The Cutprice Guignol

The Ninth Year: The Haunting of Swill House

Category: Television Review

October 11, 2013

American Horror Story: Bitchcraft

Hoo-fucking-rah! American Horror Story has returned, and not a damn minute too soon. This genius series from the makers of Glee has smashed it’s way back onto my TV screen with the third series, Coven, following the jolly larks of a group of young witches.

The Worst Witch it ain’t; the opening scene (featuring an electric Kathy Bates playing her best psycho since Misery) jumps straight into the dark side of the show, with viscous torture and a rather clumsy handling of the RACE ISSUE in 1870s New Orleans. After that, the episode starts smacking us around the face introducing it’s familiar actors playing new roles; Taissa Farmiga as a young witch whose power causes her unfortunate lovers to die while bleeding profusely from every facial orifice, Sarah Paulson as the head of the secretive academy that protects the dwindling number of the supernatrually blessed, Lily Rabe as a fresh-faced witch from the Deep South whose burned alive for her powers, and Frances Conroy as an eccentric grandmother (“I’m simply mad for tartan!”).

Bitchcraft really acts as a world-building episode; we meet the other students at Paulson’s Magic nursery (Emma Roberts, Gabourey Sibide, etc), and learn the place these people hold in society. While most are forced into hiding their powers (“I’M A HUMAN VOODOO DOLL!”), there are some who embrace them, exploit them and live through them.

One of this number is Jessica Lange. It’s difficult to explain how I feel about Lange without being reduced to guttural howls of delight, but suffice to say she once again dominates every second of her screentime. The first shot of her character-a heeled foot stepping out of a car, followed by a crane shot where we can only see her umbrella and her arching shadow-defines it perfectly. She’s sexy, self-assured, darkly hilarious and oozes the sort of charisma Clooney can only dream of. How this show has hung onto her I’ll never know; but I am so glad they did.

Back the episode. Once again, AHS seems to be setting itself for another series full of utterly spectacular female characters. One of the running themes of Coven’s predecessors was the complete lack of women as victims-almost every single wronged woman has taken her fate into her own hands and come out on top. Bitchcraft has a few instances of this; for example, Roberts’ pouty movie star is gang raped at a party (in a scene which could have been horrendously crass and upsetting, but was handled subtley and allowed Emma her dignity). Afterwards, the perpetrators flee onto a bus to make there escape and, as a distraught Farmiga looks on, Roberts’ simply steps into frame and waves her hand at the bus, causing it to flip over and kill almost everyone on board. Later, Farmiga’s Zoe uses her special Jedi skills to rape one of the surviving boys to death in hospital. When Lange is refused a substance meant to restore her youth, she simply sucks the life out of the offending scientist. Whatever you think of what they’re doing-and it’s often violent, frightening, or downright horrific-these are a bunch of women you do not fuck with. And I can get behind that for this series.

Jessica Lange Line Reading of the Week: During an argument with Sarah Paulson (also her daughter, by the way), she delivers a shudderingly caustic “Don’t make me drop a house on you”.

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August 16, 2013

A Yellow Marriage: The Simpsons

Now, I don’t have many rules in life. Don’t trust a student to do anything in the time frame you’ve given them; don’t try and fix the towel rack in your bathroom while your mechanically-minded roommate is out of the country; never, ever arrive early for a bus in Scotland. But one rule-one defining, thrusting, pulsingly huge rule-I live my life by is this: NEVER trust someone who doesn’t like The Simpsons.

I’ve been watching The Simpsons for literally my entire life (in fact, the episode Homer: Badman was broadcast on my birthday. Almost as impressive as the fact I share an anniversary with Bill Nye the Science Guy). And it is, unequivocally, my favourite show- I watch when I’m down, when I’m sick, when I’m happy, when I’m working, when I’m sleepy, when I’m horny-the point I’m trying to make is that there is no conceivable mood I could have where watching The Simpsons would be off the emotional menu.

It’s a beautifully constructed show; in equal parts touching, romantic, and sweet, while never losing sight of the fact that it should entertain first and foremost. It’s fucking hilarious; even the undoubtedly weaker new series (twenty-four series! That’s older than my parent’s marriage!) are consistently amusing fare, even if they’ve lost the touch to make me weep like a clinically depressed toddler whose just been told Rosie & Jim isn’t being renewed for the rumored final season.

