Not a great episode like the last three, but they can't all be gems (I mean, take Colin Baker, please). And there was bonus Prof. Brian Cox in a silly very RTD cameo. In fact the whole episode smacked of an RTD episode that had been shoved down the back of the sofa, found, uncrumpled and filmed. Some things are probably best left lurking under the left cushion, but there you go. Goodness is relative and at least there was no Adric in it.
It was all Doctors, all the time, as usual, because I found Hamlet on telly, David Tennant's Hamlet, when I came in from a brief stint of typing on the jasmine entangled back patio. So I watched it, and found it absorbing. Once I settle into the the rhythm of the language, I'm good. And I was amused, as Hamlet gives a masterclass to his players (Wot, were the Lord Chamberlain's Men acting up again, Bill?):
Hamlet. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you,
trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our
players do, I had as live the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do
not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all
gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say)
whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a
temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the
soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to
tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
(for the most part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb
shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipp'd for o'erdoing
Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.
First Player. I warrant your honour.
Hamlet. Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your
tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with
this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of
nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing,
whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as
'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show Virtue her own feature,
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his
form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though
it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious
grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance
o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I
have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to
speak it profanely), that, neither having the accent of
Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so
strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's
journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated
humanity so abominably.
First Player. I hope we have reform'd that indifferently with us, sir.
Hamlet. O, reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns
speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them
that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren
spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary
question of the play be then to be considered. That's villanous
and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go
make you ready.
Which is funny, because I ended up watching a repeat of the Bomer ep of Glee when I staggered in from the watering. Amusing juxtaposition as Bomer's 'bad actor' gives the very advice Hamlet warns against, the whole 'do not saw the air too much with your hand', and 'it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags'. As in the pointing and shouting. Well, I was bemused. And how brave of young Bomer to attempt 'bad acting', because, you know, on White Collar...'for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing'. Ahem. Cough.
Thank heavens for David Tennant, as I so often say, for I had intended to garden, and had been advised to, a sure cure for what ails me, I was told, but alas, not even my garden is free from the trespass of bullies. I thought, now that the neighbours who threw fruit at me, kicked down the fence, chopped down my trees, clipped my washing line and kicked in every flower pot and ornament, were gone I could once more dare spend time outdoors. Not so. Someone else had lept over the back fence, trampled down and kicked over every fern, pot, ornament or other plant into ruins and cut down all the shade trees and piled them, plus additional rubbish, all along the backfence. Bananas, persimmons, quinces, cumquats, ferns, gernaniums and azaleas all ruined and gone. Not to mention the weed spray that has killed everything pretty much up to the back steps, including hardy plants that had survived leaks from the actual factory that made Agent Orange during 'Nam, so whatever they're using is so much worse. I retreated from the desolation in tears.
So thank you, David and Bill, for the pretty words and fine sentiments. At least I could lose myself there. The play is the thing.
That was pretty much it. Caught some of Boardwalk Empire (loved the Tut themed party), watched Doctor Who on Saturday, watched Suits online as EvilChannelSeven had started the show 43 minutes into the pvr recording (w and tf) and where the hell is Suits tonight? What did I do wrong now that you had to take my telly away? Just when it was getting interesting, too.
Oh, and I tried to catch up on some very spotty recordings of Covert Affairs (thanks again, EvilChannelSeven) which I would give up on entirely, if it was not infested with Brit thesps. There was Tony Curran in one ep, and Richard Coyle, of all people, playing an international man of mystery. I know it's wrong, but Jeff is so indeliably burnt into my brain that it makes me laugh, every time he shows up and tries to be mysterious. Chortle.
Oh well, good to see him, along with Jack in Smash and Gina in Leverage. Oh yeah, like the cubes on Doctor Who, the invasion has begun and is pretty much all done bar the shouting (and pointing).
My work here is done (cue a melodramatic 'mwah hah ha'). Obscure British Actors my Aunt Fanny...
Anyways, that's it. What I would really like would be a week or ten working days off somewhere quiet where I could throw together my bad fic, for no other reason than to just say I finished something. Alas, no. But it would be nice.
Thursday: On to my second pot of tea. Irish breakfast, and I was made to do my Oirish accent as I was sprung brewing it. I should stop doing that, the Oirish, it only encourages people to badness.
