Friday, June 27, 2003

Читаю...

Воодушевленная историей из предыдущего поста, я решила перечитать Шерлока Холмса. Последний раз я наверное читала его лет в 11, и то, по-русски. Я считаю, что читать в оригинале всегда приятней, так как даже если хороший перевод, истинный смысл и преднамерение слов часто теряется.

Вот к примеру, текст из Пять Зернышек Апельсина, стянутый с lib.ru. Не знаю, где это переводилось, но судите сами.
"Целый день завывал ветер, и дождь барабанил в окна так, что даже здесь, в самом сердце огромного Лондона, мы невольно отрывались на миг от привычного течения жизни и ощущали присутствие грозных сил разбушевавшейся стихии."

А вот оригинал:
"All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognize the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilization, like untamed beasts in a cage."

Совершенно другое настроение.

Эта цитата напомнила мне как в детстве, когда я болела зимой, я читала восмитомник Конан Дойлья, лежа в кровати на огромных пуховых подушках. Моя мама, которая работала в то время машинисткой на дому и печатала сценарии для режисеров одесской киностудии, приносила мне огромные пиалы чая с лимоном, сахаром, и клюквинным вареньем. Я сидела в колготках (помните советские колготки?), носках, и теплой пижаме, под пуховым одеялом, пила чай, и читала о приключениях Шерлока Холмса, под стук печатной машинки доносившийся из соседней комнаты. А потом я спала и мне снился Шерлок Холмс, который выглядил, и наверное всегда будет выглядить, как Василий Ливанов. Я помогала ему расскрывать приступления вместе с Виталием Соломиным, тобишь доктором Ватсоном, и стреляла из револьвера.

Wednesday, June 25, 2003

Получено по email...

Я подписываюсь на мысли одного писателя которые он рассылает со своего Palm, обычно из пабов. WARREN ELLIS

В недавнем выпуске, он баловался писаниной, для практики и для собственного удовольствтя, чтоб "подвигать мозгами". Решил написать адаптацию Шерлока Холмса, для более современного читателя, которого ни чем особым не удивишь. Написанно в форме сценария для кино. English.

Несколько строчек из сценария. Кликнуть, чтоб увидеть полностью.

STAMFORD
The St Bart's Gardens stil amaze me, y'know. No matter what the state of the rest of London, they still bloom.

WATSON
You know why, of course?

STAMFORD
Why?

WATSON
Why the gardens are so rich and beautiful, no matter what? The gardens are planted on mass graves. Lepers, mostly. Good compost.



-----------------------------------------------
FADE IN:


EXT. LONDON DOCKLANDS - 1887

It's bleak and filthy here. Nineteenth Century London was dark, and busy with swarms of people. So it is here, with dockers going about their business as a long line of SOLDIERS crocodiles out of a moored ARMY SHIP.

SUPER: 1887

Each of the soldiers passes through a CHECKPOINT that's really just a wooden table and a seated INSPECTOR, reading through the papers each soldier provides. Reaching the checkpoint; DR JOHN WATSON, a lean man in his early thirties. He stands straight, but is down on his luck: in a dirty army uniform, with a weakened left arm and a small battered suitcase in his right hand.

INSPECTOR
Papers.

Watson hands them over. The Inspector peers through thick little glasses.

INSPECTOR
Captain John Watson.

WATSON
Doctor John Watson. I received my discharge before boarding.

INSPECTOR
Take the sodding uniform off, then. Next.

Wearily, Watson trudges off out of the docks, to the streets beyond.


EXT. LONDON STREET - DAY

Crossing a cobblestoned junction, not too different from the London of today aside from the horses and the dung, Watson looks around.

WATSON
Good God.

Walks on, sourly.

WATSON
London's still a fucking toilet.

Pushing on through the light crowds, Watson sees a tough STREET KID yanking the HANDBAG off an older lady.

WATSON
Hey!

The street kid looks him in the eye.

