The Dangerous Book for Girls: Happy Birthday, Pride and Prejudice

Monday 28th January 2013 saw a momentous occasion in the history of publishing, literature, feminism, and the fundamental identity of English prose.  I am referring, of course, to the passing of the 200th anniversary of the first publication of Pride and Prejudice.  Since this blog is named after (for my money) both the best dramatist and the best novelist in the English language* it seems only fitting that I honour Ms Austen with my own small tribute.

That, and I made a New Year's resolution to update the blog twice a month and I've only got a few hours left to think of ideas.

In all seriousness, this 200th anniversary lark is kind of a godsend for the thematically-frustrated blogger - I could talk about Pride and Prejudice for hours.  (I won't.  Maybe.)  I first read it when I was thirteen, which I think is the perfect age at which be struck by the pure, unbridled pleasure of reading Austen.  You will only read something for the first time once, after all, and coming to Austen with a head full of academic theory or wet-shirt-joke-pop-cultural-osmosis can get in the way of the fact that Austen is fizzingly, deliciously, deliriously enjoyable.  It also marked the first time I committed an act of academic defiance upon being told something was too difficult for me (the second, and only other, was doing far better in my university final exams than someone who spent three years in a cycle of putting on plays, staying up until 3am watching Disney films, necking Red Bull and writing essays in an hour had any right to do).  I remember very clearly the evening I decided I would embark upon what would surely be a formative moment in my development both as an intellectual, and as a woman.  (I must have been a delight for my parents.)  The BBC was broadcasting the final five books of its Big Read series, an attempt to whittle down the nation's hundred favourite books, and the top two spots came down to Pride and Prejudice and Lord of the Rings.  Since then I have read both, and if I say that only one of them induced me to throw it against a wall in frustration because of the fucking Council of Elrond, you will be unsurprised at my retrospective rage when that book won.  Anyway.  Prompted by the vague notion that Pride and Prejudice was not only clearly very good but seemed to carry an intellectual weight that struck a chord with my self-important thirteen-year-old heart, I expressed an interest in reading it.  "Maybe wait a couple of years," suggested my parents.  "You might appreciate it more when you're older."  I was, naturally, furious.  Imagine my (unfounded and confusing to all others) triumph when the book box in my classroom next Monday morning yielded a copy of the very novel.  "Look," I said, brandishing it, "I'm going to read it."  "Oh, well done," said my mother vaguely, which was not, I admit, the reaction I had been hoping for.

I needn't have worried.  From the minute I turned the first page and read that elegant, arch, oft-imitated, never-surpassed opening sentence, Jane Austen settled irretrievably into my heart.  Every subsequent sentence rang clear as a bell - even when I wasn't sure what Jane was actually on about (for god's sake, what is a syllabub?).  Incidentally, I still have that first copy, initially borrowed from school and later definitively nicked when I decided rather unfairly that no-one else would want to read it.  And Pride and Prejudice is the gift that keeps on giving - in the nine years since (there's a terrifying thought), I have picked it up at least half a dozen times and found something new each time.  It's not always a comfortable experience.  Imagine my horror at the age of seventeen, having systematically devoured every other scrap of Austen I could get my hands on (pro tip: the juvenilia, so not worth the time) realising that Austen was the most unflinchingly callous writer I had ever encountered.  Who else writes that fat people in mourning don't deserve sympathy because they're too ridiculous?  But Austen's morality code is based on being smart, not nice, and I don't mean book smart, but street smart: Lydia Bennet isn't 'bad' because she likes flirting with boys or anything so prudish. (Austen basically defined flirting in print, after all, just look at Catherine getting flustered by Mr Tilney's views on landscape painting in Northanger Abbey.  Woof.)  Lydia doesn't get to be a heroine because she has no idea how to handle herself in the society she was born into; Austen's leading ladies all learn how to navigate the choppy waters of the social and sexual minefield that is the mixed metaphor they call life.  It's a tough life with limited options, says Austen, and you have to be tough to survive it.

Not everyone likes Austen, of course, often because of this relentlessly controlled pragmatism that plagues the pages of what would otherwise be early-nineteenth-century rom-coms.  Charlotte Bronte didn't like Jane Austen.  She wrote a letter complaining that reading Austen was like finding "An accurate daguerrotyped portrait of a common-place face; a carefully-fenced, highly cultivated garden with near borders and delicate flowers - but no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy - no open country - no fresh air - no blue hill - no bonny beck." Well, no offence to Charlotte Bronte, but bollocks. (Maybe a bit of offence to Charlotte Bronte - I did cry upon finishing Jane Eyre, but with relief).** Bronte's criticisms amount to the idea that Austen is a series of miniatures, unrealistic and restrained, that all end in - pure fantasy! - marriage.  We won't dwell on the fact that this comes from a writer who literally wrote the book on how you can change a brooding, gambling, womanising misanthrope through the love of a good woman (but only if he's blinded to make up for the social inequality between you).  Austen is precise, economical.  She does not waste words on those who need not have words wasted on them.  Every sentence is beautifully constructed and furthers the story she is telling.  

