#cecil bevan

[letterboxd-loggd]

Harvey (1950) Henry Koster

December 3rd 2023

[rubinaitoart]

I would love any crumbs of anything you're writing rn /nf /gen

(I keep seeing you go insane so thought I would see what you are interested in :3)

“I keep seeing you go insane” HAH yeah it’s even worse on discord lmao

The current WIP I have is based completely on spite. That’s it. I absolutely hated how the Lamia episode ended because. BECAUSE. BECAUSE.

You’re telling me after they kill the Lamia, everything is back to normal and perfectly fine between everyone. You’re telling me Merlin was actively threatened by some of the people he trusted the most, to the point he actually started COWERING a little when they got mad at him, and he walked out of that without even a little bit of emotional distress? A smidgeon of trauma? You’re telling me none of the knights apologized to him or to Guinevere, because even though it’s not their fault every single one of them would have still felt some form of guilt over scaring them like that, you’re TELLING ME—

^^^ Live footage of Rubin being carried off before he starts yelling even more /lh ^^^

It made me so MAD that it got wrapped up with everyone in good spirits and Arthur making fun of Merlin for being saved by a girl, and everything was fine and happy and ARGHHHH.

So yeah I started writing a fic to expand on what I feel should’ve happened after that episode I guess? Except make it a Merthur AU where they’ve been dancing around their feelings for all four seasons up until this point.

I’ve been going back and forth on this draft for a bit, so there’s a good chance whatever I end up publishing to AO3 will look COMPLETELY different. It’s also very clunky and not well edited but I figure that’s a given right now lol. Both options start the same before splitting into two different drafts, currently labeled D1 and D2 respectively.

I’ll dump a few snippets below the cut since this is already looking like a long post. Everything so far is in Arthur’s POV.

From the shared start: Set when Arthur shows up just in time to rescue Guinevere and Merlin from the Lamia.

A few seconds of silence stretched out before Arthur jerked forward and rushed to Merlin’s side.

“Better late than never.” Merlin groaned, but that stupid, goofy grin that Arthur loved more than he’d ever admit was plastered all over that smug face of his. “What took you so long?”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur said pointedly. Guinevere moved to help Merlin sit up, and the king didn’t miss the way his servant’s face twisted into a pained grimace, or how his hand quickly grabbed at his side. It hurt to see Merlin in any kind of pain, a dull ache in his chest that was somehow worse than anything Arthur had suffered in the past. “Are you hurt?”

“A little bruised, maybe.” Merlin leaned heavily against Guinevere. “Better off than everyone else though.” He added quickly, and Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Do you know where they are?” The king wanted to ask an entirely different question, but their objective held priority. They were safe, the lamia was dead, and the others were still missing.

“Elyan isn’t far.” Guinevere loosened her hold on Merlin—reluctantly, Arthur noted—and moved him to lean against a pillar. “I’m not entirely sure about the others.”

Arthur straightened up, gesturing for one of the knights. “Bevan, help Merlin outside. Cecil, with me.” He ordered. The king glanced towards his servant once again briefly before he extended his hand to Guinevere and helped her to her feet. “Lead the way.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Bevan gathering Merlin up into his arms and hefting him up into the air. The man made a soft, pained sound in the back of his throat that was horribly loud to Arthur’s ears. Carefully with him, or I’ll have you in the stocks lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he bit back his words and turned to follow Guinevere. Bevan’s receding footsteps faded, and they pressed onward.

“He’ll be alright.” Guinevere murmured to him. She reached over to lightly squeeze his arm, a small comfort for the moment.

“Mm, he better be.” Arthur said quietly in reply. “He’s a good friend, I’d hate to lose him.” They ducked under a fallen beam, and Arthur lapsed into a contemplative quiet. Merlin was so much more than just a friend to Arthur, something he’d struggled to admit to himself for a long time. What he was, however, was just out of reach.

So in typical fashion the king did what he always did best—try his damndest to ignore what he felt, because it could never come to be.

From D1, which is set as everyone leaves Longstead. Merlin is preparing Arthur’s horse before they leave despite still recovering from his injuries, man is just insisting on staying busy.

The king watched Merlin from afar as the servant busied himself with tacking up Arthur’s steed. He couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to.

Slightly curled raven locks and pale cheeks dappled with sunlight, Merlin’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration. His slender, pale hands deftly checked the leather straps, and his fingers occasionally strayed away to brush against the stallion’s ebony coat. A faint smile finally appeared in its truest and most genuine form as the horse turned its head to bump its nose gently against Merlin’s shoulder with a soft nicker. Arthur watched as Merlin finished securing the saddle and turned to gently take the horse’s face in his hands, rubbing his palm up and down the side of its head in slow, soothing strokes. Beautiful, he couldn’t help but think. That traitorous feeling of longing welled up in his chest and Arthur found himself tempted across the small clearing to join the servant.

Almost immediately, the longing was replaced with guilt and a hefty dose of self-loathing. Merlin was in no small amount of distress, and here he was practically ogling at the man. He turned away before Merlin could catch him staring and searched the clearing for something he could busy himself with, and hopefully rid himself of the shame that had overtaken the king.

From D2, which is set directly after Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, and the knights return to the village so Gaius can treat them: Gaius and Guinevere are busy with the knights, so Arthur takes it upon himself (as any good king no would do, of course) to try and tend to Merlin’s wounds himself. The best he can do is clean the gash on Merlin’s forehead, but he’s trying his best okay?

Far and few between were times that Arthur Pendragon found himself worried about his manservant. Merlin was an odd man, clumsy and strange at the best of times, prone to bouts of misfortune that he’d somehow miraculously overcome. Injuries were as rare as sickness, and he was right there at Arthur’s side day after day. Yet here he was, sleeves rolled up and a damp cloth in hand as he worried over Merlin. Thankfully the only ones around to see it were Gaius and Guinevere—the knights were still unconscious, and the physician and seamstress were busy tending to them.

It was just Arthur and Merlin, tucked away in the corner of the little hovel they were using as an infirmary.

“This feels backwards.” His servant muttered, wincing as Arthur lightly pressed the cloth to his forehead. Blood soaked into it quickly, weeping from a shallow cut on the side of his face that looked far worse than it actually was—head wounds were funny like that. And yet after all these years, after countless battles where he’d seen wounds worse than this over and over, seeing Merlin bloodied and bruised always made his heart lurch. It was so wrong.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Arthur mused, pulling the cloth back to inspect the injury. There wasn’t exactly much he could do other than try to stem the blood flow and clean away any dirt and debris until Gaius could take a proper look at it, but it was something.

He could feel Merlin’s eyes boring into him. “You’ll live, unfortunately.” Arthur added after a moment, flashing his teeth at the servant in a brief grin.

