But hell, couldn't Torchwood just try to be something other than a feeble imitation of Buffy?
Bad enough that the episodes are weak re-tellings without the wit and character of the original, but surely they could have changed the titles? "End of Days" and "Sleeper" are both straight steals, and "Something Borrowed" echoes "Something Blue". It's just - depressing, to make so little effort, and insulting to your audience, to assume they won't notice.
Owen is about as dead as I am. Possibly less.
As I say, I'm growing increasingly convinced it's only me...
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Intergalactic Austin Powers
Scary episode this week: horrible people chopping up an innocent off-world creature for meat while it was still - quite inexplicably - alive. Gwen's man finding out that she meets her half of the rent by hunting aliens. And Capn Jack Not Getting Any. My he looked hacked off. He emoted teariness, wood-faced fury and ethical dilemma by turns, but we viewers knew that what was really pissing him off was that he had been FORCED to go a whole fifty minutes without a snog.
At one point he had Gwen in a tight-shot up against a tall order, but still she did not dive forward with a small gasp and smother him in a suffocating 90 second screen kiss. I don't know why; he was telling her she couldn't run up to her husband until after he had endangered and/or incriminated himself with the alien-butchers, which was just as alluring as his talk last week on how he was glad he'd left his home planet because he'd seen such amazing stuff, and that earnt him a Random Snog from one of the team. There was neither lead-up to this snog, nor was there any sequel to it; it seems that this is just what happens to any character left alone with Capn Jack. He doesn't care what he snogs or sticks his dick into; far from being an alien, he seems - well, pathologically & superhormonally male. He pretended to cry out of pity for the alien whale, but for my money, when Burn Gorman was struggling with an Acme Comedy Syringe full of Alien Whale Killer (his own invention; three buckets full of which he had cunningly knocked up in two seconds flat from the contents of an Ikea shelving unit full of bottles of coloured liquid, none larger than the average bottle of cough mixture) in a "mercy killing", it was not the continued anguish of being butchered piecemeal that he was rescuing the house-sized mammal from; no indeed, it was the likeliness of a romantic interlude with "Capn Jack".
That man has no more right to that rank than I have. He's so blatantly somebody who's made up an army label for himself so he can impress people who don't know any better. He hasn't even got the knowledge to pretend to a decent rank. Captain indeed. At least Dr Who used to be helped out by a Brigadier - fallen on hard times now. But now, Capn Jack uses his rank to get dates and it's all a very obvious ploy. "I'm a Captain, baby, does it make you horny, baby?" I kept expecting to hear him crooning at the chained leviathan. Or Rhys, whom he was also very tetchy about not getting to snog.
Oh well, there is always next week, when I think it will be Burn Gorman's turn for Capn Jack's attentions. His character should be well up for it. He uses extra terrestrial rohypnol to get relationships; his sexual politics are just exactly the same as Capn Jack's.
Does it make you horny, baby?
At one point he had Gwen in a tight-shot up against a tall order, but still she did not dive forward with a small gasp and smother him in a suffocating 90 second screen kiss. I don't know why; he was telling her she couldn't run up to her husband until after he had endangered and/or incriminated himself with the alien-butchers, which was just as alluring as his talk last week on how he was glad he'd left his home planet because he'd seen such amazing stuff, and that earnt him a Random Snog from one of the team. There was neither lead-up to this snog, nor was there any sequel to it; it seems that this is just what happens to any character left alone with Capn Jack. He doesn't care what he snogs or sticks his dick into; far from being an alien, he seems - well, pathologically & superhormonally male. He pretended to cry out of pity for the alien whale, but for my money, when Burn Gorman was struggling with an Acme Comedy Syringe full of Alien Whale Killer (his own invention; three buckets full of which he had cunningly knocked up in two seconds flat from the contents of an Ikea shelving unit full of bottles of coloured liquid, none larger than the average bottle of cough mixture) in a "mercy killing", it was not the continued anguish of being butchered piecemeal that he was rescuing the house-sized mammal from; no indeed, it was the likeliness of a romantic interlude with "Capn Jack".