I do like the Twinings Irish Breakfast, though I usually only hit it at home (where my tea selections run to silly lengths) when someone has commited Oirish on tv. So far we've had Bomer, and good old Lt. Riley on Trek (he's the one who started it, when I was but a child) and some possibly genuine ones on Doctor Who (hard to tell, the Belfast accent is so hammer thudingly hard on the ears it always jars, just a touch, though I'm awful fond of Belfast natives).
I don't know why it's just the poor old Irish, but they seem to be the accent most 'actors' think they can try, and the one most 'actors' should really, really not. Lesson one: pick a county and stick with it, and never, ever wander across the Irish sea and up the Clyde).
You tend not to heard cod Italian or bad Chinese, Indian, etc these days (mercifully) because it would come across as an ethnic slur, and quite rightly so, but the Irish are still fair game it seems. And so there it is. To be sure, to be sure. Top of the morning to ya, darling. Okay, stopping now.
Anyways, been getting home in time to see Doctor Who. We're up to the Jo Grant episodes and she is still a fave (oh you can tell, I can just reach into the wadrobe of shame and pull out a Ms Grant outfit, hell, Katy Manning herself once spontaneousy complimented me on the ensemble, an approval probably not desired by most, but for me, a highlight).
Best of all, we had the Master and the autons and the dangerous daffs and man eating chairs and hideous troll dolls and, well, squee.
Speaking of autons, I forgot to mention how bemused I was, when wandering down fashionable Collins Street in Melbourne, all the male dummies were wearing natty suits and silly little hats. It was like the autons meet my worst nightmare. Yikes.
And last night, it was Arena on Star Trek. Oh yeah, fell asleep during Justfied and forget to tape anything else, but really, it pales compared to these childhood sugary treats. Also, Justified? Not so much this third season. Don't know why, cause I love the Neal, but I'm so bored. I hope it's not like True Blood, where I kept waiting for things to move forward, but they never really did.
Anyways, tv yay. And the bullies have been in absentia, so I've been super productive and of an equilibrium. This makes me happy. I barely even squeaked when the large spider objected to me grabbing the throw rug, aka his abode, when the temperature dropped during my viewing of Arena. Note to self: shake the damn thing out first, even though it had only been three days of warmish before things took a turn for the wintery again.
Friday: Alas, the bullies return. Well, the two ugly stepsisters at any rate, who come in late, have morning tea, vanish off to a long lunch, then afternoon tea, then it's beer o'clock, whereas poor Cinders here has to work and work with no breaks and stay back and miss Doctor Who on telly. Grizzle. Grumble. Bitch. Moan.
I know, I could start singing 'someday my prince will come' but that'll never happen, and besides, I forgot to add the conditional clause: * must not already have a boyfriend. Sigh.
Meanwhile, hot fuggy day today, and it looks like the war memorial is open after being closed for yonks. Next week I'll have to see if I can remember my camera. I like it. Which is wrong, but there you go. Raynor Hoff ( a fave of mine) did the sculptures, and they're disturbingly beautiful, the way some WWI art just is (other art is suitably grotesque).
Sadly, the other art on display disappeared in the 40 minutes or so I was sitting in the park being burnt to a crisp and menanced by insects (and oh, how to explain that the pages of my notebook are stuck together by gum from the gum tree I was sitting under - it was hot and dripping and, oh dear, I'll stop there).
There was one of those traffic boards with the dot matrix messages parked next to the cleopatra needle in the park, pointing out it was just an exhaust vent, describing it as coming from 'across the sands of time' and comparing it to the Washington Monument and all the other needles (reminding me I've ticked off just about all of 'em bar any that are still actually in, you know, Egypt), but alas, no more sign, which is a pity because it delighted me so much when I first saw it. I presume it was part of art and about, but it appeared and vanished so completely I'm still not ruling out Gaiman-esque magicks. Because I don't want to. I want/need a bit of magic in the old existence right now.
Couldn't find it on the site, though. Maybe it was a guerilla piece. Or maybe, you know...(smile).
Whoa, lost a few more Twitter followers. Even the spambots find me tiresome. I can't help it if I'm not a one subject post person. I like art, I like history, I like science, I like pretty boys. My ideal job would be writing scripts for Doctor Who, since it's the only show that combines all my loves into one, but that's never going to happen, now, ever (ditto riding through Paris, in a sports car, with the warm wind in my hair).
Alas, the only careers advice I ever received at school was that, if I was lucky, I could aspire to serving on the meat counter at the local supermarket. I think I've raised myself a touch above that, but still. Some people get their dream jobs. The rest of us toil. And thanklessly.
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29 September -
5 October 2012
14-21 September 2012
29 September -
5 October 2012