“Unfortunately for me, yes.” Merlin sank back against the cot. “I’ll be back to cleaning your stinking socks within the next few days.” His eyes remained affixed to Arthur, half-lidded and tired, and for the briefest of moments his face betrayed him to his king. Something heavy weighed on him, his gaze reflecting the burden of Atlas; then Arthur blinked, and it was like it hadn’t even been there in the first place.

What a strange thing to see on Merlin’s face.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“HUNGRY. DESPERATE SHOPBREAKER'S PLEA,” Toronto Star. March 1, 1933. Page 2.  ---- Man Captured at Midnight) Is Remanded in Custody ---- Frederick Henry, who was caught by officers Fred Bevan and Fred Paveling, after breaking a window and entering a Yonge St. grocery store last midnight, came before Magistrate Jones in police court to-day and was ordered remanded in custody one week. 

Henry pleaded guilty to shop-breaking and told the officers who arrested him that he was desperate from hunger, had work and couldn't pay his room rent.

Patrol Sergt. Bevan was walking with P.C. Paveling at the corner of Charles and Yonge Sts. when they heard glass breaking. 

Their investigations took them to the rear of a grocery store where there is a large fence. Turning his flashlight on. P.S. Bevan looked through the cracks of the fence and noticed a rear window in the grocery store broken. He helped P.C. Paveling over the fence and ran around to the front to prevent whoever was in the store escaping by this entrance. 

Arriving at the front of the store, the sergeant drew his revolver and peered through the door. The man inside, in fright, dropped behind a counter. He was not fast enough for the sharp-eyed sergeant, who yelled at him to come to the door with his hands in the air. 

Badly frightened, the man walked to the locked store door with his hands in the air. The sergeant told him to go back to the rear of the building and surrender himself to P.C. Paveling. who handcuffed him. 

P.S. Bevan joined Paveling and they found themselves unable to climb the fence with the prisoner.. They were forced to cross a low fence into a Charles St. W. rear yard and arouse the occupants of the house, who permitted them to pass. through to the street. Here the prisoner was booked on a charge of shop-breaking. 

Remains in Custody Remanded in custody till March 2 for sentence was the order made against Cecil Anthony and Samuel Dewhurst, who pleaded guilty to a long series of false pretences and fraud with worthless cheques.

Irwin Tannenbaum pleaded guilty to fighting on the street and was fined $5 and costs or ten days in jail. Geo. Labcock admitted his participation in the fight and was remanded for sentence till called on. 

Charge Withdrawn "If he's not caught this time, he'll be caught later, but I'll order the charge against him withdrawn today," said the magistrate in the case of Lawrence Forsyth, charged as a vagrant, but said by police to have been carrying four bottles of a drug and the tip of a hypodermic syringe when arrested on Mutual St. at midnight. Feb. 26. 

Cheque Dishonored Geo. Homuth was committed for trial on a charge of obtaining a Dominion of Canada 4 1-2 per cent. futures bearing bond of 1948 Issue by false pretences with intent to defraud. Evidence showed that accused had given a cheque for $500 in payment for the bond Jan. 24 last. The cheque was dishonored by the Bank of Montreal, Galt, on which it was drawn. 

Frank Quinn was committed for trial on a charge of obtaining $182 worth of coal by false pretence with intent to defraud. A series of bank checks were offered as exhibits. 

P. C McMaster (765) stopped a car with one headlight on on Queen St. He found Arthur White in it with several bottles, some empty and one containing gin, he testified. White was assessed $20 costs or one month. His liquor permit was cancelled. 

P.C. Kelly (96) saw Robert Duff driving his auto at 50 miles an hour on Dundas St. W. near the bridge. ff was fined $10 and costs or ten days and his driving license was cancelled for 60 days. 

Gilbert Godin, who participated in a party on Sherbourne St., was fined $20 and costs or month for breach of the liquor act. 

Thomas Morgan and Mark Perill were charged with having liquor in a car on Walton St. yesterday noon. Morgan pleaded guilty and the charge against Perill was withdrawn. Morgan was fined $100 and costs or three months. 

For His Own Good Gordon Meighen was ordered to jall for three months "for his own good" by Magistrate Arthur Tinker in early men's court. Meighen, who admitted three convictions for drunkenness, wore a bandage about his head and also a highly discolored eye, a celluloid patch for which perched temporarily high upon his forehead. "So I can see the magistrate," Meighen explained as he stepped up close to the dock rail. "I guess I seem to be in pretty bad shape. Perhaps I'll get some sort of a rest in jail," said he as he thanked the court for is sentence. 

On second convictions for having been found drunk, John Malloy, Daniel Roach, George Geike and John Griffin each were assessed $50 and costs or one month in jail. 

Wm, Beyers and Benjamin Rutherford were fined $10 and costs or 10 days each for imbibing too freely. 

Donald Edwards who drank too. much had his liquor permit cancelled and was remanded for sentence. 

Four men who admitted being drunk were placed in charge of Capt. Bunton of the Salvation Army. 

Had Alcohol Illegally Peter Hushon pleaded guilty in liquor and traffic court to having alcohol illegally in a house on Portland St. and was fined. $100 and costs or three months.

Fred O'Donnell, charged with permitting drunkenness, was remanded till March 3 on $200 bail. 

Daniel Kellls and Ludwig Baron were charged with having alcohol illegally in a house on Morrison St. 

"In a front room, in a cupboard we found four gallon cans of alcohol," said P.C. Wilson (703), displaying four tins and a bottle to Judge Coatsworth. 

"Kellis is the occupant of the house and pays the rent there," stated P.C. Coulson. The charge. against Baron was dropped and Kellis was fined $400 and costs or three months.

[mariocki]

The Missing Million (1942)

"Look 'ere Inspector, this ain't right. An Englishman's 'ome is his castle, even if it is one room and a gas ring. 'Ere am I, sitting, cooking me sausages, happy and peaceful like - and in come your fellas to tell me I'm wanted, what for? I ain't done nothing, I've been too busy. So I ask yer - what's it all about?"

"It's about opening a safe."

"But they acquitted me!"

The latest in my ongoing quest to watch as many Edgar Wallace potboilers as humanly possible, 1942's The Missing Million is a comforting return to form after the disappointment of Crossroads To Crime (1960, discussed elsewhere on this blog). All the classic EW tropes are in play - a mysterious blackmailer known only by an unusual pseudonym, petty criminals acting as comic relief, square-jawed policemen and plucky heroines. None of it is especially original, and if you've watched one EW adaptation it can often feel like you've seen them all - but it's cheerful and charming, and sometimes an obvious twist can be just as fun as an unexpected one.

