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Afterward I felt that I should have recognized Brian Fairbairn and Karl Eccleston's Tommies (2022) at once as the work of the same filmmakers who introduced half the internet to Polari with Putting on the Dish (2015), not least because the two short films make such a nice double feature for the viewer who shares their abiding interest in historical diction, coded communications, and the infectious paranoia of the pre-decriminalization queer male UK. Dense for their snapshot runtimes, they require a similar willingness from their audience to entertain the past on its own terms and learn how to listen to it, whether it's a bombshell of intricate argot or an event horizon of the politely unspeakable.

Six pyrotechnic minutes on Hampstead Heath in 1962, Putting on the Dish is the wittier, higher-wire of the two, sustaining even through its hard zag of an ending a rapid-fire exposition of Polari to scream for. On top of a crash course in the range and variety of marginalized influences that cascaded into one voraciously colorful anti-language, it concisely demonstrates how two strangers side by side on a public park bench could have anatomized the exuberantly unexpurgated adventures of acquaintances or exchanged their own appraisals of well-packaged passers-by, openly under the radar of Lily Law. "Real fantabulosa bit of hard." Its barbed ciphers form a fragile safe space, advanced as casually as a noncommittal naff or bona and then more colloquially relaxed into with talk of floweries and dinarly and disappointingly dolly HPs. "Nada to vada in the larder?" – "Bijou." Nothing else automatically links the bolder and cagier persons of Steve Wickenden and Neil Chinneck—the invaluable screenplay gives their camp names as Maureen and Roberta—but in their shared appreciation of a zinger of defiant backchat, the hillside seems tranquil with possibility, at least until recalled to the realities that oblige a furtive countercultural jargon in the first place. Polari defaults so naturally to irony, getting a heart-punch out of it is an achievement, one of the few direct gestures in a vignette that rewards cryptography. Even the book in its pink jacket encodes its own implications. What English signals is nothing to say.

Down to the riddle of its title, Tommies is the more somberly ambitious slow burn, circling its fifteen minutes in the wings of the haut ton in 1814 around an invented yet all too imaginable coda to the infamous treatment of the Vere Street Coterie. An exercise in negative space, it never looks inside the molly house itself, shows nothing of the men who patronized it except through their social radioactivity, the cishet fascination with their queer customs. "When the police raided their den, they found a dozen men in a bed in one room and in the other a midwife helping a female grenadier give birth to a Wiltshire loaf!" Its Mayfair house is a curdled chocolate box, thick with the stifling half-light of a summer's evening and frantic with the trills and flutters of canaries like the tight catch in a throat or the snap of an expertly wielded fan. Sarah Winter as Georgina Ashton has a look of Psyche not only because of the white fillet her bronze-dark hair is caught up with, but because she stands on the black-and-white chequers of the stair hall as if facing into hell. How she fits into the loose, allusive swirl of gossip that gradually overtakes the women's conversation may be clocked first by students of the queer Regency, but it still has to be deciphered from the ellipses left between the more overt shocks as the cross-currents of schadenfreude, sympathy, and self-preservation gather to a point of no return. As with so much paranoid cinema, even at pocket-size, the question of who knows what is really asking the use of which the knowledge will be made. "When a man holds fire to his chest, it is not only his own clothes he burns." It's a tense, trickily layered tour-de-force for its all-female ensemble—the rest of its cameos are precisely razored in by Marion Bailey, Claudia Jolly, Elizabeth Roberts, and Susie Trayling—and it doesn't not land the wraparound of its final scenes to the unsettled Gainsborough of its cold open, but it feels like more of a fragment than its predecessor despite or because of its greater craft. Its apophatic technique might have to let up for a feature. As a chip of history, it can still haunt.

Beyond their adroit ear and eye for period detail, both films are attractive little objects. Shot on open-air digital by Benjamin Barber, Putting on the Dish has a sort of Eastmancolor overcast that suits both the year and the season; its men look unglamorous and attainable, the imperfections of their faces as expressive as the artifice of their language. Tommies looks like a heritage ghost on slightly powdery 16 mm, a gallery of revealingly shadowed portraits hung by DP Brian Fawcett; its women emerge from their era with all the mixed and inconvenient reality of facts escaping the historical record. I can best compliment the characterfully inhabited costume design by Oliver Cronk by invoking Alexandra Byrne. Impressively, neither feels like just another whack of gay tragedy even when they focus so intimately on the never-beneficial ramifications of a criminalized life; they are too vivid and compassionate, interested in all of their players regardless of their effects. I watched them courtesy of their writer-director-editors' YouTube and would be intrigued by any further foreign countries—how differently and how recognizably things are done there—they choose to add to their many-voiced queer mosaic. This English brought to you by my bona backers at Patreon.

