Tree, took one look at your avatar and never doubted.
Lord Laurence Olivier was arguably the greatest English language actor of the 20th century, and couldn’t do an American accent to save his life, alas.
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The Agent, The Girl, and the Fidelistas
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
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Tree, took one look at your avatar and never doubted.
Lord Laurence Olivier was arguably the greatest English language actor of the 20th century, and couldn’t do an American accent to save his life, alas.
Re Lord Laurence, I watched him do McArthur in "Inchon."
I think Radar O’Reilly did MacArthur best
A bit embarrassing actually - though I greatly admire Sir Alec Guinness, and otherwise his performance in 'Tunes of Glory' was splendid -
I've watched 'Tinker, Tailor' many times and he's quite superb in that. The funny thing about 'Tunes of Glory' is that,
to be like the kind of Scots regimental officers I've met, he'd have sounded more Eton and Sandhurst,
trying rather hard not to sound like the 'other ranks' - and that would probably have been all the more so in the time that film was set.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Respect your points, but I need to go and watch the whole film again. Note that most of the other regimental officers (Mills, Price, Frazier) do sound like Eton. Even Gordon Jackson has only the mild accent he used in Upstairs/downstairs.
But Major Jock Sinclair is, I think meant to be different. He is Jock. He seems to have achieved a lot of his rank by personal bravery. His M.M. was almost exclusively to non-coms I thought while his D.S.O was for officers. I suspect he is meant to be of middle class origin, once a non-com and moved to officer for conspicuous bravery. Therefore, he could continue a strong Scots accent. I may be wrong here.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
no argumentRe Lord Laurence, I watched him do McArthur in "Inchon."
I think that's fair, that's part of the theme. And his accent's not at all bad, he's obviously worked on - is working on - it, in a way I suppose that's what prompted my reaction, he sounds pretty convincing a lot of the time, then a vowel sound suddenly doesn't ring true, like a pianist hitting a wrong note. I think really to get tuned into an accent and dialect, even a great actor as he certainly was, needs to live in a community where it's spoken, for several months at least, 'immersion', just as you need to get fluent in speaking a foreign language.
Just like Northwest Arkansas... just saying...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Hillbilly twang!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
But GREAT movie with great acting by a great cast!
"Deliverance"???
As I understand it, another interesting aspect of 'Tunes of Glory' is the regiment's worth of kilts which were specially woven for the film. The blue tartan is unlike anything worn by a Scottish regiment, and this was deliberate, in order to distance the plot and characters from any association with an authentic regiment.
Great story btw, Praefectus - highly entertaining stuff!
And congratulations on making five pages with three instalments!
And congratulations on making five pages with three instalments!
There was a bit of outside help, I mean interference, on THAT
Yes, I noticed that Madi has made an allegation of 'kidnapping', which sounds a bit more serious than the usual thread-hijacking.There was a bit of outside help, I mean interference, on THAT
I trust the ransom demands will be published soon?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
As I understand it, another interesting aspect of 'Tunes of Glory' is the regiment's worth of kilts which were specially woven for the film. The blue tartan is unlike anything worn by a Scottish regiment, and this was deliberate, in order to distance the plot and characters from any association with an authentic regiment.
Great story btw, Praefectus - highly entertaining stuff!
And congratulations on making five pages with three instalments!
Is that a lot or little?
Thank you so much for the kind words!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
There was a bit of outside help, I mean interference, on THAT
Barbaria1! You wouldn't kiss and tell?!
It is usually a good indication of a story thread's popularity.
You're very welcome.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Chapter Five
No kiss lasts forever, but that one sure seemed to. When we finally separated, we were still staring into each other’s eyes. It was one of those rare moments when no words or overt communication was required. We both picked up a candle and made our way silently down to the cabin.
Kissing repeatedly, removing clothes, touching each other, and finding our places in the bed all happened in what seemed both slow motion and very high speed. The last couple of weeks of interaction and, in hindsight, of building desire, drove our mutual lust powerfully forward. Soon our bodies were moving together in that eons old dance of love.
The next morning, I woke to the gentle rocking of the boat from someone’s distant wake in the waterway. It felt like a lover gently urging me to wake.
Barb had gotten up a few moments before me. I continued to lie facing the bulkhead, without moving, as if still asleep.
In my experience, most women do not want their lover (especially a new one) to see them as they slip from the bed in the morning. I think they are afraid that the other will see them as they really are: with imperfections, too fat here, too skinny there, a blemish, no makeup, hair a mess, in total, just too intimate a view in daylight. I go along their preference in this matter, even though, for me, my lover in the morning, with all her natural flaws, is always the most beautiful, most sexy being imaginable.
