mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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We're The Sweeney, Son - And We Haven't Had Any Dinner

I don't know which to reel in horror from first: the idea of a Sweeney reimagining or Clive and return of the velvet jacket.

The Sweeney, probably, as I'm so swamped with dread I can barely comment, but the I Spy travesty quickly comes to mind. This is all LOM's fault. Hmph.

Meanwhile, I had an alarmingly strange dream, well, strange even by my standards, including mummies, zombies, mean girls and a swimming pool beneath my bedroom floor and certain tux suited actors tied up and tossed in to drown there (paging Dr Jung!) but what bemused me most was my getting a huge Ethan tatt on my back, despite the mean girls protests that I was in no way a fan, and I really do only have a casual interest, but there he was this morning, looking mighty fine in my inbox. Weird.

Actually, I think it's just anxiety because I know it's time to clean and cull my room, so lots of actors will be tossed out, alas.

Meanwhile I've watched...not much really. Got home so late on Monday I missed Green Wing and just went to bed. Tuesday I did get home in time for Time Team, and this time they were demolishing a hillside in hopes of a Roman fort. I cringe at their rough and ready archaeology and wild surmises, but it's entertainment. One thing I disputed though was what they called a weight, but it was an exact twin to the dangly thing off a surveyors tripod that I have on my desk as a paperwight, a dongle of indertiminate age (1970s? 1870s?) that was meant to be tossed with everything else when the new dept moved in and removed all the original, irreplacable because the trees are extinct, fittings and 150 years worth of public service detris. Anyway, that's what it looked like, to me.

I had meant to watch Adam Adamant, but, as I was going to loan out a disk on the top of my pile, I decided to watch the last episode of Heist (on the disk, not the show, though I think it might be both). As much as I love Dougray, I just prefer him with his own Scots accent to a dreadful American one, and I find the characters a little too smug to be likeable. As the series was cancelled, I suspect others did, too. It suffered from too much slick and not enough heart, unlike Hustle, where I very quickly came to know and adore the characters. Also, in Heist they seemed to be very much in it for themselves, where in Hustle, they have this quasi Robin Hood thing going where they only rob from the greedy. They still keep the cash themselves, but it's a clever setup because our sympathies never lie with the 'victims' because they deserve the humiliation that is being served up to them. How odd, that the UK crims are far more moral than the US ones.

It's much the same way Life on Mars works. In lesser hands it could so easily be the story of Sammy Sue, who is always right and whiter than white and always saving the day with his many skills and talents. But it ain't (though I deeply suspect some viewers watch it as such). Our Sam is a deeply flawed, deeply messed up young man who makes mistakes great and small, pisses off the wrong people and is often hoist by his own arrogance. LOM maintains a nice balance, making Gene so much more clever than first appearances paint him, and Gene's own particular, hard won experience is shown to be just as valuable as Sam's book learnin' (see also Sam's Naivety).

It's very traditional, but also very nicely done. There's a delicate balance and they manage to walk it. Not to say that Life on Mars doesn't also play with slapstick as well as subtle. I was bemused by the Bravo site's almost apology for such a serious thesp like Mr Simm appearing in such silliness. Which is a bit unfair, as LOM can be quite serious, on occassion. I just love a show that can feature both biting social commentary and sliding across car bonnets.

Happily, Life on Mars, spares us the 'stop what you're doing and pay attention' headmaster speeches that American shows are so fond of, but I suspect they get that from their culture and Presidential adresses, where we have nothing like that here, at all (our pollies might make speeches, but only to specially invited interest groups). So yeah, none of that sledgehammer speechifying, thank frell. The only time LOM comes close is the Hillsborough speech, and that's more of a rant, and John delivers that with such quiet rage that it's nothing like the pontificating from the podium that you get in SG, BG, etc. It's more of a moving opinion piece.

I wait in dread/morbid curiousity for the American version.

Meanwhile, I got my pocket picked on the bus this morning. The cheek! It's never happened elsewhere. He just reached through the seats and had a rummage. Fortunately he would have only come up tissues and bits of coin. My fault, as I was half asleep, with scenes of Sam and Gene pashing in the front seat of the Cortina playing in my head. The windscreen was fogged up and they were about to be interupted by the local plod, but still. Poor Gene. Sam's been so prickly in this fic, and the one time he ain't, it's a non starter.

Ah, looks like we might be having one of those flag waving at gunpoint rallies that our lords and masters are so fond of these days. It always remind me of those 50s era photos of puzzled tiny children waving flags for the Queen, or furiously waving their little flags, at any rate. I was one of those children, once, in 1973, it must have been, when Her Maj was out to open the Opera House. I can't imagine why my republican parents should drag me to such a thing, but I believe it was from a sense of history, so I could say that even in the furthest flung of colinies I had but seen a woman in a very silly hat go passing by. I remember the hat, being a racing day concoction, and feeling furiously cheated that she wasn't wearing a crown like in all her photos that, back then, stared down from every official wall. I did get a new dress and shoes out of it, which pleased me immensely, being such a rare occassion. Well, I could hardly been seen in public in my usual cheap and grubby rags, especially grubby as I suspect I was recommended to a career in archaeology on account of my extensive trench digging as much as for my passion for old things (sadly, I had not the money to attempt my desired career, either of them).

Which reminds me again of how different attitudes are to the past. I suppose Sam is miserable being stuck in early 70s Manchester (thou methinks he doth protest too much, laughing and strutting thing that he is in the 70s, and Gene shares my opinion), but '73, here, was a golden age, the renaissance, enlightment and the hippie era all rolled into one brief but powerful few years that still shine brightly in the greyness and repression that binds either side of the early 70s. Gough, Opera house, Countdown...we were on fire. If I had to choose a year, 1973 would be it, and I've long held that opinion. It was such a silly, happy time. Science and technology held such (squandered) promise and social reforms were in full swing and the arts flowered like never before or since.

Yep, take me back. Or possibly not. I think that was the last time I was ever interested in shoes or clothes, I think that was the last time I ever had anything nice. Eew, girlie girl me. Eeew.

Oh yes, I was almost splatted by a mighty Woolies truck ths morning, going like the clappers and me stuck on the tiny median strip that's half my girth. I would have done more than end up in the 70s, they would have been hosing me out of the grill for hours.

Anyway, I'll finish this as I don't seem to be making myself clear this week. Or maybe nobody is listening to what I'm actually saying, as opposed to what they think they heard me say. Sigh.
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Tags: clive owen, dougray scott, gene hunt, hustle, life on mars, sam tyler, the sweeney

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