What’s truly wonderful about The Simpsons is that everyone has a character they relate to. For me, it’s Lisa-I mean, come on. The irritatingly precocious, know-it-all, reliant-on-overachieving little sister? Nah, no idea what you’re talking about. But, as you grow up, you see more of yourself in older characters, as horrendously grounding as that is; when you start looking at Homer and Marge and realise you’d quite like a marriage like that, for some reason. I, myself, aspire to be Mr Burns. It’s incredible that the programme has created such sympathetic, relatable characters out of some four-fingered yellow sketches voiced by Hank Azaria and co. And, yeah, it’s gone downhill-but it still shows flashes of true, unadulterated brilliance, underscored by that pop-culture dobbing and genius writing. Whatever happens, The Simpsons is part of me-it’s influenced what I want, how I write, and who I am. Here’s to another twenty-four years.

Since that’s far too soppy a sentiment to leave the blog on: Cocks.

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August 13, 2013

Friends: An All-American Love Affair

I was sitting with my consort and one of his numerous family members (frankly, I only need three or four on a good day), watching Friends, when said family member merrily pointed out that it was essentially a hollow facade, as we could very probably recite the dialogue by heart, and perhaps act out each episode in avant-garde reproductions with hilarious wigs. Or something.

Her point, however, stands; I have been aware of Friends as long as I can remember (it started the year I was born) and watching it for most of my adolescence. I could probably give you a reasonably accurate rundown of the plot for every episode ever made, even though I wouldn’t class it as one of my favourite shows (for future reference, my favourite TV show ever is The Simpsons. A blog post is currently gestating but will likely be nine months in my mind-womb). And that’s wierd for me; I rarely attach myself so fully to a show I don’t completely adore, but watching Friends is like slipping into a warm bath with Stephen Fry-comforting, lulling and not something I would object to on any level. Because of the sheer vastness of the series, I’ve decided to simply take apart each of the main six characters for my own amusement (hey, maybe even yours!).

1. Rachel

An almost garishly girly girl, the writers didn’t really bother with a character for Rachel until the later series; instead, she was defined by her relationship with Ross and her general incompetence in the face of real life in any facet. It wasn’t until the later series that I really began to like the character that had begun as a hairstyle-she’s smart, ambitious, a little cynical, but ultimately a good person. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

2. Joey

There’s still a huge part of me that wants to be the big spoon to Matt LeBlanc. He’s a horrendously smarmy, promiscuous, proto-Stinson who once shagged the hot one from Sex and the City-but he also practically originated the man-slut-with-a-heart-of-gold. He’s also one of the most consistently funny characters-intellectually a blancmange, but socially pretty canny and the king of physical comedy on Friends. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

3. Phoebe

Urururururgh. Phoebe, for me, is the only character that makes me flinch a little-it’s less because she’s poorly written, and more because she represents the kind of person I dislike in real life. Her flightly, airy, hippy-dippy nature is well-pitched but irritates the hell out of me-her only real redeeming factors being her wonderfully handled relationship with Joey, and her acting as a catalyst to get both Giovanni Ribsi AND Paul Rudd onto the show. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

4. Ross

Simultaneously pathetic and sweet, arrogant and adorable, David Schwimmer puts in a deliciously Eeyore-ish performance as the hapless paleontologist. Everything’s said with a drooping head and that cuddly drone, he’s the understated comedy lynchpin of the series-and, as the only person with a kid from the start, brings a pleasant sense of emotional balance to the show. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

5. Chandler

Chandler is my spirit animal. As much a source of mockery as a source for it, he’s fully rounded from the beginning-the try-hard joker in the pack, cynical, bitter, sad, but crushingly quippy and brutally funny. When you get too drunk and start trying to make socially incisive witticisms about your social group, this is who you imagine you are. Not as hot as Courtney Cox, though.

6. Monica

By far the best of the women, Cox shares mountains of chemistry with her on-screen cohorts, usually acting as the stepping stone for all the best jokes and emotional moments. Her partnership with Chandler is superb, the ultimate in unlikely-likely sitcom romance. Not as hot as..um, actually, yeah.