As she went about her morning routine, I thought back to the woman to whom I had made love. Barb wasn’t a virgin, that was clear. But she also wasn’t very experienced. While she reacted with all the passion I could desire, she was awkward and unsure in her attempts to please me. From my perspective, this was the ideal situation. If she had been a virgin, I would have had a lot of guilt for taking advantage of her innocence. And if she had been very experienced, it would have stripped away the very erotic attraction of her youthful freshness.
After she completed her affairs, dressed and went on deck, I got up to do the same. I could hear her cleaning up the remains of the foredeck meal as I shaved in the tiny head.
I got out fixings for a breakfast and fired up the built-in coffee maker (thank you, Yale twit!). When the coffee was ready, I poured two cups and climbed the four steps to the aft deck and my first post-coital encounter with my partner/lover/ward!
Barb was sitting at the back by the wheel, staring peacefully out at the water. She had on her usual style of outfit and I must admit I paused silently on the step to take in the lovely sight and prolong the moment. Her long shapely legs were on beautiful display thanks to her rather small shorts. Her belly, flat and firm with youth surrounded a deep sexy navel. Firm, high, medium breasts seemed to reside naturally within the snug top and her brown hair glowed with red highlights almost like fire in the morning sun.
She turned and smiled when she heard me. I swear a shiver went through me at her beauty and at that smile which looked for all the world like that of a child, greeting a best friend.
I handed her coffee. To avoid the awkward conversation first thing, I suggested we needed to get going to make up for a late start (Was that lame? – You bet it was!). We cast off and headed down the waterway toward Georgetown, the old rice shipping port that was now a sleepy fishing village, and beyond toward Charleston.
I let her steer while I went below to make breakfast. A little while later I came up with two trays loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with butter and jam, and tall glasses of OJ. I didn’t know about her, but after the exercise of the prior night, I had a man-sized appetite. Turned out she had one too, or at least woman sized.
We sat and ate our meal as we powered at good speed through Myrtle Beach and into the Carolina Low Country with the half visible remains of inundated abandoned rice plantations on both sides. This area had been the rice capital of the Western World before the Civil War (down here called The War Between the States) shipping out tens of millions of dollars of rice (in ante-bellum dollars) every year. But after the war, the freed slaves couldn’t be paid enough to do the back-breaking work in the flooded fields. And the soft soil couldn’t support the new equipment that was feeding a whole new rice culture in the middle and lower South. These, fine rich Plantations were gradually abandoned and left to decay. One of the best preserved and most interesting to visit was the Jackson Plantation near Charleston. There is strange legend tying the former owner with some "Yankee". I want to research it up some day.
I was disappointed when passing Georgetown to see Winyah Bay, where the Waccamaw and Pee Dee rivers met the ocean, polluted with runoff from the Steel Plant in Georgetown.
My scholarly (read, boring old man) lecture on the country side and the history, controlled the conversation for about an hour; then there was a painful silence.
Barb was looking at the scenery and I was looking at her. As I viewed this naive young woman who had so lovingly shared my bed the night before, a moment of panic went through me. I suddenly and vividly was aware of the appalling danger into which I was taking this inexperienced, young “agent.” We needed to talk!
“Barb.” I said, and she turned to me. “We need to talk.” (Yes, I am skilled at coming up with original and unique expressions.) And we did. At length, almost all day, until well past Charleston and almost to Savannah, Ga.
As I said before, Barb was a remarkable blend of unexpected maturity for a 20-year-old, and of the inexperienced naivete of a late teen. As far as our love-making the night before, she had no qualms or regrets. She told me she had “tried it” with a few of the “men” at Yale and had been sorely disappointed in their eagerness at self-release and disregard for her feeling. She had been evaluating me as a possible lover since our first meeting. My stammered apology at the bar had made her mind up and she was just waiting for me to “get over this old/young ‘hang-up’ of yours.” The experience the night before had been "cool".
Barb said, that since we were to act as an engaged couple and since we both enjoyed the sex together, it was an enhancement to the cover story. She used the strange but appropriate expression “win-win.” Wow, the matter-of-fact attitude of modern young women to sex in 1960! Not like when I was her age!
