I watched The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie yesterday as part of an ongoing book-and-film binge good bye to Muriel Spark, and as part of an ongoing effort to eat less reefer (it didn't seem like a very reefer-y movie), because even though it's so delicious I've been struck with a sudden paranoia my rates of consumption will make my babies have tails or be stupid.
It's weird to see beautiful naked people from the 60's. It's wierd enough to see beautiful people from the 60's on-screen when you know what they look like now - especially Jane Russell, I mean, that woman was HAWT, uber-hot, jaw-dropping hot (here's a bathtub picture because I'm so nice), and now she shows up on Italian television talkshows still looking remarkably good for her age, but - fack - I suppose when someone is as hot as Jane Russell I expect them to be a more than human, for that quantity of beauty to not be transient. There's something quite ass-backward about existence, but oh well.
Anyways, it's weird for me to see beautiful naked people from the 60's on-screen, as Pamela Franklin was in The PFMJB, and that must have been what sparked the dream I had that night about being one of Miss Brodie's students and attending a presentation/rally she'd organized in Edinburgh of the 1930's of Italian fascisti. Somehow there had been some misunderstanding and instead of the fascisti, a bunch of Australian Chippendales showed up and did their thing. Miss Brodie was perturbed but all of us thought it was pretty funny. It's nice to know my unconscious has a grasp of none-too-subtle literary subtleties.