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July 19, 2013

Weasels, Mulder, and the Summertime

So it’s been hot around here recently. So hot that going outside causes me to burst into spontaneous flames. So hot that last night I had a dream about ice-skating around a museum of giant mutant weasels. So hot I have an amusing anecdote about me, groggy with sleep and in the nude, the curtains on my ground-floor flat, and a very noisy painter I knew nothing about till we were face-to-tits at ten in the morning. In short: it’s fucking hot. I don’t like it.

As an excuse not to go outside (as if I ever need one), I’ve been re-watching The X-Files. The X-Files is one of those series I watched back-to-back a few years ago in a naked frenzy of “I SHOULD HAVE FUCKING SEEN THIS BY NOW”. Thusly, I didn’t really appreciate it the first time round; it took until my consort tempted me into watching “Just the Stephen King episode!” with some wine and doughnuts (a classic combination) last weekend till I found myself gently spooning the screen in sheer delight at how utterly wonderawful it is.

Allow me to explain: I LOVE The X-Files. In many ways, it’s a superb show; few programmes have managed to capture the superb chemistry between a devastatingly handsome David Duchovny and a I’d-nail-her-so-hard-you-could-hang-potraits-from-her Gillian Anderson, or the flashes of extraordinarily good scriptwriting, or those occasionally brilliant guest performers. But it’s patchy. I always felt the show was at it’s best when it was doing the freak-of-the-week stuff; throwing Mulder and Scully’s banter at whatever creepy, outrageous or downright silly creature is prancing around America this week. My main issue with the show is that it got too wrapped up in it’s own mythos; by the last few seasons, all the aliens and Smoking Men and mysterious pregnancies got in the way of the fun parts of the show. I do appreciate building a universe around a show, adding depth and shadow to the programme, but I LIKE IT BETTER WHEN THEY’RE MONSTER-BUSTING DAMMIT.

On a side note, I’ve started a new project. After originally planning to do some vague articles about, officially, “Ghosts n’ shit”, I ended up with no less than fifteen interviews, two confirmed invites to go on some official paranormal investigations, and more ideas than I knew what to do with, I’ve decided to turn the whole thing into a bit of a book. Should be fun, and I’ll keep you updated; I’ll be posting the chapter about my ghosthunting trips up here on due course, so keep an eye out for some potentially paranormal antics. If the heat doesn’t kill me first. Urgh.

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June 28, 2013

Charlie and the Chopped-Up Factory

In short, it’s been a rough week. I’ve been writing (yes, writing is my actual job, living the dream, sell-out, whatever you want to shout at me) enough to castrate my sleep pattern, my body has been going so mental I half-expect to wake up tomorrow with my thumbs on fire or something, and I had to get up at seven this morning. SEVEN! I’m a student AND freelance writer! I shouldn’t even know the morning exists!

So the week’s been a blur. But one thing that stands out loud and clear is watching Bates Motel back-to-back. I may have casually dropped into this blog perhaps once or twice that I don’t really mind a bit of horror here and there, so I decided to get down on the prequel of Psycho, starring Freddie Highmore (welcome to a world of painful Charlie and the Chopped-Up Factory jokes, darling) as a teenage Norman Bates, Vera Farmiga as the eponymous Mother, and Max Thieriot (whose name I swear I read as Max The Riot for seven episodes) as half-brother his name escapes me. I’ll go out on a limb and guess the surname’s Bates.

Now, I wasn’t sure about this series from the start. I put off watching it so long because the basic premise-a Psycho prequel set in the present day-seemed so thunderingly pointless. Origin stories are almost inevitably disappointing, as we almost need no more than an implication of background for a character as iconic as Norman Bates. I just need to know what they are now (or, confusingly, 1960 in this case). But hey: I’ll give everything a go once. That’s why my nose is squint.

The show, I soon discovered, has several wonderful points. Max Thieriot, for example, took the kind of shitty role he was given and ran with it, becoming a vain, snippy voice of reason against the increasing tidal wave of absurdity. I couldn’t tell you specifically why he was my favourite-maybe because I came to the series with no preconceptions about his character-but I loved Thieriot and he’ll be delighted to hear I shall be following his career with interest after Bates Motel. And there were some really fantastic touches-the recreation of the motel and house on the hill was grand-as well as a couple of seriously unsettling Oedipal moments between Norman and Norma (there’s a scene when she’s sitting on his bed, just chatting, and touches his leg as she leaves, and the barely-perceptible leg shuffle Highmore does afterwards made me cringe). I like the few nods to Hitchcock’s Psycho, too-there’s a spot-on recreation of a shot of Norman from above that made the pretentious part of me put down it’s Merlot and raise an eyebrow.