Based on Wallace's 1923 novel of the same name, TMM is a fairly straight adaptation in terms of plot. The major characters are all present, as are the main set pieces, with only a few names changed here and there. Interestingly, the blackmailer is known here as The Panda - a typically outlandish Wallace name (his other books featuring such villains as The Ringer, The Terror, and The Frog), but this appears to be an invention of the film; in the novel, the blackmailer signs himself 'Kupie'. Another change is in dropping all reference to the two male leads' former heroics in WW1 - perhaps unsurprising, given that the film was produced during WW2.

The Panda - also known as The Prince of Blackmail - has set his sights on young Rex Walton, soon to be married to the beautiful Dora Coleman. Rex has inherited a fortune, and looks set to lose it all, until suddenly Rex - and a million of his fortune - disappear. Luckily for Rex, his feisty sister Joan and Scotland Yard man Inspector Dicker set about solving the case and bringing The Panda to justice - with a little help from safe-breaker Nobby Knowles. Cue much night-time creeping, a trio of murders, and some funny business about chicken broth.

Our cast is a mixed bunch, but all equip themselves well. The intrepid Inspector is played by John Stuart, a leading man of British silent film who managed to hold his own once the talkies took over. Helping him crack the case are the lovely Linden Travers, as Joan, and Charles Victor as Nobby. Travers gets a much better deal than many of the leading ladies in Wallace adaptations - Joan is feisty, independent, and refuses to be intimidated by the villains. The romantic aspect to her relationship with Dicker is both inevitable and inexplicable - it seems you couldn't make a film in the 40's without your leads ending up together, but although Stuart and Travers are both very good in their roles, there's nothing in their chemistry to suggest they'd be interested in one another.

Nobby is an altogether more complicated character. He's the classic Wallace comic-crook, a safe-breaker who ends up aiding the police and helping to save the day. And he is funny - he gets the best lines, some great physical moments, and a scene in which he breaks into a safe he once installed is a masterclass in smug, self confident villainy. However, he's also painfully misogynistic. I'm not applying a 2018 mindset to a 75 year old film here, either; when Nobby is first introduced, he's referred to by another character as "The woman-hater", and it doesn't really get any better from there. For every great line or eye-roll he delivers, there's an uncomfortable comment about the evils of women and a withering assessment of their 'weaknesses' and 'tricks'. It's unpleasant, and it detracts from the film - and it makes Nobby, who should be the most likeable element in the film, into a nauseating bore. (For a masterclass in how to play a Wallace comic-crook, see William Hartnell's perfect performance in the 1952 version of The Ringer).

Rounding out the cast are Patricia Hilliard as Dora, and John Warwick, Brefni O'Rorke and Valentine Dyall as a selection of suspects. Hilliard is very good, although this was her final film role - she retired soon after. Dora doesn't get to be quite as tough or as feisty as Joan, but Hilliard mixes vulnerability with stoicism to produce an endearing and sweet character. Dyall - soon to find fame with his treacley voice on BBC radio, as The Man In Black on the long running Appointment With Fear (and almost forty years before he stuck a crow on his head as the Black Guardian in Doctor Who) - plays against type as a snivelly, cowardly lawyer mixed up in The Panda's intrigues. He also gets the biggest (inadvertent) laugh in the film, as Rex admonishes him for his weakness and his dishonesty, all while Dyall tucks into a hearty breakfast.

It ends, as all Wallace projects must, quite happily. Wrongs are righted, the wicked are punished and love has been found. There are some twists along the way - and to be fair, a few of them were actually quite surprising - and then everyone goes home, presumably for tea. It's very British, and it's very comfortable - there's nothing to suggest the world was tearing itself apart as these characters variously charm, cheat and hoodwink one another. It might not be very challenging, and it might not be very original - but it's Wallace, and that's enough.

[esperwatchesfilms]

Harvey (1950)

ESE: 90/100

50 -5 for talking about your uncle that way just because you find him weird +5 for Harvey buying a stranger a drink -10 for being an incompetent twat -10 for assuming the woman is insane and the brother is fine +10 for Harvey being a pooka +5 for James Stewart +5 for Josephine Hull +10 for an excellent script +5 for nice expressions +10 for Harvey being real +5 for the doctor seeing Harvey is real +5 for how kind Elwood is +5 for Harvey being credited

[mistertez]

The NHS, the National Health Service began on this day in the UK in 1948, established by Minister of Health, Aneurin Bevan This portrait of Bevan was taken by Cecil Beaton in 1940.

[frankenpagie]

8.10.19

[thebritishmonarchycouk]

On This Day In History . 24 October 1931 . Lady May Cambridge married Henry Abel Smith . ◼ Lady May married British army offier Henry Abel Smith (later Sir Henry) in Balcombe, Sussex on 24 October 1931. . ◼ The bride was attended by four child bridesmaids: Princess Elizabeth of York (later Queen Elizabeth II), Rosemary Madeline Hamilton Fraser, Jennifer Bevan & Kathleen Alington. Her eight adult bridesmaids were the Hon. Imogen Rhys (daughter of Walter Rice, 7th Baron Dynevor); Lady Mary Whitley; Phyllis Seymour-Holm; Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester; Princess Ingrid of Sweden; the future Princess Sibylla of Sweden; Verena Seymour (daughter of Sir Edward Seymour & granddaughter of the 4th Marquess Conyngham;, & Wenefryde Tabor. The best man was Cecil Weld Forester, 7th Baron Forester of Willey Park. . . . #Onthisdayinhistory #thisdayinhistory #Theyear1931 #d24oct #LadyMay #onthisday #LadyMayCambridge #otd #houseofwindsor #royalwedding #historyfacts #History #weddingdress #ElizabethII #QueenElizabethII #Bridesmaid #Bride #TheQueen #RoyalFamily #Britishmonarchy #Thebritishmonarchy (at Balcombe, West Sussex) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGvfiHQjG_8/?igshid=9ua8fgstls9p

[platinumshawnn]

be home, be here | Collins

Summary: Collins’ returns home from service for the first time in while and meets the little one who calls him a hero even when he feels like anything but. (1944)

A/N: I don’t know, a little Christmas themed Collins angst?? The end was a little rushed and it got super long, like way longer than I expected but this will hold over until everything else is posted. 

Word count: 5,090

musical inspiration: They Sang Silent Night by Fiona Bevan

@ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

She always heard the whispers whenever she went into town, leaned over the grocery stand and eyeing tomatoes; her son’s hand in hers and voice soft, airlike and sweet, suiting to her heart like shaped face with its delicate features and her fragile looking stature. It was hard not to miss her, go unaware of the hushed whispers that followed her in the market, eyes watching her float along with a little chubby cheeked four year old with blue eyes and blonde hair that made him an uncanny spitting image of his father. Everyone knew and talked, she knew and remained quiet -- she knew of the disapproving looks she got whenever they were out together because you would have to be blind not to notice them.

