Viking Women Don't Wash.

Though, apparently, they do wear really cool clothes!

Last week, I got called to do a night shoot for Outlander. So, at 10:00 p.m. on Thursday, I headed out to the second unit set which, fortunately enough, was just this side of Spryfield, only 10 minutes from home, where I sat in a big tent with 20 other extras and waited. First, I waited to get costumed. Then I waited for hair and makeup. Then I waited while the crew had their dinner break. Then, while most of the other background performers slept on chairs and tables, I waited for us to be called to the set. And waited. Finally, around 5 a.m., they told us that they were having trouble with the wind machine, and to please wait a little while longer. Shortly before 7, they told us that they wouldn't be able to fix the wind machine before sunrise, and that they would have to shoot the scene on Friday night, instead. So I went home, showered, slept for just over an hour, then went to school to lead a tutorial on Othello. I came home, got a little more sleep, then headed off to Balcony rehearsal, and, from there, straight back to the set to wait some more. Around 3, while everyone else was sleeping, I tried to read, but discovered that I was so tired that I could actually no longer read. At all. It was weird--like I was looking at Latin or engineering symbols or something. So I put away the book and waited some more. Finally, finally, finally, around 5 a.m., they loaded us up in vans and drove us to the lake--a tiny, calm little lake that stands in for the ocean. They handed me 3 logs (apparently, as far as Viking women go, I'm not all that tough) and told me to carry them into one of the two lodges when they called action. We rehearsed a few times before they took away our coats, cranked on the wind and rain machines--we were villagers fleeing from the storm--and we did it for real a few times. As long as they don't cut the scene, you might just be able to see me walking from a fire into a lodge. Look for the white sleeves and grey tunic-thingy. They built two lodges, but apparently, they're going to CGI more into the background. Actually, the set looked pretty cool, even from close up. Two other extras, Colleen and Joanne, had to carry dried fish in out of the rain. Real dried fish. Fake rain. They smelled great afterwards.
Here are some pics from Joanne's camera in the holding tent. You'll notice that hair and makeup consisted of making us look... unwashed. And that the costumes were meant to make us look busty and sexy (the costumer's words, not mine).
Now cross your fingers that Trent gets called soon!
(Okay, I'm trying to upload the pics... stay tuned.)

Be Beautiful.

And think a little about what beautiful means to you--not to the advertisers. They're the ones who started the escalating standards of beauty; it's nice to see that now, they're showing us how unattainable those standards really are!

Check it out.

Save Us, Jeebus!

So. Eomer's out and Jesus is in. Apparently, Karl Urban got dumped from Outlander in favour of Jim Calviezel, and rumours are rampant about whether or not filming has started yet... and Trent and I haven't heard a thing. So cross your fingers for us and hope that we haven't gone out with the bathwater, so to speak.
Meanwhile, I'm really enjoying my time in the brothel for The Balcony.

All in All, A Productive Day

I chopped a crapload of wood for winter, I learned my lines for The Balcony, and I shaved my legs.

Okay, Trent helped chop the wood (a little) and he worked on my lines with me. But the leg shaving, that was all me. And I did my armpits while I was at it.

Happy Birthday Trent!

29 Today!

More Lakes and Trees...

I needed a break from my Early Long Poems of Canada (euch.) yesterday, and it was fabulously warm and sunny out, so I took Marlowe for a walk on Crystal Crescent Beach. As I was enjoying the warm sun, cool sand and ocean water on my bare feet, it occurred to me that my favourite places in the world are the ones where I've gone hiking with dogs: the rural roads and tiny villages up the mountain from the Diots' in France (with Tacot), Elk Island outside of Edmonton (with Trent and Marlowe) and now, Crystal Crescent. The tide was really low yesterday--so low that the place where Nancy slipped on a rock in the water was dry, and there was another small beach beyond the small one where Phil, Nancy Trent and I hung out--but before the nude beach that Julie, Emmet and I walked to when we lost Bob and Trent (yes, please contemplate it, Gentle Readers). And suddenly, it occurs to me why there's so much bad topographical poetry in Canadian Literature--I actually had the urge to rhapsodize on the rocks, the trees, the sand and the ocean! I guess that's something to think about when I feel that I can't possibly read one more poem about lakes and trees...

Silent But Deadly

Last week, my English 2205 Tutorial was a little frustrating. Discussion was lackluster, so I let my students go home a little early. This week, I prepared a discussion for them about aims and strategies in "The Wife of Bath's Prologue" in The Canterbury Tales. Granted, not the most stimulating text, but I figured we could do a close reading together of a particularly rich section. Now, every Monday and Wednesday, my students sit in a lecture hall with 170 other English 2205 students and listen to the prof lecture on the various texts. Then, on Friday, they are supposed to be discussing the texts in smaller groups--i.e. tutorials--led by a TA (me!). I try to mix things up week to week--one week, I'll prepare a half dozen discussion questions, split them into groups, have them work on their own for fifteen minutes or so, then we reconvene as a group to see what everyone's come up with. Other times, I'll just prepare a class discussion. And the first few weeks went rather well. Last week, as I've said, was a little more difficult. This week, however, was downright painful. First, I would ask what's going on in a certain section. Silence. So then I'd rephrase my question and point to specific lines. More silence. Finally, I would point to a key line and ask what it said. Silence. Who knew that 30 English majors would be completely illiterate? So after about the third or fourth time this had happened, I decided to switch tactics. I asked them to split into groups of about 3, and told them that I would assign them each a few lines to work on. Silence. They just sat there, staring at me, out the window, at their notebooks, whatever.
I kind of lost my temper. I told (yelled at) them that I was sure they could manage forming groups of three. And you know what? They did.
So now I need a favour from you guys. Please--think back to your undergrad or college experiences. What was wrong with the instructors you didn't like? What did the good instructors do that got people talking? For the love of FSM, give me a clue--I am not willing to be that instructor that students actually tell each other to avoid!
(Roz, I'm looking at you here--I know you've won teaching awards...)

His Noodly Appendage

I've been getting pretty stressed out lately sbout my inability to clip through my reading list as my comps draw ever closer. I've also been growing frustrated by the proponderance of religious and semireligious (like the Pilgrim-instituted celebration of the gradual suppression of Native North American culture and autonomy, Thanksgiving!) holidays that apparently make it impossible for my students to hand in their assignments on time. And then today, Philip sent me a link that has made me realize that, like my students, I am in a position wherein my religious beliefs have provided me with an answer to my current academic anxieties; please see, below, the letter of explanation that I intend to send to my supervisor.

Dear Dr. Dawson,
I must regretfully inform you that, due to a recent divine intercranial intervention by the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or FSM, I will be unable to successfully complete my Comprehensive Examinations in May 2007. As a result of my devout faith, FSM, in his divine wisdom, recently chose me as his prophet, and I must therefore undertake a religious pirating journey in order to prevent global warming. Evidence of His decision to call me to divine piracy is that, while I was well-close to completing my assigned reading, He used His Noodly Appendages to wipe several--in fact, most--of the canonical texts of Canadian Literature from my memory, and indeed, He has chosen to remove many of these books, which I had obtained in a very timely manner last spring, from my library altogether. I am sure that you will accept this most religious of academic excuses and will unquestioningly defer my Comprehensive Examinations to a time that is more pleasing to Him.
RAmen,
Rebecca Babcock,
PhD Candidate and Divine Pirate
Arrrgh...