Following the successful conclusion of one of spatch's appointments for a change, we returned to Belle Isle Seafood and this time it was a beautiful gold-tilting evening and we could seat ourselves at one of the weather-polished open-air tables and a server came by with her pad of guest checks and for what we estimate to have been the first time in six and a quarter years we ate at a restaurant together. I got a plate of smelts piled just as high and sweetly sanded and ate them down to the fried tips of their tails and the delicate bones. Rob assures me that his baked haddock was as flakily rich as it looked under its crumbs and juiced lemon. We had duly observed the warning sign about the seagulls, but mostly we saw sparrows leaning like acrobats through the diamonds of the chain-link and a common tern that made an air-slicing swoop into the water after a small silver struggle of fish. I twisted corners of napkins into earplugs because of the planes roaring out of the peach-haze over Logan. The serpentine water was full of the shivered reflections of boats and the piers built green shadows under their Plimsoll lines. When we came home by way of Revere Beach where the glass-backed combers were still curling in high, the sun doubled itself fierily in the salt marsh off North Shore Road. Even more so now, the sea feels like a lifeline. Everything feels like choking and it is so important to have reasons to breathe.

I had no idea until last night that the runaway success of Lock Up Your Daughters at the Mermaid Theatre in 1959 had produced a small boom in Restoration musicals upon the London stage, or at least for two months in 1963 it produced Paul Dehn and James Bernard's Virtue in Danger, a musical translation of John Vanbrugh's 1696 The Relapse which despite a comedically impressive cast including Barrie Ingham, Patricia Routledge, John Moffatt, Patsy Byrne, and Alan Howard fizzled out as a curiosity with an original cast LP. As a musical, it does feel thin on the ground in that most of its songs are glosses on the Vanbrugh, but every now and then it comes up with a minor gem like the devastatingly sincere "I'm in Love with My Husband," the conditional yearning of "Let's Fall Together," or the sweetly clueless "Why Do I Feel What I Feel?" which last is stuck disastrously in my head. It's the catchiest tune in the show and the likeliest to have escaped containment—nothing else in the score rang any bells with me, but this one may have made it as far as Standing Room Only—and its debt to Rodgers and Hart is honorably discharged, but I still couldn't stop thinking of Tom Lehrer.

Rewatching John Carpenter's Starman (1984) in full for the first time in decades reminded me of the odd, small cycle in American science fiction of its decade with their almost folkloric exploration of passing for human—learning what it is to be human, which is never required to mean replicating it perfectly. Jeff Bridges as the Starman retains his slight, birdlike glitches of movement and artifically accurate cadences to the last. His eidetic mimicry of television fills in for the cultural tics and expectations he has not yet worked out the rules of, but whose pattern he can reproduce well enough for normal social weirdness. It took me well into adulthood to understand the humor of the scene in Splash (1984) in which Madison is initially upset by a shootout in an episode of Bonanza because that extra-diegetic awareness of acting which a slightly nonplussed Allen explains to her was exactly how I learned to separate my own emotional reactions from fictional images that similarly disturbed me. The Brother from Another Planet (1984) and The Hidden (1987) would be the other titles that come to mind; I may be overlooking others, but the superficial appearance of Earth-humanity is a necessary criterion. Of course they are immigration stories, too, or so many of our heroes wouldn't have an inimical government on their tails. Madison and the Brother even make their respective landfalls at Ellis Island. I would love to be able to interpret this strain as a rebuttal to the paranoia of so much of the previous generation's science fiction where the federal government, fueled by the Cold War and the Red and Lavender Scares, was fully justified in blowing the aliens away, but I might need a larger sample set. I can at least track that the nonhuman characters under discussion are just trying to get on with their own lives, whose cosmically personal stakes are love or freedom or knowledge. "I make maps," the Starman explains himself. They feel more like Zenna Henderson's People stories than even something like The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976). I saw three of them as a small child. It was a useful additional reinforcement of the different ways to be a person.

The rain actually washed a solid twenty degrees off the heat, leaving an unobjectionably haze-whitened summer through which one may walk without courting a flashover event. The bush of lavender that overhangs the sidewalk up the block was thick with honeybees and bumblebees. They hummed around my shoulders and hands as I moved with the camera. I thanked them for their time and close-ups. No one stung me.



Thanks to a pre-Fourth article on shape note, I have discovered Tim Eriksen and Peter Irvine's Absence and her sister (2026), whose release I had missed earlier this spring. It is the haunted banger one would expect from two-thirds of a band who cautioned a folk-punk generation not to stick knives in babies' heads.

Anyway, two hundred and fifty years later I oversaw the making of the strawberry ice cream and after dinner a terrific crack of rain fell out of the sky. Earlier in the afternoon and the heat, my niece and the twins came in from swimming for the second day in a row. a_reasonable_man showed up with a box of peaches. spatch took a picture of me dressed for the occasion, i.e. the future.

Yesterday's heat dome cracked 102 °F and felt like 109 °F. This afternoon hovers modestly around a mere 100 °F. I would have thought the last comparably soaring scorcher had been the previous summer with all its melted daily records, but apparently for sustained triple digits it was 1944.

At this point my life is such that even were anything sestercentennially awesome happening I would almost certainly be obliged to miss out on it, but it remains exhausting to watch a reality of history ground into Christofascist clickbait so malignly uninteresting it seems slopped out entire by that insult to mediocrity, the plagiarism engine: it has the thin, unreal, nauseous feel of it, including that at any mindless second it could be prompted to bomb the Middle East. My father has been mourning the bicentennial. I still have the commemorative quarters my grandmother kept for years on the windowsill of the anchor-papered guest room with the dollars and half-dollars in the metal piggy bank.

The aetiological little murder ballad that I heard last night on my way to collect spatch turned out to be Mugison's "Salt" (2004). I am enjoying the photo slider of local psychogeography from the Boston Globe.