But there are many, many things wrong with the show. It makes Norma into a constant victim, then villain, then victim, then villain, then…and so on. I like moral ambiguity in a show-Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, anyone?- but there’s no grey area here. There’s just black and white very, very quickly; it’s like driving past a field of zebras on a segway. Then there’s the problem of Freddie Highmore. No, that’s wrong- I don’t know if he’s good or not. Norman Bates is a jackpot of a role for someone trying to break into the real acting industry after being a pretty well-known movie baby- you’ve got one of the most iconic performances ever to work off of and some sterling source material in the form of the film and the book. But I’m torn. Sometimes I think he’s giving an astoundingly perceptive performance of an emotionless psychopath and sometimes I think he just can’t act. Either way-he’s not Norman.

And therein lies the rub. The show, while occasionally showing flashes of being interesting and quite dark, isn’t and shouldn’t have tried to align itself with Psycho. Tap into small-town politics, have a creepy mother-son relationship, make it wierd and unsettling-but let’s face it, lads, the minute you gave Norman an iPhone I disassociated Bates Motel from Psycho in my head. The show is pointless. Interesting, but pointless. We don’t need Psycho: College Years. The show itself seems to realize this early on and gives up making Norman into NORMAN BATES; aside from a few cursory “LOL HE’Z A NUTTER” moments, Bates Motel is going to be looked back on as another hanger-on, a vaguely interesting premise that threw out it’s source material by episode four. That said, it’s been renewed for a second season, and I will be watching, to see if anyone can taxidermy up this joint. Somebody hand me a segway.

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June 23, 2013

Death: XXX

I’ve expressed countless times, both on this blog and in endless pub arguments, that violence in entertainment is not just justifiable but traditional; for years, we’ve been entertained by every genre of generalized human suffering. Something I don’t think I’ve expressed as fully is my aversion to sexualised violence. I’m not sure why, but the addition of a sexual element to torture or murder or what have you makes me a little…uncomfortable. It could be my horribly old-fashioned view of sex as being best when shared with someone you love and care about, and when you start adding in, I don’t know, a naked woman frolicking in the blood of a beautiful, scythed young nymphet (yes, I fucking hate Hostel), it gets a bit rough. Nothing against the BDSM community, mind- Safe, Sane and Consensual is the general rule there. Three words, ironically that do not apply to 1000 Ways To Die.

1000 ways to die is your usual dumping ground for terrible actors, spurious experts and boundless “true stories”. Basically, it features dramatized versions of various horrible and unlikely ways people have met their maker. It’s hilarious viewing for the first episode or two-a sort of less-funny, poorly animated version of The Darwin Awards, accompanied by a hi-larious voice over which would be infinitely if it were just me with a swanny whistle and a whoopee cushion. By episode three, you’re feeling a bit grubby. By episode six or so, you’re weeping in a corner in a mixture of fear, disgust and heartbreaking self-loathing. I counted up, and, of the thirty-seven episodes of the first three seasons, there are forty-one stories involving sex in some way or another. And this isn’t all jolly larks, like a woman masturbating with a carrot (HAS SHE NOT HEARD OF YEAST INFECTIONS?!) and sending a deadly air bubble to her heart. This is someone mistaking a grizzly bear for a member of a furry group and having his intestines torn out. This is someone trying to seduce a builder and being bisected by a buzz saw. This is someone choking to death on a ball gag after his dominatrix mistakes his protests at his hitherto-unknown deadly latex allergy for moans of pleasure. This is Death: XXX.