Her argument made sense and with my equipment below seconding her position, I agreed that we could continue our affair if we didn’t let it cloud the mission. And that is what we talked about for the rest of the day. I told her stories I had picked up of the abuses in Castro’s detention camps, of the cruelty of his para-military goons to the country peasants, and of the summary executions. Then I laid out in detail, graphic enough to scare her, I thought, but not so graphic as to wallow in the sadism, of the kind of interrogation and torture awaiting an agent who fell into their hands. I reminded her that the Agency would deny any knowledge of her and, unless some easy escape was possible, make no effort to help her.
As I said, Barb was brave and dedicated. While I saw her mouth soften and almost quiver at times in my brutal descriptions, she insisted that it had to be done and she could not consider turning back. Her role to gather information for the “big show” (she laughed at the term) was vital. She knew a lot about the operation and could bring back very useful information. (As Barb said that, my field agent mind had a momentary jog; why would you send an agent who knew about a secret operation ahead to the location? Damn those Yale boys!)
After that day, I respected Barb’s determination and never again questioned her resolve to carry the mission through.
We continued a brisk, but pleasant motor and sail down past Savannah, St. Augustine, and Daytona Beach. I would have loved to stop and check out the speedway there. They had had the second annual 500 race there just a few weeks before. (Yeah, type-cast me, I’m a stock car fan. Next, you’ll think I’m a drunken hillbilly from Arkansas like my Station Chief).
Then on to Palm Beach and Miami. From there we went blue under sail in fantastic mid-fall weather. Barb proved a quick study as a mate (in more ways than one, chuckle, sorry couldn’t resist that!). We stopped to top off supplies at Key West (that was all that sleepy town was good for) and struck off for the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti. Barb thought that sounded very romantic. In fact, everything seemed romantic to her those days. When not sailing we were going hot and heavy, and the girl was making some really improvements in her technique there as well. And I had no objection at all!
On October 1st, with a strong following wind, we sighted Montego Bay, Jamaica exactly on schedule.
No kiss lasts forever, but that one sure seemed to. When we finally separated, we were still staring into each other’s eyes. It was one of those rare moments when no words or overt communication was required. We both picked up a candle and made our way silently down to the cabin.
Kissing repeatedly, removing clothes, touching each other, and finding our places in the bed all happened in what seemed both slow motion and very high speed. The last couple of weeks of interaction and, in hindsight, of building desire, drove our mutual lust powerfully forward. Soon our bodies were moving together in that eons old dance of love.
The next morning, I woke to the gentle rocking of the boat from someone’s distant wake in the waterway. It felt like a lover gently urging me to wake.
Barb had gotten up a few moments before me. I continued to lie facing the bulkhead, without moving, as if still asleep.
In my experience, most women do not want their lover (especially a new one) to see them as they slip from the bed in the morning. I think they are afraid that the other will see them as they really are: with imperfections, too fat here, too skinny there, a blemish, no makeup, hair a mess, in total, just too intimate a view in daylight. I go along their preference in this matter, even though, for me, my lover in the morning, with all her natural flaws, is always the most beautiful, most sexy being imaginable.
As she went about her morning routine, I thought back to the woman to whom I had made love. Barb wasn’t a virgin, that was clear. But she also wasn’t very experienced. While she reacted with all the passion I could desire, she was awkward and unsure in her attempts to please me. From my perspective, this was the ideal situation. If she had been a virgin, I would have had a lot of guilt for taking advantage of her innocence. And if she had been very experienced, it would have stripped away the very erotic attraction of her youthful freshness.
After she completed her affairs, dressed and went on deck, I got up to do the same. I could hear her cleaning up the remains of the foredeck meal as I shaved in the tiny head.
I got out fixings for a breakfast and fired up the built-in coffee maker (thank you, Yale twit!). When the coffee was ready, I poured two cups and climbed the four steps to the aft deck and my first post-coital encounter with my partner/lover/ward!
Barb was sitting at the back by the wheel, staring peacefully out at the water. She had on her usual style of outfit and I must admit I paused silently on the step to take in the lovely sight and prolong the moment. Her long shapely legs were on beautiful display thanks to her rather small shorts. Her belly, flat and firm with youth surrounded a deep sexy navel. Firm, high, medium breasts seemed to reside naturally within the snug top and her brown hair glowed with red highlights almost like fire in the morning sun.
She turned and smiled when she heard me. I swear a shiver went through me at her beauty and at that smile which looked for all the world like that of a child, greeting a best friend.
I handed her coffee. To avoid the awkward conversation first thing, I suggested we needed to get going to make up for a late start (Was that lame? – You bet it was!). We cast off and headed down the waterway toward Georgetown, the old rice shipping port that was now a sleepy fishing village, and beyond toward Charleston.
