Currently watching...

Being that it's my passion, I feel a compulsion to every once in a while update you on the web series I'm following.  I'm really happy that there seems to be a pretty constant flurry of activity in this exploding format--new projects starting up, others finishing one season and pursuing funding for another, etc.  So in the midst of the many that I hear about, here are the series I've been watching over the last few months:

Title: Classic Alice
Creators: Kate Hackett
About: "It chronicles Alice Rackham's life -- lived according to classic literature."  See my review of Season 1 here.  Season 2 just wrapped and stories included: Pygmalion, "The Butterfly," Macbeth, "Rip Van Winkle," The Wind in the Willows, and A Christmas Carol.  Whew! Range.
Of all the adapted web series I've watched this one has been the most innovative and also--with funding--could be the most sustainable. They are currently campaigning for funding and would so appreciate your support!

Status: Finished Season 2, campaigning for Season 3

Title: In Earnest
Creators:  Taryn Cole, Carly Straight, and Rachel Pullen
About: "'In Earnest' is a modern, web series adaptation of Oscar Wilde's famous play, 'The Importance of Being Earnest.'"  This is a quite delightful rendition of this story set at an East Coast University.  I am amazed how seamlessly Wilde's 120 year old wit can be repeated word-for-word today.  Favorite performance is John Laurie as Algernon Moncrieff

Status: Current.  New videos air Wednesdays and Saturdays

Title: Elinor and Marianne take Barton
Creators: Emily Nabney and Olivia Cole
About: "'Elinor and Marianne Take Barton' is an updated online adaptation of Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, produced, filmed and created by students at the University of Warwick (England)." I'm aware there are a couple S&S adaptations going on currently; this has felt the most life-like to me.  It's also delightful to finally watch a web-series based off a British book created and performed by British people :D

Status: Current.  New videos air Friday (usually)

Title: From Mansfield with Love
Creators: Foot in the Door Theatre
About: "'From Mansfield With Love' is a modern adaptation of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park." Another British series!  The pretense under which we get these videos is, I think, a perfect set up.  Though I found neither Frances O'Conner (1999) nor Billie Piper (2007) convincing as Fanny Price, Holly Truslove seems to have struck a balance.

Status: Current.  New videos air Wednesday and Sundays

Other series I'm aware of, but haven't checked out yet:
March Family Letters
East and West
Carmilla
Green Gables Fables
The Misselthwaite Archives

Are there others you've been watching? Any of these look particularly interesting to you?  Any I should review? :)

31 days of Books: Picture of Dorian Gray

Today marks the half-way point of my 31 days project (I started 9/30) - yippee!  Thank you all for reading and commenting.  There's pretty much nothing that makes me happier than other people reading a book I love!  So, thank you all :)

Also, (more to come on this, but) this weekend I got to see a first edition copy of today's book - autographed by the author!  Oh my word!!

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Title:  The Picture of Dorian Gray

Author:  Oscar Wilde

Published:  1890

Year I read it:  2011

One sentence summary:  Corrupted Dorian Gray has a portrait that mutates and warps to show the state of his soul, while physically he gets to remain young, rich, and handsome.

Interesting fact:  Wilde's only novel.

Three reasons to read it:

• The prologue [see below].  I don't agree with all these statements.  I don't even like all of these statements.  But I love that Wilde compiled these statements!  They move me to think about what art is and what power it has.
• The story is a classic and I hear it alluded to all the time.  I was recently in a business meeting where one of the younger professionals scolded everyone else for not getting a reference from it.  I nodded in agreement.
• The novel is intriguingly autobiographical.  Wilde himself later referred to this book when reflecting on his own life.  

One reason you maybe shouldn't:

• Dorian Gray sleeps around, steals, murders and is in general a very corrupt, tragic figure.  Be forewarned.

Great quotes: [several of which I don't support... they're just Wilde being witty]

“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.”

“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” 

“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them.”  

“Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.” 

“Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.” 

Preface

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. 

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. 

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. 

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. 

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass. 

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.  

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.  

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.  

No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.  

No artist is ever morbid.  

The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.  

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.  

All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.  

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.  

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.  

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. 

All art is quite useless.

Magus choice today: The Complete Fairy Tales by Oscar Wilde

I'm stoked! I was expecting I'd get a novel, but I think this will hit the spot.

I have already read "The Selfish Giant" and I have high hopes that this collection will be amazing.

I read one today, "The Happy Prince." It was one of his earlier works and his faith is still evident in a really beautiful way (of course it's beautifully put--it's Wilde!)

Anyway... I hope to put some good Wilde quotes up soon.

Adventure for tomorrow: interview! Pray if you would =l =)

Today is St. Patrick's Day and in honor of the British-Saint-who-moved-to-Ireland and for whom we celebrate Ireland every year, I thought I'd share just a few of my favorite Irish artists.

There are so many that I love (Kenneth Branaugh, George Bernard Shaw, Liam Neeson, Enya, and Peter O'Toole) even more whom I respect (Seamus Heaney, James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, Richard Harris, Michael Gambon, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, etc.) But there are just a few that I admire I thought worth it to share. So, in no particular order, here they are:

Andrew Scott

Oscar Wilde

Clive Staples "Jack" Lewis

Maureen O'hara

Paul Hewson, a.k.a Bono

The Selfish Giant

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.
It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
"What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself." So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED

He was a very selfish Giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we were there," they said to each other.
Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."
But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.
"But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."
"You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow," said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all."
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him."
"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love."
"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise."
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

THE END.

By Oscar Wilde