That man has no more right to that rank than I have. He's so blatantly somebody who's made up an army label for himself so he can impress people who don't know any better. He hasn't even got the knowledge to pretend to a decent rank. Captain indeed. At least Dr Who used to be helped out by a Brigadier - fallen on hard times now. But now, Capn Jack uses his rank to get dates and it's all a very obvious ploy. "I'm a Captain, baby, does it make you horny, baby?" I kept expecting to hear him crooning at the chained leviathan. Or Rhys, whom he was also very tetchy about not getting to snog.
Oh well, there is always next week, when I think it will be Burn Gorman's turn for Capn Jack's attentions. His character should be well up for it. He uses extra terrestrial rohypnol to get relationships; his sexual politics are just exactly the same as Capn Jack's.
Does it make you horny, baby?
Monday, 4 February 2008
Oh, the Shame ...
Once again I am gripped by febrile guilty interest in something I know I shouldn't be watching. This one is called "Vanity Lair" and it is on T4 Sunday at lunchtime (when people of my age should be serving up crispy roasts to ungrateful oiky children of their own genetic stamp.)
There are ten self-selected "beautiful people" who sit around wanting to shag each other in a mild sort of way, but are prevented by their own all-absorbing narcissism, a series of "tests" of their attractiveness, and the fact that each week they have two new auditionees, of whom one will stay, duly choosing who to evict to make room for them. So either they shag everyone or no one.
The show claims it will test "what is most attractive", and advertises a hope that qualities other than the skindeep will emerge victorious. What currently looks like it will emerge victorious is having a penis. Already the group has chosen to take in a man, and he has chosen to evict a woman, leaving the group 6:4 male. The boys and the girls like men - boys because they're the elite, like themselves, girls because they dislike other girls for being shallow and vain, like themselves. Within a very few weeks, that will be a very boy heavy house.
When I first stumbled across it, I thought it was a remake of that film where nobody can leave the dinner party; they are rather creepy. My impression was not altered by the fact that when their faces were tested for symmetry the boy whose face was least symmetrical left the dinner table for the toilet and retched. It was the most extraordinary display of distress. Not for the first time, I wondered if Channel 4 has Gone Too Far. Obviously the person concerned is vapid beyond the wildest wet-dreams of Heat magazine, but the fact that he was genuinely upset fascinated me. He has no sense of self beyond his floppy hair. He doesn't even realise it. I genuinely wondered if he should be on show, because surely believing you are only as good as your hair-do indicates that the balance of your mind is disturbed.
Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I am eccentric because I don't think my value as a human is dependent on the floppiness of my hair. Maybe I shall be watching next week.
There are ten self-selected "beautiful people" who sit around wanting to shag each other in a mild sort of way, but are prevented by their own all-absorbing narcissism, a series of "tests" of their attractiveness, and the fact that each week they have two new auditionees, of whom one will stay, duly choosing who to evict to make room for them. So either they shag everyone or no one.
The show claims it will test "what is most attractive", and advertises a hope that qualities other than the skindeep will emerge victorious. What currently looks like it will emerge victorious is having a penis. Already the group has chosen to take in a man, and he has chosen to evict a woman, leaving the group 6:4 male. The boys and the girls like men - boys because they're the elite, like themselves, girls because they dislike other girls for being shallow and vain, like themselves. Within a very few weeks, that will be a very boy heavy house.
When I first stumbled across it, I thought it was a remake of that film where nobody can leave the dinner party; they are rather creepy. My impression was not altered by the fact that when their faces were tested for symmetry the boy whose face was least symmetrical left the dinner table for the toilet and retched. It was the most extraordinary display of distress. Not for the first time, I wondered if Channel 4 has Gone Too Far. Obviously the person concerned is vapid beyond the wildest wet-dreams of Heat magazine, but the fact that he was genuinely upset fascinated me. He has no sense of self beyond his floppy hair. He doesn't even realise it. I genuinely wondered if he should be on show, because surely believing you are only as good as your hair-do indicates that the balance of your mind is disturbed.
Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I am eccentric because I don't think my value as a human is dependent on the floppiness of my hair. Maybe I shall be watching next week.
Sunday, 20 January 2008
Buffy's Still Better
The BBC is making valiant efforts with Torchwood, and one wishes them well. But still, it is important that I let them have some hints about why it is still not as good as Buffy.
1. Characters and Casting
They all look very similar. Owing probably to restricted budget, but possibly restricted acting range, you never get moments when you are oggling a character's face as it emotes Something Important. For some reason, nothing in Torchwood ever seems very important, although often it does look overplayed. It would matter less if they didn't all look the same - a bunch of people in poor light with similar colouring and height. It is NO GOOD having people who look similar on the telly, because it confuses the viewer. I refer Torchwood - and other programmes - to Buffy. Three leads of either sex, all distinctive. The female leads have DIFFERENT COLOUR HAIR and sometimes even different heights. The male leads have DIFFERENT AGES AND COSTUMES AS WELL AS DIFFERENT COLOURED HAIR. And different accents.
I never understand quite why anybody casts similar looking types in the same programme, but the BBC have done it all my life. I suppose it hardly helps that good looking people tend to have regular features, and therefore a tendency to resemble each other. But I still don't believe they're trying. Having carefully cast identical actors, they continue to dress them like two sets of triplets - except for Capn Jack, who has A Coat. He is currently being challenged in Coat Supremacy by Spike from Buffy, who sports The Coat in the Buffyverse. Spike has A New Coat in Torchwood; it is a rather dashing Redcoat in the Hussar style. When it comes down to the Coat Wars, my money is on Spike. He is daringly wearing colour, apart from anything else. Oh yes, and he has that conviction that the rest of the cast lack. Wait and see.
2. Want of Drama
Why is it nothing matters on British TV? Is it to do with our lack of international clout? American TV is full of High Stakes and all that guff. When Torchwood tells me that Cardiff is about to be exploded by nuclear-warhead-wielding aliens, I just don't believe them. What on earth would aliens be up to in Cardiff? Hoping to blend in better because alien accents sound like Welsh ones? Pull the other one. Either they'd be in the middle of nowhere, or the White House. Not the Millennium Stadium. And why blow it up? It's all a bit ho hum.
3. No Relationships
Do they know each other? Really? Crumbs.
1. Characters and Casting
They all look very similar. Owing probably to restricted budget, but possibly restricted acting range, you never get moments when you are oggling a character's face as it emotes Something Important. For some reason, nothing in Torchwood ever seems very important, although often it does look overplayed. It would matter less if they didn't all look the same - a bunch of people in poor light with similar colouring and height. It is NO GOOD having people who look similar on the telly, because it confuses the viewer. I refer Torchwood - and other programmes - to Buffy. Three leads of either sex, all distinctive. The female leads have DIFFERENT COLOUR HAIR and sometimes even different heights. The male leads have DIFFERENT AGES AND COSTUMES AS WELL AS DIFFERENT COLOURED HAIR. And different accents.
I never understand quite why anybody casts similar looking types in the same programme, but the BBC have done it all my life. I suppose it hardly helps that good looking people tend to have regular features, and therefore a tendency to resemble each other. But I still don't believe they're trying. Having carefully cast identical actors, they continue to dress them like two sets of triplets - except for Capn Jack, who has A Coat. He is currently being challenged in Coat Supremacy by Spike from Buffy, who sports The Coat in the Buffyverse. Spike has A New Coat in Torchwood; it is a rather dashing Redcoat in the Hussar style. When it comes down to the Coat Wars, my money is on Spike. He is daringly wearing colour, apart from anything else. Oh yes, and he has that conviction that the rest of the cast lack. Wait and see.
2. Want of Drama
Why is it nothing matters on British TV? Is it to do with our lack of international clout? American TV is full of High Stakes and all that guff. When Torchwood tells me that Cardiff is about to be exploded by nuclear-warhead-wielding aliens, I just don't believe them. What on earth would aliens be up to in Cardiff? Hoping to blend in better because alien accents sound like Welsh ones? Pull the other one. Either they'd be in the middle of nowhere, or the White House. Not the Millennium Stadium. And why blow it up? It's all a bit ho hum.
