Not to be outdone, The Guardian sunk the slipper with: "...that irritating little twerp Robin Hood (Saturday, BBC1). So he's quite handy with his arrers, but he's a moody bugger, and he looks like Bambi."
Oh deary me. At least everyone loves Sir Guy. And that's the important thing.
And it's where we have to bid a fond adieu to the national sport of Jonas bashing, alas, at least until next year. You know, half of me is wickedly amused, but the other half is appalled. He's not quite that bad, or, at least, I've seen lesser actors with far more stellar careers, and, to be honest, in the twelve years or so of compiling reviews on British actors, I have rarely, if ever, seen such vitriol ladled out with such unmitigated glee, except upon young Mr Law (and only recently), and you know, I do keep getting the oddest whiffs that young Mr Armstrong was being groomed as Jude II. Certainly there was the Minghella muse connection, for starters.
Meanwhile, for those of you sitting there grumping and thinking "what does she mean she never got anything cool for Xmas", well, I must apologise. Profusely. Seems like the bad, bad elves over at Australia Post have finally been coaxed to hand over the loot (possibly at gunpoint) and I stomped home to a month's load of loot sitting on the couch. The whole couch. We're talking the full Santa sack of goodies here. Squee! Special mention to the Thorntons choccies (scoffed almost immediately, but I was desperate), the too cool for school Big Book of TV Spies (to die for!!!) and the disks of delights.
I also discovered I had indeed insured myself against a lack lustre Xmas stocking by pre-ordering the complete works of Cracker, which also finally arrived. Squee! Nothing says Xmas quite like a fat, hard drinking, hard smoking and hard talking Scotsman. At least, not for me.
Which is probably why I'm always a bit verklempt over Xmas, lacking my cranky Scotsman as I do, and why the graphic hanging pics yesterday (thankyou, Guardian) also probably disturbed me far more deeply that I'd ever want to examine.
But it was the pics of Illya and co that had me cooing all night. Is that out on dvd yet? MGM, do pull your finger out. Wuvs Illya and Napoleon, and Scotty and Kelly, and Max and 99. Best. Book. Ever.
Wuvs dear, dear friend who sent it.
And that's quite enough of the mushy stuff, but I swear the high pitched squees should have crossed the Pacific and bounced off the mountains. And how are the mountains these days? I was talking snow the other day and I got all nostalgic.
It was hard describing the enormous banks of snow on the side of the road, or frozen creeks (perfect for curing new Docs in), to folks who've never conceived of such things. Ditto Pringle sized snow flakes, or proper Hollywood snow as I call it, or the pics my mates send of their cars buried under piles of white stuff, or icicles the size of vampire stakes (those were in Arizona). It was even hard to describe being handed a spatula thing and standing there like a muppet until told, gently and patiently, as to a small child, that it was for scraping the ice off the windows. Scraping ice off cars? Surely not, they queried my tall tales of icebound wonders.
So if January dumps a lump of snow on your doorstep, piccies please, oh Northern neighbours, just to show the Doubting Thomases (Thomasii?).
Meanwhile #2: I've been trying to create a MySpace account, just because I want to read/look at stuff, and it kept telling me I wasn't a fit and proper person for their services, thank you very much. My real, actual details were dismissed as beyond suspicious. Today I created an entirely fake profile, and, bingo, worked. Still hmphing over the rejection of my actual self, though, but coolness to the fakeness. Cue the infamous Marx quote about not wanting to join any club that would have me as a member anyway.
Btw, I caught Much trying to run away from home the other day. He'd made it as far as the window sill, the poor love. Don't look at me like that. I've had wee Lego outlaws for, well, ages, and they usually lurk atop one of my bookshelves, wee Lego arrows at the ready, but as I've been moving everything about they've been decamped to various locales, including, for a while, loitering amongst my small grove of tiny Xmas trees (every year I buy a new table top tree for my desk, then it goes home to join the forest), and lately they've been on the book case nearest the window and I assume Much must have taken a header on the blustery day that slammed my door shut with a sudden gust, but he was on the window sill last night, just standing there, all alone, in the rain, awwww....
That mean old Robin. He's 100% bad boyfriend material. There was an article in the sunday papers (sadly not online that I could find) listing the characteristics of the bad BF, being, aside from the mad, bad, dangerous types, the ones who are always shallowly charming and holding forth the promise that you could be the one. But that's all it ever is. An illusion.
Much like Wickham. I still can't get over how woefully he was cast in the film, because the TV series really got that right: he's mean to be a charming rogue who skates by on his smiles. He's supposed to be like Captain Jack (MKI) - all the right moves, all the right words, while he empties your bank account.
That sullen creature was not Wickham. Wickham is meant to be fun at parties, handsome, all smiles and a delight, which is why few suspected his sociopathic tendencies, or rather textbook sociopathy, or wanted to reveal having been duped by him. He's a con man, nothing more or less. And certainly bad boyfriend material. We've all had them. The moment it stops being your shout they're onto the next girl. But they are fun, for a bit, and even Elizabeth owned up to this.
Can you imagine Barrowman playing Wickham? If he could drop the cheesy Yank accent, just for a bit? Or shall I just sit here and imagine all that red and gold and frogging and...oh my...
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