Along the entire way to the University of Arkansas I’ve got The Count of Monte Cristo playing at 1.25x speed. 47 hours of material, of which, by the time I’m pulling out of my driveway, I have 17 hours left. 5.5 hours of driving projected by Maps and the car’s a-rumble with the sonority of John Lee’s narration. Ma foi, I could listen to him say French words all day.
News on President Trump’s slipshod efforts to discredit the media and his own Department of Justice — eerily similar to Nixon’s rabid treatment of the press and his own charges of obstruction of justice — as well as the discussion on workplace gender politics fountaining from the #MeToo movement, currently dominate US headlines. Such a stage set, Steven Spielberg’s The Post is most certainly a necessary film — though one which fails to capitalise on the underlying, long-dormant anger welling from topical issues.
Boots scurry through volcanic gravel. A sliding door slams. The engine rumbles, the van lurches forward – and so the journey begins. Before me I see scrubland worming up through black volcanic fields, mountain ranges wildly stripped of green, waterfalls gushing from stunted valleys, lagoons littered with sky-blue chunks of ice, and ponds so still and so clear that they are mirrors to an inverted world – one where the sky or a mountain crag hangs upside-down.
It, directed by Andy Muschietti and adapted from the Stephen King novel of the same name, debuted early last month. As with most adaptations, the movie has rekindled interest both in the source material (published in 1986) and in its author. While It is certainly one of King’s best works, there are plenty of others in his career as a novelist – over sixty books spanning forty years. Don’t know where to start? We’ve got you covered.
Eighty kilometres of jackknives, hairpins, switchbacks, dips, and blind summits wind through the treeless glens along the Isle of Skye’s northernmost peninsula. The Trotternish Loop — a more poetic title for the serpentining sprawl of the A87 — is, despite my descriptors to the contrary, a forgiving stretch of asphalt for someone who has never driven on the left side of the road in his life.