3. No Relationships
Do they know each other? Really? Crumbs.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
Their Hearts Were On The Left
... A quick but baffling reflection on the insanity of language revision ...
I learnt last week that the words "blind" and "deaf" are offensive.
The re-designation of these words as offensive puzzles me. I am plainly missing something. I understand perfectly how a word describing race can be pejorative, but then, there are two major factors contibuting to this. One is that the words follow the act - black people have been systematically denied their rights as well as acknowledgement as human in the eyes of a manufactured hierarchy. This has been a cultural excuse made for an economic and social system of privilege. White people benefited from racism. This doesn't make all white people racist, any more than all white people benefited equally, but it is no good denying that the people who gained were exclusively not black. That was the point. Therefore, the words were part of the problem. If culture is developed in order to justify an injustice, the way words emerge to suggest inequality - how their meaning is skewed or manipulated - is part of that injustice.
In the case of those who are blind or deaf, I fail to understand how society has manipulated these conditions to benefit those who are do not have them. I have never, ever heard anybody use either as an insult. Do sighted people need to belittle the sightless in order to gain? Do they do so? Are blind and/or deaf people discriminated against for reasons that have to do solely with their appearance?
And this brings me to my second point; that the user of racist language was spoilt for choice. There were - and sadly, are - a plethora of racially abusive terms, because racism itself was so pervasive that words were constantly perjorated into abusive terms. But there are no alternative words for blind or for deaf. Neither has ever connoted stupidity or dishonesty or any other bad quality, as far as I know. They exist solely with one meaning.
Furthermore, I discovered that it is not just the words themselves, but any phrase containing them, which Somebody has decided is offensive. The phrase "blind spot", for example, is supposedly offensive to those who cannot see. So presumably, when you are driving and thinking about overtaking and swearing as you bob about like a fishing fly on a stormy pond, trying desperately to check what monster BMW is hoving into range at 100mph, it is offensive to YOU. More true than whoever started this knew.
It seems rather absurd to decide that a word for which no synonym exists is offensive and should be avoided. Perhaps when you need to use the word "blind", you are supposed to shut your eyes and start flailing your arms about and walking into things to convey your meaning? Seems to me that would be an awful lot more offensive than the word.
Who has decided that these words are offensive? Have all the people who are without sight or hearing in any degree been consulted and duly voted? This would seem to me to be a key issue here, as would the degree of sight or hearing impairment from which they suffer. If they aren't actually without sight or hearing, then obviously they have no more right to find these terms offensive than anybody else, as they don't apply to them more than to anybody else. These, my friends, are deep waters.
After reading Steven Pinker's "The Language Instinct", I agreed with the theory that language is creolized - ie invented anew for every generation, every group of learners. In a big world, meaning is hard to pin down, when none of us speaks quite the same tongue. I am not sure that that means that it's a good idea to say that only people who have been "re-educated" to say certain words have good hearts. Maybe a little common sense and crediting others with good intentions rather than mean or offensive ones would be a start.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Are we nearly there yet? (2012)
If not, why not? Christmas, which to be fair is looking pretty tired and tatty by the night before Christmas Eve, has now been going on for six weeks, and long before I have sung carols, opened gifts, and pulled crackers, the tv has decided it's over. The adverts are no longer dominated by scent and aftershave, but by "SALE STARTS BOXING DAY!!!"
It is as though there is no time to do anything , because you should be planning to do something else. Having endured Christmas shopping in Sainsbury's this very day, I am in no mood to go out on Wednesday and shop for anything, thank you very much. I found the last parking place in the world and when I left an idiot would hardly let me drive off for mooching and lurking over it before I had left it. Go out on Wednesday? I should cocoa.
NOTICE TO SHOPS: I HAVEN'T HAD MY CHRISTMAS YET. LEAVE ME ALONE YOU VULTUROUS BASTARDS.
