Twisted Spinster

Herewith a further installment in the fascinating account of the contents of the Netflix envelopes in my mailbox.

As much as I love the current Doctor Who series (which I have already expounded upon ad nauseum), even I occasionally get tired of the bishonen-boy sweetness and light. Well, I’ve found an antidote of sorts in a role that the actor who plays the current doctor, or more likely his management, doesn’t seem all too interested in recalling to the public eye. That would be David Tennant’s over-the-top portrayal of Your Psycho Ex–Boyfriend in a sharp little thriller called Secret Smile, which is basically a Lifetime Movie of the Week on steroids.

Never mind the kids hiding behind the couch — Tennant goes at the part of Brendan Block with such relish that the parents will be hiding behind the couch. Brendan is on the surface a rather rootless ne’er-do-well who seems to exist solely to make the supposed protagonist, a rather ordinary girl-woman of the modern type (snazzily careered up — she’s an architect with a half-done flat and an Apple notebook — who isn’t averse to taking a strange man home for some hot anonymous sex) miserable. Her name is Miranda Cotton (all the character names are these oddly Hobbity things), and the actress who plays her is either more subtle than I was able to catch on to or has had one too many botox injections. (To indicate intense emotions she purses her lips a bit harder.) Miranda picks Brendan up at a skating rink and he’s the stranger he takes home for a sex scene guaranteed to make teenage girls who write Tenth Doctor/Rose fan-fiction squeal in glee. (This is neatly bookended by a rape scene near the end that seems to have been inserted solely to traumatize those same fans for life.) Unfortunately, Brendan turns out to be a sort of male version of the character Jessica Walter played in Play Misty For Me. Only instead of getting crazy, he gets even.

As written and acted, Brendan’s character is despicable, yet I found it impossible to not become a fan. Here’s Brendan smacking a hysterical woman who has been so far the sort of insecure, needy pill that even the nicest of us has itched to slap once in our lives; there he is barging in upon our heroine, who by the way never seems to think of changing the locks on her doors despite her initial upset that Brendan had lifted her spare keys, to bellow menacingly at her (in this scene Tennant is wearing the Master’s coat and leather gloves, rrrowrr! Tell me John Simms didn’t watch this movie for pointers); here he is gloating over Miranda’s accusation that he married her best friend (dumping her sister on their wedding day to do it too!) for her money and house: “Isn’t it wonderful?” Okay, maybe this makes me a bit of a psycho, but if you don’t half want to push the heroine’s annoying whiny “depressive” brother off the ledge he finally jumps off of, after Brendan’s “helpful” coaching, then you are a better person than I am. In the end, the only way to get rid of Brendan for once and for all was a bit of subterfuge and the apparent fact that in the UK you can be put away for murder for life on no more evidence than a set of bloody keys — no body needed. Brit readers, if I have any, can this actually be true? If so, then as much as I am an Anglophile, here’s one more reason to be glad we Americans broke free of the Empire.

(Secret Smile is not recommended for family viewing unless said family consists of adults with an astringent and unforgiving view of human nature, and a very black sense of humor.)

Today I woke up in the Bearded Spock Universe! I can think of no other explanation for the fact that Our Betters in Congress have made the extraordinary assertion that slavery in America was the worsest, most awful slavery in history — not only that, it was uniquely bad, utterly unlike the institution of slavery as it was known throughout the history of the human race. Never mind that Western nations were the first to realize that maybe the ownership of human beings by other human beings was wrong and not a basic and necessary underpinning to human society as it was regarded throughout history in just about every country in the world. And still is, in many non-Western countries.

Yep, that’s what we’ve got to look forward to under Great Lord President Obama: four to eight years of this sort of contest to see who can come up with the most complete display of self-abasement. Fun!

No, I’m not quitting blogging, like some other people, I’ve just been too exhausted when I get home to do anything but watch half a CSI episode (any CSI, I’m not picky when I’m tired) and drop into bed. Also, just about every day it’s been raining, which in this part of the world also means thunder and lightning, and after the great nic card fritzing event of 2006 I refuse to leave the computer plugged into the modem when it’s like that outside, so that puts a crimp in things. Also I haven’t found much worth blogging about — not even the upcoming presidential election. I will say this — Obama does have a great voice; I saw one of his I’m-gonna-save-the-world campaign ads on tv last night. He’d make a great tv news anchor. Unfortunately he is running for president, and I can’t think of any reason to vote for him other than 1) he’s half-not-white, so you can vote for him and tell all your friends that you’re not a racist, you voted for an Official Black Man; and 2) he sounds so good and you are one of those craven souls that needs to be led by someone with an impressive voice unlike that potato-mouthed Dubya chimp. The sad thing is there seem to be a lot of people like that out there.