It was an obvious thing by the fact that there was no ring on her left hand and in such a small community, it didn’t take long for the news to get out.

An unwed 18 year old, pregnant with the bastard of an RAF soldier, deployed for duty and hopelessly waiting around for a man that may not return -- or that of a man that might return and not wed her, it seemed foolish of her. It had been a hard decision for her but with his persuasion, she had kept the child and beared the burden of voices it came with, the looks it earned, there was no way to avoid any of it. Through letters she had told him over and over how it was worth it, to look at their son’s face as he slept -- the circumstances of his conception and his birth, born during the Blitz in an underground air raid shelter just two blocks away from her family home. She told him how wonderful he was and how he was the only piece she needed of him to promise that one day things would be different; things would be better.

She had sent Collins a photo of his son, as a way to provide him hope and a reason to come home, to fight even when he was most exhausted and doubted himself and the cause of what he was fighting for. She didn’t know what it was, maybe a lover’s thing, but she could feel his hope dwindling and pain in the written words of his letters -- he struggled and wanted nothing more than to come home as soon as possible but this war was long and it had felt like there was still an eternity left ahead of him. It was long for both of them, but most of all, for him and her heart ached for him. This wasn’t the life they had ever planned or wanted, but by whatever higher power, it was the one they were given and it was a difficult one.

It was difficult explaining to their son, Jack, that his father couldn’t just come home when he chose; trying to explain to him what was going on, ‘why those scary horns keep making that loud noise’, ‘why we have to go into that stuffy dark place every night’. Her own mother usually handled those things and it overtime became harder to explain why grandma and grandpa didn’t visit anymore. He was barely four and there was no easy way to explain war to a child.

She didn’t know when it had started, but it had turned into almost a game for him that she went along with, because monsters didn’t exist outside of his closet or under his bed just yet; soldiers were nothing more than little plastic men he always carried in his pocket wherever they went and fighting bad guys from planes was only a game he played by himself at home; running up and down hallways with his arms stretched out wide and pretend guns formed by his little hands -- it made her tense and hold her breath whenever he imitated that awful buzzing sound that left her with a sense of dread that made her bones ache. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t tell Collins about it.

Stories about what his father was doing were nothing more than that. Bedtime stories of a fictional man he was probably sure didn’t exist -- Collins always at least mentioned something in every one of his letters that she could turn into a bedtime story, a piece of his father every night before bed, and the wonder in his wide blue eyes was a sight that made her own heart swell. No words or amount of letters could ever describe it to Collins as pure and heartwarming as it was to see how amazed he was by stories of this man he’d only ever met once as a young infant. Even if to Collins it wasn’t as exciting, it was the one thing that got her through the long nights and days of living on constant edge. Seeing his fascination towards his father unknowingly and how he admired this heroic figure. In Jack’s eyes, Collins was some sort of superhero.

Jack shivered against her as a particularly chilly winter breeze blew, his chubby cheeks pink despite being snuggly wrapped underneath a red scarf that had been his father’s as he crunched after his mother; one mitted hand in hers. There were still a few wandering residents that exchanged soft greetings with friendly smiles and mumbles of Merry Christmases  as they passed with their bags in hand from last minute shopping the night before, Christmas’ Eve, while the pair had decided to make a quick run to a local shop to pick up the cookies that Jack had insisted for weeks upon weeks to put out for Santa, a still childish, excited gleam in his eyes that his mother admired -- that even during these past five years that had been awful, he remained unshaken and positive, pure and kind, flashing that dimpled smile and waving at others as they passed one another in the narrow aisles of the market. Much like his father, he was a people pleaser.

“Mama.” He whined, sniffling. “‘S cold.” Jack pointed out again, blue eyes peering out beneath all his snow gear to look up at his mother who looked down and over at him, a sweet smile being given in return.

“I know, my love, we’re almost home though.” She softly reassured, pausing to crouch so that she could kiss his gloved fingers; earning a little giggle in response. She stood upright and nodded, the two continuing their journey, admiring the lights of Christmas trees in windows and along the houses, all red and white and green lights wherever they looked and a positive feeling in the air -- a feeling that was felt even stronger as they passed Sayer Street, remaining debris still around if you really looked after a rather quick clean up. It was now a car park but there was still...this feeling....it stopped her, her son saying nothing as he stood there and allowed her to eye the sight; vividly able to remember the night it became nothing but rubble and fire. Jack had his head down and had been playing with one of the army men he insisted on taking everywhere, too entranced to even question what his mother was stopped for and thinking about, too young to understand. He had hardly been more than a pink screaming baby at the time, most of his first few months spent in air raid shelters in the area -- how many close calls they avoided was astounding.

“Are we going to grandma’s?” He suddenly asked, looking up at her with curious, confused eyes as he sniffled and licked his upper lip; watching as she hesitated, gulping as she had to force him a smile.

“No, my dear. I just saw something…” She replied. She had seen something. More than enough -- both tragic and awful and heart warming and inspiring; having watched this city both fall apart and rebuild up from the rubble.

Cecile was outside her home when they finally arrived, her own two boys running around her and throwing snow as they let out shrieks of laughter and squeals when the snow seeped into the little cracks where their jackets didn’t cover and protect, cold and wet as it trickled on to their skin. She easily caught her youngest as he slipped by his arm, letting out a quiet scold before her attention turned to Grace who approached with a still very distracted Jack. The two exchanged tired smiles, greeting one another with soft mumbles as Grace touched her son’s back to gain his attention, bending to lean close to his ear and point towards the playing others. “Why don’t you go play with Tommy and James? Show them your new army men, maybe.” She encouraged with a kiss to his temple before reluctantly nodding and running forward with a shout of their names.

The two women watched their children from a few feet away, Grace setting her bags down as she followed her son with her eyes, taking her gloves off to give some breathing air; sweaty and hot from being confined for hours in the meantime. “Did you get anything yesterday?” Grace asked quietly, glancing over to her friend who looked over at her.

“No.” She answered in response, her relief seeping into her words. “But Marie did, poor girl. Charles was killed a few days ago on a routine run. Some Luftwaffe’s came out of nowhere, was just him and that young boy.”

Grace nodded slowly, “Eddie, he’s from the other side of town. Baker’s boy.” The two would probably be in the paper the following day.