I let her steer while I went below to make breakfast. A little while later I came up with two trays loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with butter and jam, and tall glasses of OJ. I didn’t know about her, but after the exercise of the prior night, I had a man-sized appetite. Turned out she had one too, or at least woman sized.
We sat and ate our meal as we powered at good speed through Myrtle Beach and into the Carolina Low Country with the half visible remains of inundated abandoned rice plantations on both sides. This area had been the rice capital of the Western World before the Civil War (down here called The War Between the States) shipping out tens of millions of dollars of rice (in ante-bellum dollars) every year. But after the war, the freed slaves couldn’t be paid enough to do the back-breaking work in the flooded fields. And the soft soil couldn’t support the new equipment that was feeding a whole new rice culture in the middle and lower South. These, fine rich Plantations were gradually abandoned and left to decay. One of the best preserved and most interesting to visit was the Jackson Plantation near Charleston. There is strange legend tying the former owner with some "Yankee". I want to research it up some day.
I was disappointed when passing Georgetown to see Winyah Bay, where the Waccamaw and Pee Dee rivers met the ocean, polluted with runoff from the Steel Plant in Georgetown.
My scholarly (read, boring old man) lecture on the country side and the history, controlled the conversation for about an hour; then there was a painful silence.
Barb was looking at the scenery and I was looking at her. As I viewed this naive young woman who had so lovingly shared my bed the night before, a moment of panic went through me. I suddenly and vividly was aware of the appalling danger into which I was taking this inexperienced, young “agent.” We needed to talk!
“Barb.” I said, and she turned to me. “We need to talk.” (Yes, I am skilled at coming up with original and unique expressions.) And we did. At length, almost all day, until well past Charleston and almost to Savannah, Ga.
As I said before, Barb was a remarkable blend of unexpected maturity for a 20-year-old, and of the inexperienced naivete of a late teen. As far as our love-making the night before, she had no qualms or regrets. She told me she had “tried it” with a few of the “men” at Yale and had been sorely disappointed in their eagerness at self-release and disregard for her feeling. She had been evaluating me as a possible lover since our first meeting. My stammered apology at the bar had made her mind up and she was just waiting for me to “get over this old/young ‘hang-up’ of yours.” The experience the night before had been "cool".
Barb said, that since we were to act as an engaged couple and since we both enjoyed the sex together, it was an enhancement to the cover story. She used the strange but appropriate expression “win-win.” Wow, the matter-of-fact attitude of modern young women to sex in 1960! Not like when I was her age!
Her argument made sense and with my equipment below seconding her position, I agreed that we could continue our affair if we didn’t let it cloud the mission. And that is what we talked about for the rest of the day. I told her stories I had picked up of the abuses in Castro’s detention camps, of the cruelty of his para-military goons to the country peasants, and of the summary executions. Then I laid out in detail, graphic enough to scare her, I thought, but not so graphic as to wallow in the sadism, of the kind of interrogation and torture awaiting an agent who fell into their hands. I reminded her that the Agency would deny any knowledge of her and, unless some easy escape was possible, make no effort to help her.
As I said, Barb was brave and dedicated. While I saw her mouth soften and almost quiver at times in my brutal descriptions, she insisted that it had to be done and she could not consider turning back. Her role to gather information for the “big show” (she laughed at the term) was vital. She knew a lot about the operation and could bring back very useful information. (As Barb said that, my field agent mind had a momentary jog; why would you send an agent who knew about a secret operation ahead to the location? Damn those Yale boys!)
After that day, I respected Barb’s determination and never again questioned her resolve to carry the mission through.
We continued a brisk, but pleasant motor and sail down past Savannah, St. Augustine, and Daytona Beach. I would have loved to stop and check out the speedway there. They had had the second annual 500 race there just a few weeks before. (Yeah, type-cast me, I’m a stock car fan. Next, you’ll think I’m a drunken hillbilly from Arkansas like my Station Chief).
Then on to Palm Beach and Miami. From there we went blue under sail in fantastic mid-fall weather. Barb proved a quick study as a mate (in more ways than one, chuckle, sorry couldn’t resist that!). We stopped to top off supplies at Key West (that was all that sleepy town was good for) and struck off for the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti. Barb thought that sounded very romantic. In fact, everything seemed romantic to her those days. When not sailing we were going hot and heavy, and the girl was making some really improvements in her technique there as well. And I had no objection at all!
On October 1st, with a strong following wind, we sighted Montego Bay, Jamaica exactly on schedule.