It's exactly the same as the annoying television habit of obscuring credits by plastering details of coming attractions on a split-screen at the end of a programme. This makes me feel not only put-upon, but annoyed. I like the credits. Sometimes I'm curious as to who has played a role or composed the music. Sometimes I like to enjoy a moment of quiet reflection on the programme just finished. Never do I wish to have the creepy voice of the Phantom of the Operative Bungloiderers yattering on in a smarmy Smashing and Nicey voice about my possible viewing choices which have not yet even started. It causes me to switch off the tv faster than I ever thought anything could. If not, I mute it and concentrate on my knitting, for I expect if I watch these workings of the Dark Fairies my brain will be turned to mush.
Bungloiderers at the BBC have also been on the case at Strictly Come Dancing, where this season's Saturday night subtitles have been striking for many reasons, all fine examples of Numptiness Unleashed. I enjoyed the information that Matt di Angelo is an alumnus of the Slyvia Young Theatre School, but this dyslexic reinterpretation did not equal the subtitler's earlier Fabulous Mistake of broadcasting "Name and Name: Number 09011 21 30 XX", instead of the full names of the couple and their voting number. It sort of brought the BBC to a whole new level of phoneline tampering, but by reason of sheer incompetence, which is always a nice change from grasping and avaricious deceit. Rather like Channel 4's moments of sound mixing during the last few weeks, when sound has just buggered off, or wrong pictures been matched to the track, this is amusing mainly because these people spend huge sums on their Empires, and yet they don't train their broadcast staff - the frontline, you might say. The operatives are thinking about their futures too much to carry out their tasks, and their masters are too busy with their plans for World Domination to waste energy on the Here and Now. We sit at home, being ignored for being now.
It reminds me of government. They, too, want me to get on with my future before I have dealt with my presents. Get on with your life, underlings, because if you don't hurry up and finish first, everybody else will be after your afters. Except for me. I will be at home, watching rubbish tv and knitting. Stitch that.
It is as though there is no time to do anything , because you should be planning to do something else. Having endured Christmas shopping in Sainsbury's this very day, I am in no mood to go out on Wednesday and shop for anything, thank you very much. I found the last parking place in the world and when I left an idiot would hardly let me drive off for mooching and lurking over it before I had left it. Go out on Wednesday? I should cocoa.
NOTICE TO SHOPS: I HAVEN'T HAD MY CHRISTMAS YET. LEAVE ME ALONE YOU VULTUROUS BASTARDS.
It's exactly the same as the annoying television habit of obscuring credits by plastering details of coming attractions on a split-screen at the end of a programme. This makes me feel not only put-upon, but annoyed. I like the credits. Sometimes I'm curious as to who has played a role or composed the music. Sometimes I like to enjoy a moment of quiet reflection on the programme just finished. Never do I wish to have the creepy voice of the Phantom of the Operative Bungloiderers yattering on in a smarmy Smashing and Nicey voice about my possible viewing choices which have not yet even started. It causes me to switch off the tv faster than I ever thought anything could. If not, I mute it and concentrate on my knitting, for I expect if I watch these workings of the Dark Fairies my brain will be turned to mush.
Bungloiderers at the BBC have also been on the case at Strictly Come Dancing, where this season's Saturday night subtitles have been striking for many reasons, all fine examples of Numptiness Unleashed. I enjoyed the information that Matt di Angelo is an alumnus of the Slyvia Young Theatre School, but this dyslexic reinterpretation did not equal the subtitler's earlier Fabulous Mistake of broadcasting "Name and Name: Number 09011 21 30 XX", instead of the full names of the couple and their voting number. It sort of brought the BBC to a whole new level of phoneline tampering, but by reason of sheer incompetence, which is always a nice change from grasping and avaricious deceit. Rather like Channel 4's moments of sound mixing during the last few weeks, when sound has just buggered off, or wrong pictures been matched to the track, this is amusing mainly because these people spend huge sums on their Empires, and yet they don't train their broadcast staff - the frontline, you might say. The operatives are thinking about their futures too much to carry out their tasks, and their masters are too busy with their plans for World Domination to waste energy on the Here and Now. We sit at home, being ignored for being now.