And this is all rated TV-14. Right, I’m not getting into the ratings debate (again) but seems to me like this is cheating a little bit. Just because the show doesn’t people getting their guts ripped out or their genitals electrocuted or a frankly questionable amount of stuff to do with violent death and farts doesn’t mean it doesn’t put that idea in someone’s head. Now, I was a particularly neurotic and easily frightened child (I used to get terrified by the descriptions of CSI in the Radio Times), but even by age fourteen I don’t think putting the concept of pretty intense BDSM death or violent brain hemorrhage in MY violent brain hemorrhage would have been something I could cope with. Something like Saw incorporates hideous death into a story (or at least a semblance of one), but this show simply presents money shot after money shot as entertainment with no sense of moral or character or depth. It’s exhaustingly pointless-less compassion fatigue than sheer acceptance of your own limits as a human. Why is this harmless entertainment? Why is this acceptable because of a slightly sarcastic voiceover? If I make pithy comments over House of 1000 Corpses will it be required viewing in primary schools? Why isn’t anyone making me dinner? Where’s my wine? What was I… oh, forget it. I’ll keep fighting the good fight.

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June 15, 2013

Hannibal: Aye, Alright.

Well, hello, you elusive readers, you. I’d apologise for my lack of posting but I’d feel far too much like a lecturer breezing in late for a class everyone was hoping they’d forget to turn up to so I won’t do that. Essentially: I’m back.

Recently, I was forcibly coerced (ish) by my-well, now we’ve hit the boyfriend/partner barrier. I dislike the term “boyfriend” but “partner” feels wrong for an eighteen-year-old ah-tiste and a twentysomething version of Frasier Crane sitting around drinking wine and talking shite about litrechoor. Partner is someone you’re in the crucial stage of living with but not quite started to find physically repulsive. From now on, I shall simply refer to him as….my consort. Right, so, I was coerced by my consort (ah, so much better) into watching the TV redo of Hannibal, starring Mads Mikklesen as the eponymous Lecter and Hugh Dancy as Will Graham, yer usual brilliant-but-damaged investigator.

There were several factors riding against my enjoyment of the series; firstly, and most importantly, I hate the character of Hannibal Lecter. Silence of the Lames is, simply and purely, one of the most overrated films I’ve ever seen-I admire Anthony Hopkins as an actor, and Jodie Foster put in a very good performance, but I find Lecter himself to be an intrinsically silly character precisely because they don’t embrace the silliness of the role. All horror and horror-related roles have to accept that, at their heart, it’s all a bit daft. Hannibal was presented with such po-faced sincerity I instantly hated him. He can stick his head up his qiante.

In addition to this, Laurry Fishburne was in it. By which I mean, LAURENCE FISHBURNE: ACTOR. He was Larry Fishburne and wonderful in Apocalypse Now, then he was LAURENCE FISHBURNE: ACTOR and terrible in The Matrix (which is one of the most Godawfully humourless films I’ve ever seen, but I digress). And here he was doing some PROPER ACTING. Fuck.

However, I was actually pleasantly surprised by the debut episode as a whole. Hugh Dancy was excellent as the real crux of the show, helped along with a liberal sprinkling of clever visuals and sharp plotting. I liked that the show shifted focus from LOOK HE’S A CANNIBAL! BUT HE’S ALL CHARMING! OOH HE’S EATING LUNGS! LOOK AT HIM THERE, EATING THOSE LUNGS! to Lecter as a very intelligent bloke who happened to have a taste for human flesh. Mads does a grand job of somehow bringing a wry self-awareness to the role, and much credit has to be given to the beautiful cinematography; the first time we see Lecter, lit to look like a skull, the camera casually deepening the focus of the shot till we finally set eyes on his taut stare, is simply perfect. You should have heard the noises I was making, close as I was to televisual ecstasy. And because the show isn’t all about him, Larry (I said it) reverts back to being a very strong supporting actor, a vein shot through with rationality against the slightly supernatural Dancy. It wasn’t perfect- my consort pointed out rightly that two characters were just stapled to the plot in order to chug out some useful exposition, and it didn’t do much in the way of tension building.

But hey: this is the first episode of a television reboot of an iconic franchise that’s been mostly film-based up till now. There are going to be kinks to be ironed out, and I trust Dancy, Mads and-dare I say it- Larry to do what they can. I’m interested to see the rest of it, and that’s really not too bad an opener.

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May 28, 2013

A Wanker’s Literary Reaction: The Voice UK

So, The Voice UK. You knew it was coming; I, as a purveyor of taste for people who never asked in the first place, and the biggest new talent show to hit Britian since oh Fuck I don’t care I really don’t were destined to meet in a corridor of our mutual mediocrity and matching sense of futility and lack of tangible future in our chosen fields.