In turn, the other woman nodded also with a quiet sigh of ‘yeah’, the two falling into a long pause of silence as if out of respect. These conversations were normal between the two, at least mentioned twice a week. Cecile had lived next door to Grace for three years since she and Jack had moved onto their quiet little street in February of ‘41  after her family home had taken a direct hit while she was locked in a bunker a few blocks away, forcing her to move. She was a thin blonde who was a few inches shorter than Grace herself; with a pointy nose and thin lips and wide blue eyes, married to a burly looking soldier who towered over her named Tom who was also astoundingly gentle with their boys. Little James was only two when they first moved, teetering a few weeks of his third birthday, and had been sick with pneumonia when Grace had first met them; her own little one strapped to her chest and only a few months old yet. Although she had a number of years on her, the two had instantly been bonded by their servicing lovers that, on the other hand, were a little stiff in each other’s presence.

That had been the last time Jack had been home.

Despite whispers about Grace and her situation, Cecile had stayed by her side and the two relied one another rather heavily the past few years. In fact, Grace liked to think of her as almost family like by this point.

“What about you?” Cecile asked, looking at her again, this time with a look more of concern. “Has there been any updates on Collins? His condition?”

Grace shook her head, lips pursing and looking down at her gloves. “No, there hasn’t been anything recently.” She said, remaining quiet and avoiding her gaze that she knew was pitiful, inhaling deeply and looking up to where her son waddled around in the high snow, the three boys imitating guns and planes and yelling orders at one another.

“Does he know?” Cecile pressed in reference to little Jack.

“No. He doesn’t even know he actually exists, I don’t think.” Grace admitted, sighing as Cecile frowned in confusion. “He thinks he’s just some made up man in bedtime stories and nothing more. Maybe it’s best though, in case...” She drifted off, clearing her throat.

It was a reluctant suggestion, but Cecile had spoken up finally again after a minute, “Grace, if he has been...if he’s in a camp-.”

“I know.”

“-the chances…”

“Cecile.” She stiffly said, interrupting her and sending her silent with a warning look. Suddenly overcome by guilt, she sighed, her features visibly softening. “I know.”

The two didn’t linger around too much longer, deciding it was getting late and to part ways, calling their children each to go inside; earning some whines in complaint as they rolled out of the snow and complied, Grace smiling as the two boys huffed when they were given a warning scold before bidding goodnight politely as ordered. Jack practically clung on to her as he mumbled a quiet goodbye himself, evidently tired and ready for bed as they made their way up their stairs and into the quiet home; the furniture and all kept minimal as they didn’t own too much.

She helped Jack out of his coat and other outdoor clothing before taking off her own and ushering up to bed, close behind. He changed and was in under his covers when she returned from changing into her own nightwear, hair finally let down from it done up, stiff style and in loose tendrils down her back as she pulled his blanket up over him and tucked it just beneath his chin.

“Mama?” He piped up as she adjusted the blanket. Grace hummed. “How did you and papa meet?” He continued on, eyes watching her as she moved back to sit in the seat next to his bed.

“If I tell you, that’s your story for the night, deal?” She softly said, smiling a little. The little boy eagerly nodded.

“Your father used to come to grandpa’s shop all the time.” She began, digging through her mind for the images of the memory. “He was a tall skinny lad who clearly wasn’t from around here but he insisted grandpa made the best tarts and was more than willing to take the train every week just for them. And he did. He came around more when he began training to be in the army and he would come in, everyday, and I was working the cash. He’d come in with this big smile and would always greet me with the usual, ‘hi there, miss, you look beautiful today, as per usual.’”

Jack let out a quiet murmur of ‘yuck’, giggling. “What got me was his smile and how kind to everyone he was. Much like you, actually.” She explained, tapping her son’s nose with her index finger. “One day, he comes in, and he asks me to go out with him that night. I’m surprised but I say yes. He took me to see a movie and we just talked and laughed...he was quite charming really and I fell in love with him instantly. Grandma and grandpa thought he was a little too old for me but I was too in love already to want anybody else. Soon enough, you happened and your father left before you were born to go fight some bad men. I bet you he’s out there right now actually...flying and protecting us right now.” She dwindled, using one hand to float around as if imitating a plane.

“Has he ever met me? Does he know what I look like?” Jack asked. “You say I look just like him a lot.”

Grace laughed softly, “Yes. When you were very, very little.” She answered. “You look just like him and it’s one of the very reasons I love you so much, it’s why you’re so special.”

“Is he gonna come home one day, mama?”

This question stopped her, her eyes observing the way he looked at her with hopeful eyes, eagerly awaiting her reply; snuggly tucked into his bed and sinking further down into his pillow. She had no idea how to answer, not wanting to promise something she couldn’t -- a promise she wasn’t sure she could ever keep because the chance was very well there, that his father wouldn’t return. And yet, looking into those eyes, she couldn’t will the words to leave her mouth as she brushed a hand through his hair; her boy who was waiting for his father to return home from war. She sighed. “I don’t know, my love.” She finally honestly said in a quiet voice.

“I hope he does.” He said, optimistic and bringing a smile to his mother’s face.

Grace let out a soft laugh from her nose and leaned over as she stood, “I do too. Now to bed you go, Santa will be on his way and you can’t be awake when he arrives.” She murmured and kissed his forehead. “He doesn’t give toys to kids who stay up late, trying to see him.” She warned, her tone light and more playful as she raised her eyebrows and began to retreat when he spoke again.

The blankets could be heard rustling as he shifted, “I don’t want toys though!” He whined.

The brunette stopped at his door, hand over the light switch to his room as she turned to look at him, her head resting against the doorframe. “Then what do you want most, my love?”

“I want papa to come home, safe, for Christmas.” He quietly said, turning over and leaning to grab something from under his bed that she immediately realized was a paper; a drawing to be exact, his messy writing scrawled across the bottom of the page and signed off by himself. “Can you put this out for Santa with his cookies? I want to make sure he gets my letter.”

She hesitated but eventually returned and collected the fragile paper before giving him one last loving peck to his forehead with a mumble of ‘of course’, before she whisked out of the room; his light being turned off and door shut as she stood in the hallway between their rooms, her eyes casting down onto the drawing of a little yellow haired boy smiling and holding the hand of another yellow haired man who was much bigger, one obviously representing himself and the other Collins. Aside of the drawing his letter had gotten her, choked up and having to stifle the cry clawing up the back of her throat as she stood at the top of the stairs.

Dear Santa,

It’s me again, Jack Collins.

This is very late so I hope you get this in time. I asked you for new army men and a plane this year but I wanted to ask if I could change my presents and ask for something else. I don’t want to ask for too much but I was wondering if you could bring my dad home to me and mum soon. I know she misses him and I miss him too.

She said he’s been gone for almost four years and he misses us just as much and wants to come home. I hope that’s not too big to ask. I hear mum crying about him some nights so I know she’s scared and misses him even if she doesn’t say it. Miss Cecile told me she just wants the war to be over soon and that it’s very hard on everybody not knowing if he’s okay. It’s okay if you can’t bring him home though, but please watch over him and make sure he’s okay for us. Give him this drawing maybe too if you can and let him know I love him.

