Tonight I saw Captain Blood (1935) at the Brattle Theatre, where Errol Flynn was eminently piratical and I was reminded once again that I need to see more Basil Rathbone. It was being shown as part of a summer series on Flynn, but whoever was in charge of the theater's sound system chose to play selections from Rogue's Gallery: Pirate Ballads, Sea Songs, and Chanteys (2006) as moviegoers took their seats; the film came on halfway through "Coast of High Barbary," which is all about piracy. I approved.
Before that, I was part of the Fitzcarraldean trek through the Arnold Arboretum that was the filming of the book trailer for The Red Tree. Somehow nobody had brought mosquito repellant, so if I get malaria or yellow fever, I'm blaming Sarah Crowe, but I look forward to the results of all the footage Spooky shot; there were carding-white clouds stacked behind the treeline, and toward evening the tropical damp in the air was even beginning to cool off. I made the acquaintance of Chris Ewen; I was not lost forever within the shade of a beech tree that Yggdrasil would envy. And I now possess a copy of the book itself, acquired at the Harvard Book Store on my way to the Arboretum. I can only encourage the general population to do the same. Ignore what the cover says about parapsychologists and unearthing revelations; the novel is about nothing less than the act of making narratives, the way stories seep up like sap and layer down like leaves, and the pearled beauty of the insect in amber is no comfort to the inclusion. Or it's about the sound of typewriter keys and the hot, humming stillness of certain days in summer and the glint of fishing line. Either way, it's a book I want to see noticed. So go on. Check it out. Feed the Tree.
Before that, I was part of the Fitzcarraldean trek through the Arnold Arboretum that was the filming of the book trailer for The Red Tree. Somehow nobody had brought mosquito repellant, so if I get malaria or yellow fever, I'm blaming Sarah Crowe, but I look forward to the results of all the footage Spooky shot; there were carding-white clouds stacked behind the treeline, and toward evening the tropical damp in the air was even beginning to cool off. I made the acquaintance of Chris Ewen; I was not lost forever within the shade of a beech tree that Yggdrasil would envy. And I now possess a copy of the book itself, acquired at the Harvard Book Store on my way to the Arboretum. I can only encourage the general population to do the same. Ignore what the cover says about parapsychologists and unearthing revelations; the novel is about nothing less than the act of making narratives, the way stories seep up like sap and layer down like leaves, and the pearled beauty of the insect in amber is no comfort to the inclusion. Or it's about the sound of typewriter keys and the hot, humming stillness of certain days in summer and the glint of fishing line. Either way, it's a book I want to see noticed. So go on. Check it out. Feed the Tree.
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