It reminds me of government. They, too, want me to get on with my future before I have dealt with my presents. Get on with your life, underlings, because if you don't hurry up and finish first, everybody else will be after your afters. Except for me. I will be at home, watching rubbish tv and knitting. Stitch that.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Chrstmas Creeps Closer ...
... you can't run and you can't hide. Seasonal inebriation and weirdness is afoot all around. People have started talking to themselves in shops. For some reason Christmas shopping brings us nutters out in droves, and we wander about the glittery displays wittering away to ourselves like so many senile fairies at a spell-chanting convention, trying desperately to remember their incantations wordperfect. Some sing soft seasonal melodies to themselves as they sway in front of sparkling trees and little fluffy fairy figures. I feel terrifically at home in department stores at this time of the year.
The wind is blowing up a bit now, as well. I live in an area called Windmill Hill, which, it may or may not surprise you to learn, is windy. It's clearly still a bit of a shock to the council, who must receive about a thousand requests for new recycling boxes and mini-bins every Christmastide, for they are emptied at around 10 am, leaving them a good seven hours to play the excellent wind-powered game of "which bin can get the furthest away from home" which so delights their little plastic souls. For those which don't enjoy that there is also, "which bin/box can cause most havoc and hazard on the roads", a popular secondary game, often drawing passers by into the fun. High times.
Also, my car has been vandalised, and this is another sign of the time of year. In December some dimwit - a term I use advisedly - tries to nick my car. According to the police they are trying to get home, which is heart-rendingly sad as my car, though small and ancient and easy to get into, is impossible to drive away due to it having an immobiliser chip in it. Since they have not found this out (over five years and three attempted thefts, people!) I assume they must be off-worlders and their belief that my car will fly them home is so sad that I nearly weep with pity for them. Frustrated by our Earth Hi-Technology, they chuck the plastic lock cowl into the back seat and re-lock the door and have to walk home anyway.
So - Christmas is on its way, and this year there is a threat in my world of No Proper Dinner - a taster of what it will be like to be old and have nobody to make angel costumes for. It is not particularly nice for anybody, but we must plod on, brains melted with concern about tinsel and stuffing, and complain as heartily as we can until it is all safely over.
I Just Wonder ... if anybody anticipates getting or giving anything truly wanted this year? Answers please!
The wind is blowing up a bit now, as well. I live in an area called Windmill Hill, which, it may or may not surprise you to learn, is windy. It's clearly still a bit of a shock to the council, who must receive about a thousand requests for new recycling boxes and mini-bins every Christmastide, for they are emptied at around 10 am, leaving them a good seven hours to play the excellent wind-powered game of "which bin can get the furthest away from home" which so delights their little plastic souls. For those which don't enjoy that there is also, "which bin/box can cause most havoc and hazard on the roads", a popular secondary game, often drawing passers by into the fun. High times.
Also, my car has been vandalised, and this is another sign of the time of year. In December some dimwit - a term I use advisedly - tries to nick my car. According to the police they are trying to get home, which is heart-rendingly sad as my car, though small and ancient and easy to get into, is impossible to drive away due to it having an immobiliser chip in it. Since they have not found this out (over five years and three attempted thefts, people!) I assume they must be off-worlders and their belief that my car will fly them home is so sad that I nearly weep with pity for them. Frustrated by our Earth Hi-Technology, they chuck the plastic lock cowl into the back seat and re-lock the door and have to walk home anyway.
So - Christmas is on its way, and this year there is a threat in my world of No Proper Dinner - a taster of what it will be like to be old and have nobody to make angel costumes for. It is not particularly nice for anybody, but we must plod on, brains melted with concern about tinsel and stuffing, and complain as heartily as we can until it is all safely over.
I Just Wonder ... if anybody anticipates getting or giving anything truly wanted this year? Answers please!
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