STREET KID
What?

Watson looks around, sees a POLICEMAN clearly turning his back - can't be bothered.

STREET KID
Got something to say, you gimpy bastard?

The kid pushes Watson in the left shoulder - Watson YELLS with sudden pain.

STREET KID
Come on then. You want some?

Watson drops his suitcase as the kid shoves again -- feints with his left side so that the shove doesn't connect -- and punches the kid in the head with surprising force. The kid drops backwards, smacking the back of his head on the cobblestoned street. He doesn't get up again.

Watson recovers the bag, hands it to the distraught woman.

WATSON
Madam, your handbag.

She's too shocked to speak. This just doesn't happen in London.

Watson, wincing, lifts his own case and soldiers on.


WATSON
A fucking toilet.



INT. PUB - DAY

A smoky pub, half-full. Watson is propped in a corner seat, reading a copy of The Strand magazine. Glaring at it furiously, in fact. He reads it to himself, as if that'd make what he's got there the more believable:

WATSON
"By a man's finger-nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his _expression -- by each of these things the scientific
enquirer may plainly reveal a man's calling and background"

He looks up, to see a large ROACH crawling across the damp, yellowed wall next to him. He addresses it.

WATSON
Is callosities even a word? Honestly, what crap.

He rolls up the newspaper and smacks the roach into pulp with it, even as he hears someone call his name.

STAMFORD (V/O)
John Watson?

WATSON
Hello?

STAMFORD appears at the table, a very clean young man in a suit, the very image of the young doctor.

STAMFORD
Dr John Watson? It is you, isn't it?

WATSON
Is that you were with me at St Bart's Hospital, weren't you? Young Stamford?

STAMFORD
Watson, whatever have you been doing with yourself? You're thin as a rake and you look like you've been roasted on a spit, man.

WATSON
I've just been booted out of the army, Stamford.

STAMFORD
That sounds like call for a drink.

WATSON
Several.

Stamford waves his arm at MARY, the grim woman behind the bar, eagerly sitting down next to Watson.

STAMFORD
Mary! Two pints of best over here!

MARY
Get 'em yourself, you bloody layabout!

STAMFORD
They love me here. So tell. You were in the Afghan War?

WATSON
Army surgeon. Took a bullet in the left shoulder at Maiwand. Busted up the bone pretty badly and clipped the subclavian artery.

STAMFORD
Nasty.

WATSON
They got me back across British lines and on to the hospital train to Peshawar. Which was the worst thing they could have done.

Watson reaches for his beer; just a slight shake in his hand.

WATSON
Men laying in their own blood and piss and shit, Stamford. Breeding ground for disease like you wouldn't believe.

STAMFORD
What happened?

WATSON
Enteric fever. Nine months I was in bed. Had my last rites twice. And with my health therefore officially irretrievably ruined, here I am back in London, pensioned off.

Stamford laughs and raises his pint.

STAMFORD
Cheers. So what now?

Watson takes some more of his beer, settles back and considers.

WATSON
Well. No living relatives in England. Hell, no living friends in England. So, first thing is to look for somewhere to live, on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Comfortable rooms at a reasonable price, anything so long as it's not a bloody tent in Afghanistan.

STAMFORD
Funny. You're the second man to use that phrase to me today.

WATSON
Tents in Afghanistan? Don't tell me it's some new slang phrase I have to learn. Doesn't mean anything to do with bums, does it?

STAMFORD
No. The comfortable rooms bit. There's a man at the chemical laboratory at Barts right now, and he was moaning just this morning that he couldn't find anyone to go
halves with him in some nice rooms he couldn't otherwise afford.

WATSON
Well, if he wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, then, right now, I'll share with anyone who doesn't intend to shoot me in the subclavian artery.

Stamford looks uncomfortable.

STAMFORD
Yes, well. You'd have to talk to him about that.



