Am I the only one laughing at the FACE he is making there? Because, JFC that is not a sexy face that is a “Why are you doing this to me?” face. My mum’s dog looks like that when you bathe him. It is a look of sadness and despair, that look just makes me laugh, without fail.
Sure, sexy chest… but that expression and the way the water looks almost like tears makes me laugh so hard.
I hate to say it, but I’m glad it got stuck on the extras instead.
Martin doesn’t need to rage against the twit, his crew has it covered for him.
The interviewers face in the last gif………….
I think I caught the moment this reporter fell in love with Benedict. No one is safe from his charms.
There’s a margin for error but I’m pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true, but give me a moment, I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds. Oh, come on. It’s not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look - there’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’ – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place: families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information, and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport.
Fun trivia tidbit. The above, my favorite Sherlock deduction, consists of 225 scripted words delivered by Benedict Cumberbatch in under a minute: 48 seconds, to be precise (1:07:16 - 1:08:04). That includes, BTW, a four second pause halfway through the speech.
If my math is correct, that’s a rate of 281 words per minute. According to Wiki, auctioneers speak at about 250 words per minute. Most of us read the speech at a slower rate than he delivered it.
Question with 2 notes
adisguiseisalwaysaselfportrait asked: i totally get what you mean. i had this kind of fairy tale feeling throughout the entire reading. the fact that his mom wants him to find a "bird" because "she can’t wait much longer" causes me actual emotional pain.... and then what alice eve said about him in a interview, that "he'd be a good husband and good dad" and i... i don't know man... i'm a bit overwhelmed tbh.
FUCK, I know, right?
My ovaries did inhuman things with this transcript.
How does he exist? And the owls, and the wanting to always be better, to learn for learning’s sake and the descriptions of his ROOM… and I just.
Squib family. It’s the only explanation.
Because how else is a unicorn given human form?
He was an all-action Sherlock Holmes for TV and now he’s conquering Hollywood in Star Trek. Caitlin Moran joins the actor at his parents’ home for Sunday lunch
I don’t know if you remember, but some time last summer – between the end of the Olympics and the return of The X Factor – it briefly became the thing to have a go at Benedict Cumberbatch for being “a posho”.
However many times Cumberbatch tried to explain that he was “just middle class, really”, a sum kept being done, over and over: “Harrow education” + “called ‘Benedict Cumberbatch’ ” = “A man who wipes his bum on castles”. There was a series of catty columns about it, with headlines like “Posh off to America” and “Poor posh boy”.
The underlying presumption seemed to be that Cumberbatch was some dilettante princeling – stealing roles such as Sherlock Holmes in Sherlock, and the painfully repressed landowner Christopher Tietjens in Tom Stoppard’s Parade’s End, that would otherwise have gone to working-class actors such as Danny Dyer, or Shane Richie from EastEnders, and that this was all a great pity.
Of course, as with all these things, it blew over quite quickly – not least because it was superseded by the news that Cumberbatch had been cast in the new Star Trek movie, and was, therefore, about to become one of the most successful British actors of the past ten years. But I am reminded of it all today, in the back of a cab, leafing through a pile of cuttings on Cumberbatch.
“What a load of balls that was,” I muse. “The whole posh thing. What a load of old balls. What a funny old world.”
It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and I have been invited to lunch with Cumberbatch at his parents’ house in Gloucestershire. Star Trek Into Darkness is now about to open and this is the only day he has free to talk. I have made the great sacrifice and taken a train to Swindon.
The cab driver drops me outside the house.
“Here you go,” he says.
I climb out of the car, and stare at a gigantic, honey-coloured mansion, with immaculately tended lawns. Parked in the driveway are a black London taxi and a vintage silver Rolls-Royce.
Last night, Benedict had offered to pick me up from the station, saying he has a “loooooooooovely car”.
“Yes – you have, haven’t you, Benedict?” I think to myself, staring. “You’ve got a lovely pair.”
I crunch up the drive, carrying a massive bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine, and shout through the letter box.
“Hello! I’m from London! I’ve come on holiday, to the countryside, by accident!”
Silence. I circle the house. The place is so big, I can’t work out where the front door is.
I decide to go to ask a neighbour for advice on how to penetrate the Cumberbatch estate.
I head towards a nearby crofter’s cottage.
Benedict Cumberbatch is standing in the doorway of the tiny cottage, in a pair of knackered navy corduroy slippers, watching my progress across the lawn – lavishly strewn with hyacinths – with some curiosity.
“What were you doing at Kate Moss’s house?” he asks, mildly.
Ah. Kate Moss. The working-class girl from Croydon made good. That mansion is her house.
The “posh” Cumberbatches, by way of contrast, live next door: three small rooms downstairs, three small rooms upstairs. Every available surface is covered in books, family photographs or owls.
Nothing I can say could possibly do justice to my feelings on this so I’m just going to lie here and re-enact this gif instead. Don’t mind me.
What I’m taking away from this is that the Cumberbatches are a wizarding family.
And it’s making everything even more beautiful.
By the time Benedict Cumberbatch arrived… everybody was in on it.
[x] The final installment to the neutron cream saga.
If this isn’t on the DVD extra’s then i do not know. Imagine the sales! Just for seeing Benedict being pranked! :’)
I am shrieking with laughter RN. No lie.
Oh god, Ben, baby, you adorable little goober. AHAHAHAHAHA
The real Benedict Cumberbatch.
The sexiest photoset ever. Especially that last one.
all with a huge smile on his face
I can’t put into words how proud I am to be his fan ♥
He must live on adrenaline and really good tea or coffee… because holy crap, how can he do a press tour as vigorous as this and not be falling down exhausted?
OH MY GOD secondhand embarrassment…
This is the best story ever, I swear.
I am dying over here. Absolutely laughing my ass off. Oh god, this is fabulous.
Because that spin deserves a post of its own…
You utter doofus.
Just a reminder.
The Cumber Collective
I’m still a Cumberbitch, but I’ll take dual membership proudly.
I almost like it more than Cumberbitches.
C’mon It’s like a band! I can be lead guitar and Fannish can be lead accordion player.
YES. And we’ll have to find a cellist. Because of reasons.
We shall form a Cumberband, the best Cumberband to ever rock California!
The years of cello playing in orchestra have finally paid off
EXCELLENT! Now, for the final element, who’s going to go grab us a Jaguar?
Page 1 of 34