The judges in this are hilariously annoying. Tom Jones, who I love and (this is a FACT) who’s voice could literally turn any woman’s insides to cottage cheese with first eight lines of “It’s Not Unusual”, for no real reason other than why not, has cropped up crying and nodding in a big chair. Luckily, he just falls under bland, and therefore the least objectionable of all the judges, because he is Welsh and we’re all secretly reminded of Rob Brydon whenever we hear a Welsh accent and thus cannot feel hate. Then there’s Jessie J, who I used to quite like, who now I do not. She’s quite simply outstandingly irritating, powerfully dull, and utterly vapid, though, in her defence, her hair is really shiny. So distracting is her hair that I sit there, hypnotised, as she makes some other odd rising-inflection comment about how someone moved her with their pelvic-thrusting or something. Next, with have will.i.am, who I hate, and I hate some more. I loathe him so badly, that every time he opens his mouth to release another nasal, whispery shriek or does this bizzare head-nod thing whenever he likes the music, I feel a tumour appear and grow in my brain. It’s about the size of a Terry’s Chocolate Orange just now.

I refuse to even type the name of the total wanking cuntbucket of the fourth judge. Ooh. No, no words, no tags, no mentions, no whispers. He can fuck off back to The Scriptures or whatever. Off my television please.

The competitors are never the problem with these shows; they are simply blank blobs for the TV demographic people to sketch their own faces and personalities on to in order to attract whoever they want to attract. I mean, some of The Voice competitors are outstandingly bland; I refuse to watch an entire series because did you ever honestly expect me to, but even just the episodes I’ve watched, there have been practically nil discernable personalities on show. There’s a little blonde puff of air called Emma-Jay (Jade? Jane?) who constantly looks like a semi-finalist for Miss Margate, and some bloke with very long blonde hair who I instantly took a liking too because he looked like he’d crawled out of the most middle-class mosh pit on earth. But most of them are cut-and-dried from the usual crop of gameshow contestants: the larger lady with a great voice, the ugly one, the hipster-girl crush in skinny chinos, the “alternative” one, the handful of girl-band rejects, the arrogant one, the one from Landan. Yeah, they can all sing, but why do we continue to put so much importance on just singing as a talent? We’ve proved with scores and scores of gameshows from all over the world that plenty of people can sing. Fuck, turn up at karaoke down the union on a Tuesday night and I promise you’ll find a handful of people with decent voices. It’s about having the drive, the charisma, the sheer musicality to carry that through to a career without having to go in front of Jessie J in a big chair. Yes, that’s incredibly unfair and bitter, but we’re still seeing people get to the top on their talent alone. It IS possible. This is not about singing. It’s about, as it always is, emotional arcs and the forced creation of a narrative (I’m picking on The Voice here, but almost all shows of this type do it). But you know what: if i makes you happy and entertains you, I’m no Tom Jones on a big chair. Who am I to judge?

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May 25, 2013

Dark Matters: Terrible But “True”

It’s been a very, very busy few days. On Wednesday I finished my first year at university, moved into my beautiful, beautiful flat which everyone I know is absoloutley sick of hearing about or being dragged to so I can give them tea on the lawn, and generally done a lot of running back and forth and being a little nervous that my new roomate has an ice axe. I’ll just be doing the dishes then, will I? Yes. Thought so.

But you’ll be glad to hear that all these wonderful things have not gotten in the way of my overriding cynicism and general loathing for the world (although I imagine I’m the one at the centre of most powerful loath-storms in history, having selected the computer with the most clattery keys in the library and merrily tapping away as though there’s not eight people considering throwing me through a bookcase), so I’m here today to discuss the glorious magnificence that is Dark Matters: Twisted But True.

I actually watched this show back-to-back while studying for my exams, stunned into blogular silence by the sheer, crushing enormousness of everything that was wrong with the show, yet curiously unable to articulate it or curb my enthusiastic enjoyment of the absurdity. It’s a sublimely awful bit of television; narrated by the sonorous thesp John Noble, it tells ridiculous tales of scientific experiments gone wrong and the like. Think The Men Who Stare At Goats as realised by Hammer Horror.