Thank you. Merry Christmas

-Jack Finlay Collins

December 22 1944

Grace did eventually put it by the plate of cookies she put out in her son’s favour, munching on them to make it look touched and real, leaving crumbs and at least half a cookie and a quarter glass of milk behind before she sat on the couch with that thin piece of paper; crying and praying to God, to whoever it was out there, for the sake of her son -- at least to try. But it felt unheard and ignored, like she was wasting her breath, as she had for these last four years, yearning for the return of a familiar pilot who she could only vividly remember by the picture on her bedside table that she made sure to take with her whenever they evacuated into shelters, carrying it in her coat each time. She had ran back inside once before moving, very pregnant and wobbling inside despite her mother's protests and demands to leave it behind; holding her very swollen belly and having to steady on the stair railing before she darted into the living room for the framed picture of Collins’ smiling face.

Their house took some blast damage that night.

Although she had every detail of him memorized and stored in her brain, she felt attached, like if she ever lost it or didn’t see it regularly, she’d forget him  -- she felt as though the memories of his voice were deteriorating and it wouldn’t be anytime soon, not while she was alive, that she ever allowed herself to forget what he looked like.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, in tears and praying over the crying over the rosemary that had once been her mothers and begging some higher power. She just knew that she was woken by Jack crawling onto the couch, snuggling against her with his face close to hers -- so  close that his nose bumped hers and his heavy breathing ruffled her hair with each exhale as she forced her swollen eyes open to look at him, meeting expectant eyes.

“Good morning, mum.” He chirped, voice soft. “It’s Christmas.”

It physically hurt her throat to speak, but she mustered her words and laughed softly. “Yes, it is.” She tiredly said, watching as he slipped from the couch to stand and run towards the tree where a few gifts were now tucked under, sliding onto his knees and looking back at her expectantly as she yawned and slowly woke enough to clamber to her feet and join him. Grace wrapped herself tight in the thin robe she had fallen asleep in, letting out a dramatic ‘brrr’ as she slowly knelt beside her son who reached straight  for his stocking.

“Merry Christmas, my love.” She murmured, his own return mumbled as he fished through the little toys and trinkets and small surprises that filled the stocking; her eyes carefully watching him and how his eyes lit up with such fascination at every little thing. He tore through his gifts rapidly, letting out a shriek of excitement when he unwrapped and unveiled a new plane that he had eyed for months, his mother laughing quietly and witnessing a moment where his excitement dwindled, and she knew exactly why. Exactly where his mind went. But he said nothing and picked himself back up, soaring with excitement over his new toys as she then lead him back upstairs to dress for the day, putting together a quick breakfast for them.

The morning was rushed, behind schedule as she pulled his hat on on their way out the door, just on their way to church as he hobbled down the stairs, his mother behind him as she fixed her own coat. She took one of his hands in hers as they began to make their way down the street, being halted by the sound of honking coming up behind them, determined and persistent to gain attention -- and they succeeded. Grace pulled Jack to a stop and turned to watch just as somebody clambered from the vehicle a good ten feet away, the door slamming shut as a few goodbyes and happy holiday’s were bid, her son burying into her side.

“Did I miss breakfast?” The familiar voice shouted, jogging to approach Grace as she wrapped one arm around her shivering son, frowning as the figure was currently buried in a thick jacket to shield from the harsh blizzarding squalls of snow that blew; the only distinctive feature being those eyes. Those eyes…

“Collins?” She quietly whispered.

“Are we off to church already?” He asked, acting oblivious but as he nudged a scarf away from his face, she could see him grinning as he stopped just a few feet away and set his bag down, arms stretching out. “Come here.” He softly added, his playful tone gone and voice now thick with emotion as he stood there, waiting.

“Oh!” She said after a minute of hesitation, hardly able to believe her eyes as she hurried forward, her son close behind as she flung herself towards the blonde who pulled his hat off, blonde hairy messy and being dampened by snowflakes that caught in the locks. He had lifted her from her feet as he wrapped his arms around her midsection, hers around his neck and rocking there for a few moments, a sob of joy leaving her mouth. “Oh thank God, thank you God.” She cried, burying against him as she shushed her softly, lips near her ear.

“I’m okay, I’m here. It’s okay.” He quietly murmured.

“No, you-.” She stuttered, sniffling and consumed by a million emotions at once as he set her down, his hands on her face. “You were...the camps, I thought...I have the letter inside!” She brokenly shrieked, earning a small smile and laugh.

“You underestimate me. I’m not a fool, Miss Brown.” He stated, playfully and soft. “A group of other lads came up with this plan, didn’t go as planned at first but…”

“But, I thought you were…” she stuttered.

He shook his head, eyes glancing over her shoulder. “Another time, darling.” He softly insisted, obvious that it wasn’t a conversation he was too eager, exhausted eyes sympathetic and pleading for it to be dropped. “Who’s this little one?” He asked, playing oblivious as he began to circle his lover to near the little boy who had his hands in his pockets and fidgeting around. Jack sniffled.

“I’m Jack.” He replied shyly, watching carefully as Collins knelt in front of him. “Jack Finlay Collins.”

“You are not.” Collins said, feigning disbelief and letting out a low whistle. “You can’t be the Jack, no. Last time I saw him, he was nothing more than a lil’ baby.  Only the size of my forearm here he was. You’re way too big to be him.”

Their son made a face and shook his head, “No, I’m Jack. I’m just big now.” He argued, looking at his mother, “My name is Jack Collins, right? I’m Jack!”

Collins snorted and looked back at Grace who nodded. “That’s little Jack, I promise you.” She agreed.

The older blonde looked at the little one and laughed, “Huh, I suppose you are. You do look a little like him…” He pondered, shifting his position with a wince and grunt so he was knelt on his right knee. “Well, Jack, my name is Collins.” He stated, holding a hand out to his son whose eyes went wide.

“Like Collins from mum’s bedtime stories?” He asked, looking to his mother for an answer.

“I...suppose so,” Collins answered, glancing back with a raise of one blonde eyebrow, a quizzical look being cast over at the brunette who remained quiet. “That would be me.”

Jack shook his hand shyly after Collins nodded towards his hand with a dimpled smile, chuckling. “Do you really fly planes and fight bad guys?”

Collins nodded. “Sure do.” He answered, releasing Jack’s little hand from his own. “Hey, what else has mum here told you about me?”

“Just that you fight in those planes that sometimes go over us and she’s told me stories about you and your best friend, Evans, getting into trouble.” He explained, looking carefully at Collins who seemed to be lost in thought at the mention of his former partner. “Mum has a picture of you in her room, I’ve seen it before.”

