And don't get me started on the trailer. Darker, they promised. It makes Xena look like High Art,. But what can you expect but lies when you can't even trust the BBC to name a cat these days. Stern letters to The Times are in the offing, I can tell you.
And speaking of rants re what consitutes quality entertainment, the following is a blog rant (and you'll admit, it's wholly and 100% blog rant) by Miss Austen from Northanger Abbey:
They called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other's train for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding - joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from The Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand pens - there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am no novel-reader - I seldom look into novels - Do not imagine that I often read novels - It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss - ?" "Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of The Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book, and told its name; though the chances must be against her being occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste: the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age that could endure it.
No, Jane, tell us what you really think - grin. The really fun part is that if you replaced 'novel' with 'tv show' or 'fic' or 'comic' it'd still read true, and if you don't believe me, check out these two recent articles in defence of the tv show:
"Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board, lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good as new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly, threw down the money, and the carriage was mine."
"And I am sure," said Catherine, "I know so little of such things that I cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear."
I can just feel the eye glaze, and Mr Thorpe carries on oblvious for several paragraphs more. Heh. Boys and their toys.
Meanwhile...melcholia in the morning. Oh, lovely sunny day and I can even smell the sea, but I'm stuck in here, but I wish I could stay here because shortly I must go to the other office where I am belittled by folks without any of my quals and I hate them. And I hate that building. Sigh.
Sorry, I'm tired, ill and in a mood. I was terribly upset on the bus and I had some jerk banging his seat back into my bad knee the whole trip and it was all a bit much. Throw in the realisation that I'll never write another word, and well, all the sunshine and sea air in the world can't stop me wanting to walk in front of a bus right now. I can't help it, I'm miserable, drowning in guilt and recrimination and I'm being bullied and sidelined at work and what little comfort I might take from such trifles as the net are soon to be lost to me. It's all a bit grim.
It's even hard walking past that Starbucks, Mum loved that Starbucks, could never walk past it, so neither did I and I must say the sugar high has worked to great effect. I also ran into some colleagues down the road, and the mutual bitch session was very theraputic. On one floor, the light switches have been labelled "them" and "us" as to distinguish the original occupants from the newcomers in their section, just so you know how happy this recent merger is. Oh yeah, one big happy family, like soap opera family.
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
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