Either Noble has completely given up on his career altogether or he understands how fucking insane most of what this show dredges up is. Some of it, I happen to know, being a conspiracy theory nut, comes with an element of moderate scientific background to it, while most of the stories are hilariously crass reconstructions of events that barely happened in the first place. Take thier representation of what happened in the French town of Point-Saint-Espirit (Noble getting his mouth around the French pronounciation is a delight, by the way), where a batch of bad bread, presumed now to have been contaminated with the hallucinogenic fungus Argot, poisoned 250 people and caused mass hallucinations all over town. But no: according to Dark Matters, it was for certain a CIA field experiment gone wrong, and here are the reconstructions to prove it: a woman being chased by poorly designed CGI wasps, a man screaming in weakly articulated horror as his hands appear to catch fire, the entire village overrun with terrifying visions of the Rapture. The Rapture, featuring confused actors doing crap French accents.

But I love it. I do. It’s completely silly and over-the-top, but it has managed to crawl into my head and peel back that disturbingly large part of me that secretly loves conspiracy theories and would happily spend several days gurgling with pleasure while an ex-Lord of the Rings actor told me about them. It’s a terrible, terrible, womderful programme; I’m more conflicted about it than I was about illustrating it by using a metaphor about losing my virginity. But that’s fine. Because it struck me watching the last few episodes that the whole thing probably only exists in my own head and therefore I’ve become a conspiracy theory myself, thus bringing he experiment to an end. Have to dash now as I’m getting some sideways glances from a suspicious-looking man sitting opposite me and I really don’t fancy my cha

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May 20, 2013

Doctor Who: Tenacity, Alcohol, Rollicks: In Summary

So, two days ago, Doctor Who came to an end (till FUCKING NOVEMBER ), with a stonker of an episode from the Machiavellian mind of Moffat. It’s difficult to sum up the episode in a few sentences (although I will admit that the first thing I remember from the episode was the title and the writers credit coming up and exclaiming, horrified, “JESUS, I’VE BEEN SPELLING HIS NAME WRONG ALL THIS TIME!”), because it so satisfyingly brought the first Clara arc to an end, let us spend some more time in the presence of the imitable Richard E. Grant, and delight in the lesbians-and-potato men sidekicks which shouldn’t work but do.

I will spoil nothing for no man, but here are the best things about The Name of The Doctor in ascending order: the increasingly hilarious Strax (“Surrender your women and intellectuals!”), the almost total absence of the kids from last week, the classic Moffat mind-bending plot, Matt Smith writing a formal and very convincing letter to the BAFTA committee to split the awards between him and SteVen next year, Jenna Louise-Coleman proving she’s the best choice of assistant since Sarah-Jane, a beautiful, truly touching and almost redeeming apparition of River Song, Vastra and Jenny having more girl-on-girl eroticism than me and half an hour with my Special Drawer, an appearance by a very lovely British veteran that had me almost spewing with glee, and an ending so superb you’ll want to watch it twelve times in a row with your eyes pressed to the screen till every frame is seared onto your brain forever.

It’s tempting to go for a big, wanky summary looking back over the last couple of months of episode, but I’ve had a better idea. Hop on iPlayer, get all the episodes set up, get some sort of vaguely classy spirits on the go, and get prepared to get pissed with my patented Doctor Who Drinking Game (I was going to try for a pun on Tardis, but I’ve done NOTHING BUT GIVE to you people on that front for weeks and I’m tired. I have a headache, alright? Stop jabbing it into the small of my back.),

1. Take one shot for every time the Tardis is shown in flight, crash-landing, or not liking one of the Doctors lady friends because she’s a Jeremy-Kyle level possessive bitch.

2. Take a drink every time Matt Smith delivers a line with reaLLY WIErd emPHASIS.

3. Take a drink every time a British institution appears onscreen.

4. Take a drink for every episode Clara is wearing a very short skirt of some description.

5. Take a drink for every secondary character actor you’ve seen in another British television show.

6. Take a drink for every time the Doctor is really touchy with someone he probably hasn’t even shagged yet.

7. Take a drink for every time the villain/alien is revealed for the first time in an episode.

8. Take  a drink for every time Matt Smith thinks he’s David Tennant.

9. Take a drink for every time the adventure music starts playing.

10. Drink continually till November 23rd when we get the blessed show back.

 

So now you’ve turned my brain inside out, fustrated me, delighted me, and ruined my liver. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

2.

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