions, and there is never a sense of domination of one over the other. This adds so much fire to the romance, and it’s so unusual for a romance of that era (or even one written today!!). - Emma is rich, clever and beautiful and as powerful as a woman of her age and situation could be at the time and she married Knightley for no other reason but because he’s her best friend and his company for the rest of her life will enrich her. - He even leaves his house to move in with her!

Captain Wentworth (1995):

Ciaran Hinds has that perfect ruggedness yet friendliness to his face that makes him the perfect charming Wentworth. And all of the longing that he manages to convey in his eyes is so hot.

Wentworth may be angry/resentful with Anne but in general he is charming and the best friend you could ever have. Ciaran gets the pleasant parts of his character and brings them out, while keeping a guarded coolness (protective camouflage) with Anne.

GIF by molinaesque

I dunno if this counts as propaganda or not, but Ciaran Hinds has a face that looks like it was jackhammered out of a shale cliff.

If a line like 'I am half agony...half hope' comes out of a face like that you know that man has a soul for poetry.

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

F. W.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.

This is propaganda for the next round because I need my boy to be a finalist! But this letter is all the persuasion I need to know that he is a winner

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Ciarán Hinds in this is a whole other level of "a good man" He makes Anne's decision at the end so much more perfect.

#ugh it's the battle of overused quotes by people who haven't read the books #i'm going with 'if i loved you less' of course #mr knightley #jonny lee miller #emma 2009

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fictionturnedherbrain · 1 month

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Aisha (2010) is definitely my second favourite adaptation of Emma (after the 2009 miniseries, of course). It's what Clueless would be for me if Cher wasn't in love with her stepbrother.

Also Abhay Deol in the Mr Knightley role. Yes, please.

#aisha 2010 #sonam kapoor #abhay deol #emma jane austen #austen adaptations

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fictionturnedherbrain · 1 month

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there is thunder in our hearts

#hell yeah fan art #marty saying this to jeff though #randall and hopkirk deceased

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fictionturnedherbrain · 1 month

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Quarter-Final Four

Propaganda...

Mr Tilney (2007) :

I do think that Mr Tilney needs to be seen in motion to be appreciated his attractiveness is his personality and just general charisma and he's FUNNY definetly the funniest austen man

youtube

Super charming, cute, fun, and handsome. What is not to love?

Mr Knightley (2009) :

GIF by dearemma

youtube

Some propaganda, not just for Jonny Lee Miller, but the general interpretation of 09 Knightley. I have some excerpts here from my review of the 09 adaptation:

Here is Emma, feeling lonely after Miss Taylor's wedding. And in the background, walking up to Hartfield--there's Knightley. He's always been there for her, and he always will be.