Collins softly laughed, the sound forced as he reached into his pocket. “Have you now?” He asked, earning  a nod. “I have a picture of you too, wanna see?” Again, another eager nod. The picture was carefully taken out, a little worn around the edges but Grace knew the picture immediately; a shot of Collins carefully holding Jack in his arms when he was a tiny six week old, eyes loving and adoring as he held his son for the first time.

“When was this taken?” Jack asked as he closed the gap between them to lean over in order to see the picture.

“About three years ago, if I remember exactly.” Collins answered without a pause, smiling as he looked at the picture. “I’ve got another one in my bag but it’s what got me through every day, out there. Seeing you. Knowing you were here and safe, taking care of your mum for me. Brave one you are.” He said, nudging his son who licked his upper lip again and shyly looked away.

“Do you remember me?” Collins asked as Grace came up  behind them, a hand resting on Jack’s back as he stayed quiet and shook his head. “Do you know who I am?” He asked, his boy reluctantly shaking his head again, “I’m your pa’, silly. You look just like me, how didn’t you notice that and realize?” He teased, brushing his son’s cheek as Jack looked up at his mom who only smiled.

“You’re my pa?” He asked, warily. Collins simply nodded as reply, his son’s words of sheer excitement as he jumped, looking up at his mother, “My letter worked! I asked Santa to bring papa home safe and it worked!” It was then that he flung forward and nearly knocked his dad over, arms wrapping around him as much they could, his father startled at first but then letting out a breathless laugh as he looked up at Grace. They exchanged small smiles, Collins wrapping his arms around his son and pressing a kiss to the side of his head as he sighed, content -- relieved even as he shut his eyes and breathed deeply, relieved to be home, and see that those tiring four years had some good out come. That there was still some good even if he had felt as though he hadn’t deserved as much, he had this -- love and happiness. And though there were some thing’s still unfixed and broken, although things were not the same, this was enough.

[manualstogo]

For just $3.99 A Study in Scarlet Released May 14, 1933: Sherlock Holmes uncovers a secret society that divides any dying members assets among the surviving members, and someone is killing them off, one by one. Directed by: Edwin L. Marin Written by: Arthur Conan Doyle with screenplay by Robert Florey and Reginald Owen. The Actors: Reginald Owen Sherlock Holmes, Anna May Wong Mrs. Pike, June Clyde Eileen Forrester, Alan Dinehart Merrydew, John Warburton John Stanford, Alan Mowbray Lestrade, Warburton Gamble Dr. Watson, J.M. Kerrigan Jabez Wilson, Doris Lloyd Mrs. Murphy, Billy Bevan Will Swallow, Leila Bennett Daffy Dolly, William Standing Captain Pike, Halliwell Hobbes Dearing, Hobart Cavanaugh innkeeper Thompson, Olaf Hytten Merrydew's Butler, Tetsu Komai Ah Yet, Tempe Pigott Mrs. Hudson, Cecil Reynolds William Baker. Runtime: 1h 12min *** This item will be supplied on a quality disc and will be sent in a sleeve that is designed for posting CD's DVDs *** This item will be sent by 1st class post for quick delivery. Should you not receive your item within 12 working days of making payment, please contact us as it is unusual for any item to take this long to be delivered. Note: All my products are either my own work, licensed to me directly or supplied to me under a GPL/GNU License. No Trademarks, copyrights or rules have been violated by this item. This product complies withs rules on compilations, international media and downloadable media. All items are supplied on CD or DVD.

[ffontiaucymraeg-blog]

ER CÔF ANNWYL AM Y BRODYR IEUAINC O'R EGLWYS HON A RHOISANT EU HEINIOES DROS EU BRENIN A'U GWLAD YN Y RHYFEL 1914-1918 OSCAR D. MORRIS W. BEVAN REES REGGIE I. V. C. THOMAS JOHN WYNFORD THOMAS WILLIAM J. THOMAS TREVOR N. EVANS "FFYDDLAWN HYD ANGAU" HEFYD Y RHAI A ABERTHODD EU BYWYDAU YN RHYFEL 1939-1945 ANTHONY GWYNFRYN EVANS IOAN WYNN RICHARDS CECIL JAMES THOMAS "EU HENWAU'N PERAROGLI SYDD A'U HUN MOR DAWEL YW" - Cofeb, Capel y Tabernacl, Caerdydd

[elliottmorris]

Well that was some way to spend summer solstice - playing at Cecil Sharp Sauna! I have never been so hot either on OR off stage in my entire life! Huge thanks to all of you - old friends and new - for coming down and for singing and sweating along with us (I resisted the urge to make a pun about all the 'fans' in the audience). You're all awesome! And of course for these three gents for adding their wonderful notes and beats - Jim Molyneux, Bevan Morris and Jack Carrack. We're aiming for the 'Beardiest Band Award' at next year's Grammys. Make a bit more of an effort, yeah Bev? What a treat to launch Lost & Found at the one and only Cecil Sharp House . Hope to be back very soon! #cecilsharphouse #cecilsharpsauna #hotterthanthesun #summer #summersolstice #beards #bandofbeards #rock #roots #folk #pop #blues #band #sing #song #singer #songwriter #camden #london #lostandfound #acoustic #guitar #gig #concert #venue #show #laaandan #music #newmusic (at Cecil Sharp House)

[thesortingmusesa]

@prisonerofmuses liked for a starter | Sophia Smith & Cecil Bevan

   “Cecil, can you help me with something? I cannot seem to get this essay right.” Sophia was having trouble with her Charms homework and she did not want to ask her brother to help. 

[junkielee]

[Film Review] Harvey (1950)

Title: Harvey Year: 1950 Country: USA Language: English, Spanish, Latin Genre: Comedy, Fantasy, Drama Director: Henry Koster Screenwriters: Mary Chase, Oscar Brodney based on the Pulitzer Prize play by Mary Chase Music: Frank Skinner Cinematography: William H. Daniels Cast: James Stewart Josephine Hull Charles Drake Peggy Dow Cecil Kellaway Jesse White Victoria Horne William H. Lynn Wallace Ford

[mariocki]

The Invisible Man Returns (1940)

"So you just let the lady walk out and ride away, eh?"

"I had nothing to hold Miss Manson on, sir; I had no instructions about her - and her looking so ill, sir..."

"Tewksbury, you're a credit to the force. You used brains. Watch her but don't scare her too much, that's our game. We can't expect to catch the quarry if we shut up the bait."

[filmsmoviesentertainment]

Something revealed about Mary and Elizabeth as costumes separate women from myth

Modern women will recognise the dueling monarchs in Mary Queen of Scots.

