I know I have a self-imposed ban on Whedonverse/Whoverse comparisons but Russell T. Davies is making it mighty difficult for me to adhere to it. Not only does he create a noir-ish, adult spin-off featuring an immortal hero in billowy coat but now we get a new shiny companion whose first task is to slay a vampire masquerading as an OAP armed with a straw pilfered from a carton of Ribena. Snarkery aside, I thought Smith and Jones was a solid start to the new series and was equally thrilling and absurd (vigilante space-rhinos anyone?) As ever, I present to you my dissection of tonight's episode in gushy note form:
- I like Martha, even though so far it seems as though she isn't too much of a departure from the Rose formula of spunky-cockerney-companion. I imagine much will be made of the fact that unlike Rose, Martha has a burgeoning career which will divide her loyalties between her life with the Doctor and her life as Reggie Yate's sister.
- I suppose it was inevitable but I must confess, I was a little disappointed to see that Martha is being positioned as a love interest for the Doctor. Note to RTD: emotional histronics due to unrequited love does not a character arc make.
- That said, the tight suit/halfway across the universe banter did endear Martha to me quite a bit. That brief look of disappointment which flashes across Martha's face when she bluffs the Doctor about her feelings for him was heartbreaking.
- Hurrah for continuity, it does make my little fangirl heart skip a beat. The not-quite funny hospital shop joke was recycled from the series two opener, New Earth and there was a neat bit of TV-logic with the Adeola/Martha connection.
- Stupid TV-logic ahoy!: When faced with a complicated bit of machinery, a hefty operator's manual and a Time Lord shouting "Now!!" at you, it suddenly becomes clear that the Giant Yellow Button is the one to go for.
- Don't even get me started on the resuscitation techniques that miraculously revive a man drained of blood.
- RTD gives good dialogue, there were some choice lines in this episode. RTD seems to have learnt from the chav debacle last year and the pop culture references are a little less throwaway. (I was particularly tickled by the "Planet Zovirax" quip.)
- Line of the Week is a toss-up between: "Judoon platoon on the moon" and "Barefoot on the moon!"
- The Doctor got a new pair of Chucks! Not so keen on the new suit though, it's a bit too polyester 70s medallion man for my liking.
- Perhaps all the costume budget got spent on CGI because there were some pretty impressive effects in this episode alone. I particularly liked the crispy-on-the-outside-creamy-lava-on-the-inside effect of the Judoon's exterminator guns.
- Let's take a moment to ponder this rather alarming picture:
(Please insert your own purile and childish caption.)
In other news, I have spent the week feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in self-pity because I have the flu and lost my voice a few days ago. The situation has improved somewhat and I now can articulate myself (albeit sounding like Madge Bishop) rather than the strange hybrid honking/barking noises that passed for speech a few days ago. However, I have a rather shameful confession to make gentle readers. Earlier on today, I was feeling particularly sorrowful and weary and finding no food in the house and no-one at home to look after me, I ended up taking out my anger on the cutlery drawer. Overwhelmed by shame, I precariously balanced the drawer front between the two other drawers and hoped that the next person to open the drawer will assume that they're at fault. However, my dark mood has lifted somewhat as I have secured tickets for the Mighty Buena's gig at The Borderline on Wednesday, yay. Back to bed for me as the Benylin 4flu has kicked in and everything is currently moving in slow motion now. Ah the sweet kiss of pharmaceutically enhanced sleep...
I have recently come to believe that I am somewhat cursed. A few weeks ago, I won tickets for a special preview screening of The Illusionist at the NFT which was followed by a Q&A session with the lovely Edward Norton. Unfortunately, as I had prior arrangements, I had to pass the tickets onto my friends. Then I managed to wrangle a pair of preview tickets for the following week, only to be informed at the cinema that the print was terrible quality and would I accept some complimentary guest passes by way of apology? (Mais oui, naturellement!) Then, this morning I got a text from M inviting me to an Amy Winehouse gig that was being filmed for the BBC at Porchester Hall. I was sorely tempted to accept but I once again had prior arrangements for a word games night (which I have dubbed in my head as Scrabble my Boggle!) and I am also going to see her on Friday already.
However, one free thing I did manage to attend was the preview screening for Becoming Jane tonight.
When I heard about this film last year (through my infatuation with James McAvoy), I had quite earmarked it as a must-see for this year. Ignore the outraged cries of Austenites, protesting that Anne Hathaway couldn't possibly portray the terribly English Jane Austen. It's understandable, anyone who saw The Prestige and witnessed Scarlett Johansson's performance would assume that most Hollywood starlets would have trouble with perfecting the accent as well as delivering a solid performance. (For the record, I think that Scarlett is all ornament, no use. She was great in Ghost World but it's all been downhill from there. I like to think of her as the second generation Kirsten Dunst (if you substitue Ghost World for The Virgin Suicides)) To my eye, Anne Hathaway has the perfect English Rose look - she's more Lizzie Bennett than Jennifer Ehle or Keira Knightly and who ever doubted she could act? (You have to admire any actress who could keep a straight face whilst wearing some of the wigs required in Brokeback Mountain.)