EXT. ST BART'S HOSPITAL - GARDEN - DAY

The gardens surround the ancient old edifice of St Bart's Hospital, flowers blazing with the first real colour we've seen.

STAMFORD
The St Bart's Gardens stil amaze me, y'know. No matter what the state of the rest of London, they still bloom.

WATSON
You know why, of course?

STAMFORD
Why?

WATSON
Why the gardens are so rich and beautiful, no matter what? The gardens are planted on mass graves. Lepers, mostly. Good compost.

Stamford looks around with new eyes, and then hurries into the building. Watson follows, smiling.



INT. ST BART'S - CORRIDOR

Footsteps echo in here - all marble floors and wooden walls. The pair walk together, past flocks of nurses.

WATSON
So he's a medical student?

STAMFORD
No. I mean, don't get me wrong, first-class chemist, excellent anatomist, but he flits in and out of here like a mayfly. I have no idea what he intends to go in for.

Some shouting ahead. STUDENT DOCTORS in white coats running out of the LAB they're approaching, and down the nearby STAIRS.

STAMFORD
Hey, hey. What's all the noise?

STUDENT DOCTOR
Your crazy mate's up to something in the morgue!

Watson eyes Stamford sourly, and then they follow. The sign on the stairs shows that they're descending to the MORGUE:



INT. MORGUE

The morgue's dissecting-room is a separate office within the larger room of the morgue, big windows allowing one to see clearly inside. There is a door into the dissecting-room, currently locked, and an aged MORGUE ATTENDANT sits on the floor outside it, tending a cut lip.

In the dissecting-room, two male corpses are arranged on benches. And a tall, spidery man in black is waving a cricket bat above them. His name is
SHERLOCK HOLMES.

STAMFORD
What in the name of God is going on?

MORGUE ATTENDANT
He's beating up the dead people, Dr Stamford.

And, true enough, as they stand there, the tall man laughs out loud and smacks one corpse in the belly with the cricket bat.

WATSON
Bloody hell!

STAMFORD
Get that door open.

MORGUE ATTENDANT
He's locked it from the inside. I tried to stop him, but he smacked me one and then said if I kept bothering him he'd do an experiment. On me privates, like.

The morgue attendant dissolves into tears, as the others look up at the lunatic in the dissecting room. The tall man puts his bat aside and hunches over the body, peering at the place where he struck. His eyes narrow. He studies the area intently. And then snaps upright, walks to the door, unlocks it, and greets Stamford with a brilliant smile.

HOLMES
Stamford, old man! Good to see you. Come in, come in. I was attempting to conduct an experiment.

WATSON
With a cricket bat?

Holmes looks Watson up and down, as if studying a small turd placed in his path, and then turns his attention back to Stamford.

HOLMES
It is, you see, extremely important imperative that I know how long after death the body can produce a bruise. These things matter.

WATSON
So you were slapping corpses with a cricket bat for science.

HOLMES, dismissive
Yes, yes, of course.

Stamford turns to Watson.

STAMFORD
Dr John Watson, I'd like you to meet Sherlock Holmes. He's looking for someone to share an apartment with.

Watson sags.

WATSON
Good God.



INT. ST BART'S - STAIRS

They head up the stairs. Holmes, tall and quick, leading the way.

HOLMES
Back from Afghanistan, then? I trust your recuperation wasn't too distressing.

Watson glares at Stamford. Stamford puts his hands up, like; how would I have told him?

WATSON
How did you know that?

HOLMES
Doctor, yet clearly military. Your face is darker than your wrists, yet not the rich tint of a man fresh from the tropics. Your face is haggard, you are somewhat undernourished, and you hold your left arm in a stiff manner. Where else could an army doctor gain and lose a tan, and take an obvious battle injury?

Holmes crests the stairs and turns to grin at Watson with intellectual triumph.

HOLMES
Plus, I think you've had the shits recently.

WATSON
You sound like a magazine article I just read.

HOLMES
In the Strand?

WATSON
Yes, actually.

HOLMES
I should think so too. I wrote it.

Watson turns to Stamford.

WATSON
If I give you my service revolver, will you please shoot me in the head?

###

Monday, June 23, 2003

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

Красивая старость

Смотрела вчера Dateline, передача о теме дня, также известная под названием: "Как мы можем вас напугать?", поскольку часто показывает показывает ужасы скрытые в повседневных вещах. Вот и в этот раз не разочаровали. Рассказывали про Botox, укол от морщин. Глубокая морщинка между бровями? За 10 минут и $500 она у вас исчезнет. Правда вы потом брови свести не сможете, но зачем их сводить, кому это надо? Главное - красота!

Этот метод омоложения очень популярен и рекламируется направо и налево. Что не удивительно, так как Botox часто используется не по назначению. Что, как оказалось, может привести к жутким последствиям: потеря чувствительности, дикие головные боли, паралич, смерть. Вот одна жена какого-то Голливудского продюсера, укололась Botoxom и слегла на пол-года. Теперь судит и компанию, которая этот Botox производит и доктора, который это ей вколол. Доктор по всей видимости популярный, так как на его защиту пришли многие теле- и кино- звезды. В их числе и Elizabeth Taylor. Она даже согласилась выступить по телевизору, что было очень печально.

Надо сказать, что Elizabeth Taylor была завораживающе красивая женщина. Даже можно сказать роковая женщина: темные волосы, лилового цвета глаза, тонкая талия, высокая грудь, длинная шея, любовь к дорогим украшениям, способность быстро влюбляться и выходить замуж at a drop of a hat. Очень напоминало Мерили Монро. Только вон она имела удачу скончаться в разгаре красоты, а Елизавета... Увидела я такую маленькую худенькую старушку с огромной головой начëсаных белых волос (хотя возможно, что это был огромный парик), криво намазанные губы, ярко красные румяна, спортивный костюм с нарисованными цветами, и громадные-громадные бриллианты, везде где можно их нацепить. Она немного дрожала и на вопрос или доктор вколол слишко много лекарства, она истерично вскричала, что этот доктор никогда ошибок не делает. В общем, обыкновенная американская старушка, разве что драгоценности стоят несколько миллионов, а не несколько долларов как театральные бриллианты моих соседок по дому.

Очень хочется думать, что грациозно состаришься и сохранишь возможность трезво мыслить в приклонном возрасте, но осознаешь, что это маловероятно. Долгожительство, которое увеличивается с каждым годом, не привлекает.

Эххх...

Thursday, June 12, 2003

Урррра!!! Только позвонили и сказали, что карточка прошла.

Еду отдыхать в Канкун, Мексику! Пирамиды и море и солнце, и будем надеятся, отсуствие ураганов. 3 недельки осталось. Скорей бы.

Monday, June 9, 2003

Что-то я сегодня в полной коме сознания. (does this even make sense? probably representative) Вот просидела 5 часов на работе, а чем занималась - не знаю. Сижу пью каппачино, может очнусь....хотя, сомневаюсь - уж больно домой хочется.
--------------------------------------
Вот, читая ru_spam, нашла предсказание про моего мужа: "Он был задеpжан за то, что идя по улице, нецензуpно удивлялся шиpине впеpеди идущей женщины... "

Не верю я....

...наверняка кто-то back out....

Вот депрессия....


Я живу, чтобы работать!!
Мы ведь не открыли Вам ничего нового, правда? Так и должно быть, по Вашему же жизненному кредо - чтобы что-то открылось новое, надо долго и упорно, как фрезерный станок, грызть гранит науки. Удачи!
Зачем я живу?

Wednesday, June 4, 2003

Word of the day

cal·li·pyg·i·an - [cal·li·pyg·i·an] - adjective

Meaning: Having beautifully proportioned buttocks.

[From Greek kallipugos : kalli-, beautiful (from kallos, beauty) + pug, buttocks.]