By Janice Breen Burns 7 January 2019 — 11:30am

For 400-odd years they've been cast as the flinty bitch and the bed-hopping slut. Elizabeth 1 and Mary Stuart were royal cousins vying for legitimacy in a kingdom rent by religious and political conflict. Their rivalry became the stuff of legend, such that more than 400 years later, filmmakers are still finding riches in the royal rancour.

Josie Rourke's Mary Queen of Scots extracts its female leads from myth and history. Starring Margot Robbie as Elizabeth I and Saoirse (pronounced "Sur-Sha") Ronan as Mary Stuart, the film tenderly fleshes them out enough to chime with real women today.

Mary Stuart's attempt to overthrow her cousin Elizabeth I, Queen of England, finds her condemned to years of imprisonment before facing execution.

"That's what I wanted most in the telling of this story; to show all aspects of what it's like to be a woman," Rourke says. "To show all aspects of all women's experiences, all women's bodies, and that fight for control that's still real."

Critical flack for the film's rejigging of history (including a face-to-face meeting of the queens that never happened) was inevitable. But Rourke and co-producer Tim Bevan (both Elizabeth films starring Cate Blanchett were also his) are unapologetic. "[The screenplay] took us away from exact detail," Bevan says, "but it captured an emotional truth and atmosphere."

 Rourke is more blunt: "Mary's been slut-shamed for the past 400 or so years," she says. "I think she's been done a bit of injustice by history." She reckons the film might help right a wrong that's embedded in history's mechanics, particularly its recording by men about women.

"Mary was framed as this kind of femme fatale by Cecil [Lord Burghley, adviser to Elizabeth 1, played by Guy Pearce]," Rourke says. "It was a systematic campaign; letters, pamphlets, fake news as we'd call it today."

Cecil's slut tag stuck, as did Elizabeth's "Iron Queen" stamp. But the film adds delicate dimensions of vulnerability, vanity, self-doubt and naivete to their documented surges of political strength and resolve.

Much of the intuitive material about them was spurred by a new biography of Mary Stuart, My Heart Is My Own, by forensic historian John Guy. "He put aside this 400 years of writing about Mary as someone who was incompetent because she couldn't control her emotions or sexual appetite," Rourke observes, "and he basically said 'What is actually in the archives? What actually happened?'."

 Or, what was most likely to have happened, given both young queens reigned in the same social soup; despised for their gender and manipulated by power-mongering courtiers.

"Imagine starting a new job like that," Rourke says. "Being handed this ton of responsibility, but you're surrounded by people who doubt your abilities and even your right to be there. They want to control who you marry. They want you to produce a male heir. And, in the end, that's your power and your triumph but, when you do [as Mary did, giving birth to a son who eventually ruled England and Scotland as James 1], there's always going to be some uncle or brother around who goes: 'Well that's incredibly useful; I wonder if we need you any more, queen? Maybe I can just rule on behalf of your son...'."

 Women's power was woefully limited and tied to their physical appearance and value as brides, mothers and whores in the 16th century. Among Rourke's key allies in conveying this for the #MeToo era were hair and make-up designer Jenny Shircore and costume designer Alexandra Byrne.

"I knew when I first read the story we wouldn't be making a historical documentary here," Byrne says. "And I didn't want to do a, 'here comes another queen in another frock' either."

This rendering of 16th-century fashion would be different, she decided, but not crazily different. Byrne used her extensive knowledge of the era's authentic fashions as a scaffold for the new costumes she describes as "engineered to express how [Elizabeth and Mary] ruled and maintained their power in a world of predatory men".

Elizabeth's elaborate, multi-level carapaces of heavy silk brocades and gauzy laces were relatively easy to sculpt as the peacockily political crowd-pleasers they were meant to be, from the typical toolbox of figure-altering farthingales, corsets, crinolines and other boned and padded fashion contraptions of the time. Mary's, on the other hand, had to be simpler, more subtly nuanced, more Scottish, more modern.

"Elizabeth was incredibly aware of the power of her appearance," Byrne says. "She actually aimed to replace the iconography of the Virgin Mary."

In the earliest years of her "virgin queen" persona, Byrne envisions Elizabeth's intention complicated by the vanity of a typical young woman. "She's like the girl with the Net-a-Porter account, using everything she can buy to create the look," Byrne says, laughing.

Byrne introduces elegant glints of copper and bronze into Elizabeth's fragile funnel collars as the young queen might have done herself, to enhance her red hair. But then she bleeds all colour and joy from the queen's wardrobe as a disfiguring bout of small-pox thins her hair, pocks her complexion and guts her self-esteem.

By the film's crescendo, shot as the queens move evocatively towards each other through drifting white veils of freshly washed laundry, Elizabeth's shattered ego is heartbreakingly evident.

Byrne chose a striking hunting ensemble for her to wear, but confuses its impact with extra, intensely self-conscious, fashion choices: a clownish red wig to cover her thinned and ratty hair, and make-up trowelled on, pale and thick as Spakfilla, to cover her pock scars.

Any woman who has ever been tempted to paper over her self-doubts with fashion might recognise the OTT, mutton-as-lamb result. And in these cringlingly feminine stakes at least, Mary's messy hair, battle-spattered dress and careless disregard for her own youth and beauty, effectively "wins".

Byrne's trick, to infuse a relatable sense of modernity into costumes including Mary's and the male characters, was to cut most of them from acres of indigo denim. "We have this association with denim in our everyday lives that gave me that juxtaposition of ancient and modern I needed."

Rivets, stitching and patinas of sweat and mud only enhanced the costumes' contemporary cool and in clusters, they cast an oddly satisfying blue across the film's moody chiarascuro.

Best of all though, was denim's boon to Byrne's male costumes, "which had to be sexy ... with a swagger". Story lines including Mary's flirtation with future husband Lord Darnley (played by Jack Lowden), swung on how convincingly hot he was to modern audiences, not likely in swollen breeches, fancy doublet and tight.

Byrne experimented with leather and denim and solved the problem of Elizabethan sexlessness with high-waisted crotch-centric pants and low-slung western belts and, voila, "we had our swagger".

In any final analysis of Byrne's intuitive reimagining of Mary, however, her simplest costume design is the most evocative. Ronan strips down to a rough chemise in a scene that could could only be described as a rape, but one that Mary orchestrates herself in order to get pregnant.

"She's been at the battle, she's dirty, she's sweated into that chemise," Byrne says. "It's very much a garment that's of her." After Darnley's departure, Ronan curls up, all pale girl legs, tangled hair and grubby chemise, but not as a victim. On the contrary, she knows the shocking limits of her power as a woman, and prays his sperm will take.

Source: Sydney Morning Herald