So we read The Alchemist (a bit) and had some issues with The Witch of Portobello (a lot), but when Mon Oncle is showing at the beautifully, crumbly, sun-damaged Cinema Rif in Tangier, on the very day we roll up, parched and hungry – mere days after blogging about it – we think we believe in some kind of destiny…we’re not sure what kind…but still…
We were turned onto Jacques Tati’s film, Mon Oncle, for the first time today. We think we’ve finally found the house that fulfills all our modernist fantasies – if there’s anywhere you can eat lemon soup and wear white, it’s here.
And don’t even get us started on the woman in red.
Massive accessory envy.
My name is Victoria Winters. My journey is beginning. A journey that I hope will open the doors of life to me and link my past with my future. A journey that will bring me to a strange and dark place, to the edge of the sea high atop Widows’ Hill – a house called Collinwood. A world I’ve never known, with people I’ve never met. People who tonight are still only shadows in my mind, but who will soon fill the days and nights of my tomorrows.
I’m haunted by the angel cake, scones, and crumpets dripping in butter.
The only friends you’ll ever need:
Neely: Druggy, chubby, gay-man-marrying, lush.
Jennifer: Pregnant-by-a-mentally-retarded-singer, suicidal saucepot.
Anne: Pretty, dull, would try and steal your boyfriend.