I really can’t top this:

He then wiped his sweat from his gleaming mocha brow and a droplet of the precious liquid alighted on my cheek. For the first time in my life, I experienced orgasm. And something akin to a connection with God. A dirty, sweaty sexy connection.

(Via.) Guess who that paragraph refers to. Just guess. As for me, I’m running back to the refuge that is sweet, sweet tv…

Update: and that’s why I shouldn’t post when I’ve got a massive sinus headache — alert reader Nigel gently chides me for posting the part of the article that was actually a parody of said article (and was clearly stated so underneath the rest of the quote). Quite frankly, I blame Global Warming. Anyway, I encourage you all to read the whole thing — the actual real text is much, much funnier than anything even Ace could come up with.

Damn, but the aroma of fermented and cured dairy product is strong in the first part of the two-part season finale of Doctor Who. Now, I don’t say that’s necessarily a bad thing… in fact, tonight’s episode was among other things a pleasantly nostalgic call-back to the “classic” (that is, Sixties and Seventies non-existent budget) version of the show. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Except… can I just say once and for all I am sick of Daleks? I no longer find them scary at all (well, I never did, but now even the tension from the dramatic possibilities inherent in the show is gone), which sort of makes it difficult for me to sympathize with the fear of the characters upon hearing that familiar “Exterminate! Exterminate!” All I can say if that means they get the likes of Rosie O’Donnell and whoever that idiot is who came up with those disturbing Burger King commercials — now they have one with a Burger King “kid” in a mask, who comes off more as one of those malevolent dwarfs that were always appearing in German avant-garde movies — then I say “Go, Daleks!” There is one exception, however… I just loves me some Dalek Caan. Isn’t he (er. he? it?) just the loveliest crazy boneless octopussy-alien in a tank that you ever did see? I just wanted to pick him up and cuddle him when he started singing about “the three-fold man” and “endless death.” Cute!

More observations: the actor who plays Ianto has really been hitting the pasties lately. Get that boy jogging or something. And here’s something I’ve been wondering — has David Tennant been hitting the cigarettes lately, or what? (Or was he over the course of filming these episodes, which was a few months ago I think.) His voice has been increasingly deeper and hoarser in each episode. I’ve heard complaints about Billie Piper’s (the actress who plays Rose) voice in these later episode but it just sounds like she let the assumed chav-speak get a bit more posh, to reflect either her real accent or her increased status in position in the parallel world her character ended up in two years ago. It’s Tennant’s voice that I noticed more, and no, not for the obvious reasons… he should get his vocal chords checked, that’s all. I mean, he’s going to be on stage this year, so he doesn’t want to have to take time off to have any nodes scraped off them like Elton John had to do, does he? Hey, I might not be a mother, but I have cats, so I do worry.

Look! The Torchwood crew can communicate without using the words “fuck” or “shit.” It can be done!

The last thought so far: I can’t believe Russell T Davies wrote this meshugas, but also penned the tight little psychological thriller that was the episode “Midnight.” Well, even Homer nodded, or so I have heard.

PS: thanks to everyone who has donated to the Summer Fundraiser so far! It’s thanks to you that I might be able to keep the electricity on. Can’t watch stupid British scifi kids teevee stay on the internet without electricity.

Update: oh yeah, one more thing… the Scifi Channel has apparently given up on even pretending to guard against spoilers, and has bowed to the supremacy of the internet, because unlike people in the UK we here in the States got previews from next week. So even those of us who have not been hitting the Wikipedia and BBC Doctor Who pages like monkeys on crack now know that (spoilers below, because I am not so unkind)

Read the rest of this entry »

Okay, I didn’t get washed away in yesterday’s storm, though at times I feared I would. It started raining just as I left the office (as usual), and then it started pouring, and then the wind started up. I actually had to pull over into a parking lot somewhere and sit for a while because I couldn’t see a frickin’ thing. And as always happens to me in situations like this I really had to pee. Oh and by the way, Brighthouse Cable people, you suck. I had to go by your office to pay my overdue bill, and there was a goddamn tornado outside, and to my request for a bathroom you smiled sweetly and said “we don’t have one for customers.” I wanted to pull down my pants right there and piss on their carpet. It’s not like I was going to rob you of all your little brochures on HDTV, you smug *%&$%#…

Well, now that I’ve left you with that visual (don’t say I never gave you nuthin’), it’s time for me to start blegging. For some reason the middle of summer is when all my bills pile up at once and my funds dry up. I’m still on the temp salary which is barely (and for the next few weeks, less than barely) helping me make ends meet. So any contribution you can make will be welcome.

Man. I never thought a day job would knock me out like this. But it’s getting better — today they moved my computer to a desk that has a lot more room (actually the way the room is set up it has these built-in counters all along the walls — for some reason the woman that preceded me in my position had squashed herself in a corner in between the entrance and a pillar, and now I’ve got a whole kingdom of wall and counter all to myself) so it makes me feel even more like they are going to keep me. On the other hand, this temp salary is the pits — I drive 36 miles every day (18 miles one way) and I can only be glad I don’t drive the gas guzzlers I used to in the past. Still, I find I’m spending about $35.00 every week and a half, which really cuts into my food and wine budget.

Hey, wine is good for you. The doctors say so! Jesus drank wine. SNAP as far as I am concerned.

Anyway. I have a few things to post about — nothing momentous, like about the campaign for prez (like that’s momentous anymore — the minute people actually began basing their decision on who should lead the country by how much melanin was in their skin was the day the US of A jumped the shark as far as I am concerned) — just chatter about stuff I’ve been watching on tv via Netflix, reading, etc. Light stuff.

Oh okay, here’s a teaser: in my burgeoning If You Didn’t Know Hollywood Was Out of Touch and Provincial This Would Be A Clue file, goes this article on Steven Moffat, who turned down a chance to write for Steven Spielberg (which would, in the H-wood parlance, be referred to as “being part of Spielberg’s stable of writers” — come on, you know it would) to become the new executive producer of Doctor Who, replacing Russell “Everyone Will Be Bisexual In the Future, Yes They Will!” Davies in 2010. More about which subject anon, but this is the quote from the article that caught my eye:

One Hollywood insider said: “No one walks away from Spielberg and all that money for a show no one has heard of. I mean, what is this doctor show about? It sounds a little silly.”

Yep. This show is as old as I am, people, and is about as famous a British entertainment export as the Beatles, with which it is more or less contemporary. But this “Hollywood insider” has never heard of it. I’ll bet he (or she, or heshe) knows just how many corns Madonna has these days, though.

You know, I could post something, instead of just filling up my comment boxes.

Naaahhh!

I have a migraine really have to do some housework so here are some links to some pictures of David Tennant licking things:

One lick

Two licks

So how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?

Added: this commentary thread on the new (and apparently mercifully limited-episode) British telly series Bonekickers (which a commenter renamed “Boneknickers” and now I won’t be able to think of it as anything else) may amuse you. For those who have forgotten, there was a minor dust-up on the right side of the blogs about this series, because the first episode apparently contained the usual Christians Are Eeeville! Muslims Are Victimz nonsense. (See here for a review that mentions the specific outrage-causing scene.)

Heck, they could slice a few inches off each others’ rumps and not even have to go down a dress size (from the look of things that would take a few feet). You know what, news reporters? When you find real starving people in America — and I mean Depression Dustbowl starving, not “I’m hungry ‘cos I can’t afford to go to Dunkin’ Donuts every day anymore” — then try to make me cry with stories of people having to “scrimp” on food. I’ll tell you what: I’m a size 18 but that’s normal size not “W” (aka “fat woman”) size, and I stay that way by not eating at McDonald’s every goddamn day. But I see people that huge everywhere, and I don’t know how they stand it. I can remember when people weren’t that gigantic except for an odd glandular freak here and there. (And they usually had nicknames like “Tiny.”) In fact, when my mother and I went to Europe in 1981, we were constantly being told that “American women are too skinny.” I gained about ten pounds over three weeks of European multi-course meals. Those were the days.