Becoming Jane is...solid. James McAvoy is all puppy-dog charm, hops and skips and Anne Hathaway is the epitome of the spirited heroine that is so often attributed to Austen's novels. Throw in the ever fabulous Julie Walters and James Cromwell and the cantankerous-old-lady reliable, Maggie Smith and it has that gloss all over it that screams "quality Sunday night BBC adaptation". The problem with Becoming Jane is that it doesn't really seem to take off, it just meanders along and then slowly comes to a stop. You only need to see the Joe Wright adaptation of Pride & Prejudice to see that the static style of the heritage films is not essential to filming a period piece. But really my problem with Becoming Jane is the lazy and clumsy way in which the script tries to tie in Jane Austen's flirtation with Tom Lefroy with the genesis of Pride and Prejudice. I don't want to come across all strident feminist but I hate the way that a lot of female authors get mythologised. (If you were to believe the popular imagination then the Brontes roamed free on the Yorkshire moors and Jane Austen spent her days promenading down the genteel streets of Bath.) In terms of literary analyses, female-penned books are much more likely to have a biographical analysis than male-authored texts. It all goes to discrediting the talent and literary merit of female authors and their works. And for all of Jane's passionate protestations in the film about the popular 19th century perceptions of the novel as a female past-time, her argument is undermined by the narrative.
It seems to have been quite the week for cultural disappointments. I went to see The Science of Sleep on Sunday afternoon and whilst it was kitschily adorable and as eccentric as you would expect of a Michel Gondry film, it did stray into obtuse art-house noodlings at some points. Then yesterday evening, I went to see Les Miserables and failed to care about any of the characters or understand why it was the longest running West End show. On my way to the theatre, I was also confronted with the disquieting sight of Daniel Radcliffe's naked torso ten feet high on Shaftesbury Avenue. 'Twas not what I wanted to see on an empty stomach I tell you dear readers.
However, one free thing I did manage to attend was the preview screening for Becoming Jane tonight.
When I heard about this film last year (through my infatuation with James McAvoy), I had quite earmarked it as a must-see for this year. Ignore the outraged cries of Austenites, protesting that Anne Hathaway couldn't possibly portray the terribly English Jane Austen. It's understandable, anyone who saw The Prestige and witnessed Scarlett Johansson's performance would assume that most Hollywood starlets would have trouble with perfecting the accent as well as delivering a solid performance. (For the record, I think that Scarlett is all ornament, no use. She was great in Ghost World but it's all been downhill from there. I like to think of her as the second generation Kirsten Dunst (if you substitue Ghost World for The Virgin Suicides)) To my eye, Anne Hathaway has the perfect English Rose look - she's more Lizzie Bennett than Jennifer Ehle or Keira Knightly and who ever doubted she could act? (You have to admire any actress who could keep a straight face whilst wearing some of the wigs required in Brokeback Mountain.)
Becoming Jane is...solid. James McAvoy is all puppy-dog charm, hops and skips and Anne Hathaway is the epitome of the spirited heroine that is so often attributed to Austen's novels. Throw in the ever fabulous Julie Walters and James Cromwell and the cantankerous-old-lady reliable, Maggie Smith and it has that gloss all over it that screams "quality Sunday night BBC adaptation". The problem with Becoming Jane is that it doesn't really seem to take off, it just meanders along and then slowly comes to a stop. You only need to see the Joe Wright adaptation of Pride & Prejudice to see that the static style of the heritage films is not essential to filming a period piece. But really my problem with Becoming Jane is the lazy and clumsy way in which the script tries to tie in Jane Austen's flirtation with Tom Lefroy with the genesis of Pride and Prejudice. I don't want to come across all strident feminist but I hate the way that a lot of female authors get mythologised. (If you were to believe the popular imagination then the Brontes roamed free on the Yorkshire moors and Jane Austen spent her days promenading down the genteel streets of Bath.) In terms of literary analyses, female-penned books are much more likely to have a biographical analysis than male-authored texts. It all goes to discrediting the talent and literary merit of female authors and their works. And for all of Jane's passionate protestations in the film about the popular 19th century perceptions of the novel as a female past-time, her argument is undermined by the narrative.
It seems to have been quite the week for cultural disappointments. I went to see The Science of Sleep on Sunday afternoon and whilst it was kitschily adorable and as eccentric as you would expect of a Michel Gondry film, it did stray into obtuse art-house noodlings at some points. Then yesterday evening, I went to see Les Miserables and failed to care about any of the characters or understand why it was the longest running West End show. On my way to the theatre, I was also confronted with the disquieting sight of Daniel Radcliffe's naked torso ten feet high on Shaftesbury Avenue. 'Twas not what I wanted to see on an empty stomach I tell you dear readers.
After two and a half hours, I managed to bag myself two pairs of Take That tickets.
!!!
Here's a lovely picture of Jason Orange by way of celebration:
!!!
Here's a lovely picture of Jason Orange by way of celebration:
