I’ve spent months, off and on, searching for my passport. I’ve rent my apartment asunder. Today I found it. My passport was, and is, at eye level, thirty degrees from center, in front of the chair where I now sit. Two feet away from my face. Alone, obscured by nothing.
Well. Okay, then.
My toaster oven is clicking in precise time with this Queen song. Headlong into toasted cheese!
I think one of my unlisted super powers is precognition toward which bozos are going to eat with their mouths open.
Yeah, that guy — I had him pegged the moment he started to talk.
I’ve mostly avoided Nirvana, out of that associative thing. It was never “my” music; it always belonged to people I didn’t like. Or if I did like them, they clung to it too tightly. So I didn’t really have a part in that relationship.
What makes it a little stranger is I think Nirvana was the first contemporary pop act I was made aware of. That was 1993-1994, my sophomore year of high school. I listened to a couple of songs off of In Utero, and thought, well, this is different. Although the origin of this awareness was a gaggle of individuals whom I would hesitate to trust alone with a cat and a can of lighter fluid, I was willing to accept their own interest as coincidence. Then, of course, the moment I began to pay attention, Kurt went and killed himself. All the noise and deification caused me to shrug and walk away.
Years later, when I was trying in earnest to figure out this music thing, I picked up Muddy Banks of the Wishkah — there was a little hype around its release, and I figured I’d give the band another shot. And… er. It sounded like it was recorded from within a cardboard box placed outside the security doors of the theater in which the band was playing. And it wasn’t exactly the most rounded selection of material. And it was overlong. Again, I could tell there was something there, but. Well, whatever.
Later, an ex-girlfriend had one of those creepy fetishistic things for Kurt Cobain. As people do. Which again bade me hold the band at arm’s distance.
Now, here we are. The last ten months I’ve been trying hard to become myself; to break all these ties and expectations. Make my own context.
So. Six albums, I guess, are the “canon”: the three real albums, Incesticide, and the live ones. I’m starting with Mtv Unplugged, because I’m not in the mood for heavy guitars right now.
And yeah. This is legitimate.
I kind of feel like I’m claiming something that was cheated from me. Like I’m filling in a blank in my life.
It’s never really been quantified how regeneration works. People kind of assume there’s an objective limit, like he’s got so many magic potions in his inventory. Use one, and it’s gone. I dunno. That only makes sense as a plot device. Which, granted, is exactly what regeneration is. Still, no need to be that blatant.
The way I’ve taken it is that each regeneration is kind of like a mutation. You can only go so far before your system gets so screwed up that any further change is a humongous risk at best.
“The End of the World” implies that Eccleston has nine different DNA strands in him. Carry that forward, and I can imagine how that might get tangled after a certain point.
In that case the limit isn’t based in some kind of volume of opportunities for the spending so much as in the consequences of having regenerated.
There are other interpretations. Perhaps the cells of each incarnation are sort of impregnated with a certain amount of energy, that can be set off for regeneration. Once it’s spent, it’s spent. Let’s say that, as of “Journey’s End”, Tennant has now half-regenerated. To finish regenerating, perhaps he needs a kick-start from Donna, as he has already blown his proverbial wad. Which will leave each of his next two incarnations with a new set of cells, with their own preset regeneration bombs. As it were. Thus presently bringing him to thirteen.
Maybe there’s something kind of like super-mitochondria in a Time Lord cell. From my understanding, in a human cell the mitochondrion acts as a power source. If there were a similar sort of organelle in a Time Lord cell, that in an emergency were to rupture, releasing a certain potent energy, intended to completely reform the cell — well, that might work. The reformed cell would, naturally enough, have its own version of that organelle.
Actually, looking up mitochondria on Wikipedia — they deal with cell death, control of the cell cycle and cell growth… Yeah.
If we were to assume something like that, then Tennant will have perhaps wasted all that energy without it making over his cells — so therefore he can’t regenerate again until he has been regenerated. Which would still leave his future incarnations free to regenerate, as they would have fresh cells, with their own regeneration-energy organelles.
Secrets of the Stars, Part 1
Rather better than I expected, actually. Though I’m starting to question the point of stories like this. What’s it trying to say, exactly? Why write something like this?
Next week, hey, another near-cataclysm that everyone will forget about the week after. More hypnotized people wandering out into the streets, more chaos.
Is Mr. Roberts just doing this because Davies has done it a few times, and he’s seen that it worked before? Or is this all crucial to some profound original thought that he’s trying to get across?
What’s the point in writing fiction if it’s just fiction for the sake of fiction? Isn’t fiction supposed to be metaphorical? Isn’t it supposed to be a framework to illustrate your observations about life?
Maybe I’m just grumpy today.
* *
The only two Roberts-related things that have impressed me are Whatever Happened to Sarah Jane? and, somewhat, Invasion of the Bane. One of those was co-written with Davies, and I think Davies basically rewrote the other from scratch.
As I said earlier, I guess I don’t understand why he writes what he writes. He doesn’t seem to have anything of his own to say. The only motivation I can detect is a certain fetishism. Of Doctor Who, of Agatha Cristie, of Shakespeare, of certain pop culture references. It’s like his scripts are a collection of objects, that he points to as if it’s self-evident that they’re wonderful. Because, look! See!
You get that in his Agatha Cristie episode. “Awwwooh, you’re wonderful! You know why you’re the best writer ever? Because you’ve had your heart broken, so you understand people!”
What?
* *
If you were to hire the Comic Book Store Guy from The Simpsons, I imagine his scripts would be pretty much like this.
It’s weird how I feel patronized by his writing, considering it does little but emptily ape Davies’ mannerisms. I guess that’s it — all the froth of Davies without any of the lager?
“Whatever Happened” is the best Sarah Jane to date, and it really does not feel like Roberts’ other work. There was an aside a while ago — I think an excerpt from The Writer’s Tale — where Davies mentioned that he was about to go write those two episodes. So maybe that explains something.
I think the reason they keep him around is that Roberts gets the house tone down pat. If you don’t look too close, he does a very passable imitation of Davies. He would perhaps make a decent editor of some sort.
I should say that neither has he written anything really poor, exactly. It all passes the time genially enough. Sort of.
It just all seems a bit irrelevant.
Secrets of the Stars, Part 2
Aohhhhh, blood control?! I haven’t seen blood control in yeeeeeaaaaars! Weelll, three years to be precise. Well, thirty-four months. Give or take.
Hum.
The Temptation of Sarah Jane Smith, Part 1
That was pretty good, though I’ve a few problems with it. Most of the acting was off the mark. Sarah Jane’s parents were played a notch too broadly, for instance. Also, it didn’t do quite enough in tone to distinguish the past from present.
More importantly… um. Okay, they did hang a bunch of lampshades on it, but golly was Sarah Jane written poorly. Her behavior here doesn’t at all fit her character, and the script (and show to date) hasn’t done enough to really justify her boneheaded decisions. If anything, the fact that she and everyone else keeps talking about how dumb she would have to do to do what she did just underlines how bizarre it is that she did it anyway.
This is a classic example of a writer coming up with a plot, then trying to justify the actions the characters need to take for the plot to work. The commentary on those actions just comes off as the author saying “Yeah, I know this doesn’t work — but I’m doing it anyway, because in a battle between plot and character, plot wins. Especially my plot, because it’s brilliant.”
It’s, you know, a better than usual episode. That’s mostly a factor of its ambition, though. Its basic concept is fine. I still remain unconvinced of Gareth Roberts’ skill as a writer. He seems to have little understanding of or interest in the way people work outside of film and TV cliche — which is maybe a problem in a script that depends entirely on character motivation. I’d like to see what would have happened if he’d handed this idea over to Mr. Lidster, for instance. James Moran might have been interesting.
I’ll admit also that I have extreme prejudice against stories that require a character to act like an idiot. So given that, it’s of some credit to the story’s ambition that it carries my attention nonetheless.
Also see:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idiot_plot
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/IdiotPlot
The Temptation of Sarah Jane Smith, Part 2
So this episode it’s Rani’s turn to randomly act like a dolt, because they need (rather weird) exposition and a false emotional note with her mother to complete the dramatic arithmatic. Ho hum. At least it doesn’t lead to head-slapping consequences; just to tedium.
It’s becoming all the more clear to me how much of “Whatever Happened” Davies must have written.
Sort of interesting that the Graske is becoming a character now, rather than a random monster-thing.
You can tell that the Trickster is played by the head Futurekind fellow — such distinctive body language. I like the job he does, though he doesn’t have much to work with. Mostly growling and doom declaration. Lots of talking about doing.
Actually, this story is a lot of talking about doing. Talking about plot. Flatly directed, at that. Lots of medium shots.
The theme they’ve given Sarah Jane in high-drama moments — it’s very similar to a Danny Elfman cue, that’s on the tip of my mind. Is it from Edward Scissorhands?
Mind, it’s nice in principle to have stories that explore Sarah Jane’s backstory.
I assume the idea behind the police box is that the new TARDIS has been established as not looking exactly like a real police box? Except neither does this one.
That jogging UNIT fellow in the trailer — have we seen him before?
* *
it seems Gareth Roberts’ perspective as a writer rarely verges outside the experience of a fan. In his Tennant episodes (Shakespeare, Wasp) the Doctor becomes a dribbling fanboy of some public figure and spends the whole episode bursting with quotes and references to prove his affections for that person’s work. Story structure and thematic content hew to genre conventions, inasmuch as events happen because they tend to happen in shows and stories like this rather than because of a higher necessary function like character or conceptual development. Roberts just doesn’t have much to say as a writer except “I enjoy pop culture; here is what I enjoy”.
All that nonsense about the witches and the recitation of words being a science; it’s only there as a self-conscious reference to Logopolis. At no point does he use the notion to illustrate an actual theory or observation about life. It’s a throwaway reference to an old episode of a TV show, that didn’t really make sense then beyond a metaphorical reading of Buddhism, to explain why something that you’d expect to see in a Shakespeare play is happening then and there — as convention dictates that it must in a show like this, because this episode deals with Shakespeare.
And then it’s gone; he never explores it further, unless you count Tennant’s froth about Shakespeare’s brilliance with words. Even that is insisted in a reverent manner, rather than shown. When it comes time for Shakespeare to prove his brilliance, instead Roberts just quotes from Harry fucking Potter. And then the Doctor dribbles about J.K. Rowling’s genius, for the second time in 45 minutes.
Yes, that was about as sophisticated and original as anything Gareth Roberts has written.
Hum.
What was the point of the psychic woman? Even as an exposition projector, she seemed a bit superfluous.
Well, okay, so we’ve got prophecy again. In series two and three, it was the Face of Boe, in the year Five Billion (also in series one!), talking about the Master.
In series four and four-and-a-half, it’s the Ood, mostly in the forty-second century, talking about… well, the Master. Presumably. Again. With the woman channeling the Ood, who have a part yet to play.
Prophecy Planets. (Or time zones. Not as catchy, though.) This is a new kind of continuity. I’ve not seen this in other shows.
Other thoughts.
Shame about the fly people. Why kill them both? You’re just spoiling the potential for interesting scenes later. I’d have liked to see them join up with UNIT as mechanics.
Regarding the bus, how does that work, exactly? There’s no obvious means of propulsion or steering; it’s just got floaty things on its wheels. By what means is it moving around? I could maybe understand if the Doctor were adjusting the lift on the different hover pod things, to use gravity as a driving force — gliding, basically. That’s not what’s happening, though.
As some Internet people have noted in passing, on top of the dead end of the psychic woman — maybe more of a problem than the other forgotten passengers, or the pointlessly-killed fly men, as the mere existence of a psychic would seem to suggest some significant story purpose — is all the business about the dead people, the civilization that used to be here. They go into a mess of detail, and dwell on the subject for many grim and portentous beats. All to set up, what, that these monsters can destroy a world? Thanks for that.
This story is full of so many random details that go nowhere — and then the details that they do carry through don’t make much sense.
In the end, we don’t even hear much about these metal sting ray things except a few sterile facts. They’re nothing except a time limit to ensure that our heroes hurry in getting the bus back. Which they do only as slopplily as I’ve noted.
Just… what’s the point of this episode? That’s the problem I have with most things Gareth Roberts writes. They seem to exist just to take up space, throwing around random narrative objects and pointing at them as if they’re inherently meaningful.
This is embodied in all the fan-worship in his scripts — whether it’s the Doctor dripping nonsense over Agatha Cristie (“You know why you’re the greatest writer ever? Because you’ve been hurt, so you know how people feel!”) or the gratuitous Doctor Who Love Patrol, strung all through this episode.
In place of the most rudimentary thematic or plot or character development, Gareth Roberts’ scripts seem to consist almost entirely of people outright telling the viewer that things are important, hoping to catch the viewer up in naked faux enthusiasm. And then it’s that rapturous glee at particular things existing that saves the day. Every time! Good old JK Rowling! Good old Shakespeare and his words!
Ugh.
I’m assuming Moffat won’t hire this guy?
The Seeds of Death is the only Ice Warrior story that does much for me. It’s not like it’s amazing; it’s cordial, full of your lovely moments with the regular cast, and graced with a mix of halfway interesting ideas and uncommonly good acting and direction.
There is, for instance, the fellow up on the station — the spineless one, whose name I forget. The actor is handed a fairly one-dimensional role, yet he manages to inject an extraordinary amount of psychology into it. One tends to feel sympathy for him, until the plot demands he do or say something irredeemable. The result is nearly a Baltar-like character — you want to understand him, and his weakness, yet despite his guilt and fear it seems he really isn’t a good person. It’s a shame the script isn’t as smart about the character as the actor is.
Generally, that’s the kind of objection I have with this story. The world painted in this story is thoughtful, imaginative, and well-realized; there’s just a bit much of it, and for the time they’re given, the ideas and characters never really develop or go to much end besides driving the plot. It’s not a big deal, but there it is.
So it’s fine. Inconsequential yet cozy. The cleaned-up picture is also gorgeous. The most negative reply I can come up with is a shrug.
I just tore my pants and flesh, and twisted my knee. Thanks, sidewalk.
I think I’m most upset about the pants. The pain is annoying, but it’s overwhelmed by the nausea.
There’s a bonkersly thoroughly contemplated recombobulation of R-Type on Xbox Live. It’s two-player co-op; it’s got an instant-respawn option, and a million redone graphics options. Hitting the “Y” button flicks between original 2D and remade 3D (with various graphics filters) at will. It’s an instant fade. Crazy!
This game seriously has some of the best music ever. Hearing that theme reappear and develop as the game progresses is weirdly poignant — I get a chill in the back of my neck, as I do whenever some permutation of “Esaka Forever” pops up. It’s just one of those soundtracks.
And the game is now more playable than ever! You can do the proper survival horror experience, or you can just have fun with it in full Life Force mode.
I wish everything came in amaray DVD cases. Except for those things that come in digipaks.
I’d want sandwiches to come in amaray cases. So I could neatly stack them in the fridge.
I’ve a horrible record at remembering labels. Proper names especially, and nouns more generally. Most broadly, classifiers of any sort. Which is part of why I’m so bad at languages, despite learning the grammar and pronunciation almost immediately. When it comes to vocabulary, it’s like I’m tacking weak post-its over everything, and every time I turn they blow away. This probably also feeds into my trouble with mathematics (despite again understanding the concepts), and my inability to remember my phone number.
It always trips me up; I expect the words to be there, and then am unprepared when they’re not. I search for synonyms, and find that whole part of my lexicon misplaced. When this happens for every third word, conversations with me can become rather tiresome. I suppose I should just start coining my own words; it would save me such anxiety.
To assuage some of the botherment, I keep a file on my desktop of words that I keep forgetting. (The filename is “words you keep forgetting.txt”.) Many of them are absurdly common, and I use them almost every day to describe some of my favorite concepts — but when I reach for them, they’re just not there. Words like catharsis, exposition, disregard, catalyst, and paraphrase. Others — prosopopeia, dysphemism, moiety, breviloquence — are a bit more specialized. I can probably get away with not remembering those when I need them.
Why, therefore, it has taken me until today to start a file on fantastic names, I don’t know. Potential titles, character names, and band names — the sorts of things that come up all the time, then disappear into the vapor. At the moment all I’ve got is a phrase I found nestled in my head when I woke today: Airtight Harem. The actual words were Airtight Harlem, which is also good, but I meant the former.
(Airtight Heirloom isn’t quite as good. Too obvious.)
So Matt Smith is not at all what I was expecting — and this is good! In terms of his personality and mannerisms and appearance, he seems to have beamed in from his own universe. Combine that with the practical thematic aspects of going so young, and it really does feel like the character’s portrayal is getting rebooted. Or brought in a completely new direction, anyway.
Combine this with Moffat’s comments that he intends to focus on the logistics and consequences of time travel, and series five is starting to sound pretty fascinating. I don’t know what to make of it! I can only imagine.
Young, mercurial (as Mr. Hellman puts it) man who calls himself “the Doctor” (uh-huh…) and claims to be hundreds of years old. And who keeps getting involved in time paradoxes…
David Hellman thinks an older, more intellectual woman would make a good companion. I’m inclined to agree!
For a first episode, I’m thinking maybe of An Unearthly Child II, set in a university. A fortysomething college professor becomes fascinated by one of her students, and… oh dear, this is turning into a bad fantasy, isn’t it.
Thing is, for all the bravado he projects and all his knowledge, the Doctor is emotionally underdeveloped. And needy. In a way, shaping him as a very young man — which he is, in spirit — who has seen far too much, and is far too clever for his own good, is a good way to address the character’s demons. To allow him to mature somewhat, and move on.
Moffat, more than any other Who writer so far, seems interested in exploring what makes the Doctor tick. And this is a great opportunity for that. Giving him an older female companion who can take care of him as well as she can fend off his intellectual spurts and tantrums — well, it’s kind of a natural evolution of a theme, isn’t it?
Donna was very good for the Tenth Doctor, in part because of the standards that she held him to; similar deal with season-one Rose, and Ian and Barbara.
That would be so interesting: basically exchange Susan for the Doctor himself, and pair him with a new Barbara, and send them off to figure out what it actually means to be a Time Lord. Logistically and emotionally.