Yes, her books all end in marriage to solvent men - but crucially, they end in marriage on the heroine's own terms.  No-one would call Austen a feminist, partly because it would be a pointless anachronism, but more partly (you know what I mean) because Austen's happy endings are deeply pragmatic affairs.  Want to have a comfortable life in early nineteenth century England, free from smallpox and gum disease? Marry a well-off man.  Want to have a happy life in early nineteenth century England? Marry a well-off man that you love.  Austen doesn't stint on letting us know how unlikely this outcome is.  Lizzie and Jane Bennet get lucky: they have the writer on their side.  Their three younger siblings present the shadow of a much more likely fate - one shotgun married to an unfaithful rake, one prodded into spinsterhood without a second thought, one sentenced to reform through hanging about with her clever, well-married sisters.***  There's a moment in Pride and Prejudice that I've always found telling - after younger sister Lydia (possessed of "animal spirits", nudge nudge wink wink) elopes with proto-lad Wickham, apparently scuppering all chance of a respectable match for Lizzie, she reflects on the man she herself has lost in the process:  

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was a union that must have been to the advantage of both. By her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved, and from his judgment, information and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance. But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was.

It's the "judgement, information and knowledge of the world" bit that gets me.  To Charlotte Bronte, no doubt, it sounded passionless, even calculating.  To me, it is a painful insight into the psyche of both a character and writer who found themselves trapped in circumstances in which they could never be their best selves.  Lizzie hasn't just fallen for Darcy as a man, but the life he brings with him, his ability to bring her a world that she wishes to - and cannot - be a part of, looking on from rural Hertfordshire.  In Austen, marriage exists to free its participants - male and female - from versions of themselves they have constructed to navigate the complex onslaught of the social, sexual and financial mores of everyday life.  Marriage is a refuge for honesty, a place that people arrive at when they come to understand themselves most truly, either singly or with the help of a partner.  In the former case it is treated, time after time, as a matter of revelation: Edmund Bertram in Mansfield Park finds "exactly at the time when it was quite natural it should be so" that he's gotten over Regency vamp Mary Crawford and wants to marry Fanny Price, Emma Wodehouse has the sudden sparklingly blinding insight that Mr Knightley "must marry no-one but herself", Marianne Dashwood's trials with Willoughby allow her to emerge sharper and surer of herself, and ready to marry Colonel Brandon.  In the other instance, of a couple growing together, Pride and Prejudice is only the most obvious example, trading off its protagonists' titular flaws against each other; Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth have a profound effect on each other during and after their eight-year separation, Mr Tilney leads Catherine Morland deftly towards maturity by subtly (and flirtatiously) cutting away the language of gothic romance she has surrounded herself with.  All are instances of characters finding "knowledge of the world" through their partner and becoming, in the process, the fullest and richest version of themselves they could be.  I don't find that passionless at all.  I find that thrillingly, embarrassingly romantic.

And, in essence, that's what Pride and Prejudice does.  It teaches.  It is an unfailingly, uncomfortably honest book - lies and self-deceptions unravel at speed and Lizzie comes face to face with not only her own failings, but her sisters', her friend's, and her beloved father's.  Reading it is a self-exmaining experience: at the age of thirteen, the tang of well-deserved romance was delicious, at seventeen, I desperately craved Austen's pithy detachment from the world she lived in, at twenty-two, the age I am now, I think I'm finally beginning to understand what she's on about with this companionship and knowing yourself business.  I'm wrong, no doubt.  I'll come to it again in five year's time and my sympathies will lie with Caroline Bingley or Charlotte Lucas or Mary Bennet.  The day will come, I fear, when I find myself in agreement with Mrs Bennet.  But I don't mind.  In these moments of revelation about myself, I come the closest to being an actual Austen heroine that I'll ever get.****

*Sort of by accident, actually.  I swear, at the time I just liked the name, and it wasn't until my mother innocently enquired as to the literary origins of the nomenclature that I understood I was now committing acts of breath-taking arrogance unconsciously.

**Really.  I was in both an airport and my teens, and the heady combination of jet-lag, hormones and interminable religious imagery made me burst into tears on closing the book.

***Actually, Austen apocryphally told her uncle that Mary and Kitty do get married after the book ends, the former to one of her uncle's clerks and the latter to a clergyman near Pemberley, which sounds like Austen placating a tipsy, sentimental uncle to me.

****Apart from the time I got soaked in a downpour on my way to a restaurant where a group of friends were, walked in dripping, apologised for my appearance, and was answered by my best friend staring at me and shouting, "You look amazing!  You look like Lizzie Bennet!" But I think she was drunk.

Cheekbones in Space: Prometheus Review (Spoiler-free)

I don't really get people who automatically discount science fiction.  Yeah, I wasn't always a fan.  But even in my tenderest youth, I have never scanned a film poster for the slightest hint of tentacle or laser or teleportation and gone, "How dare you?!  You, sir, are trying to make me watch a - gasp - science fiction film."  Even when it didn't interest me as a genre, I never treated the entire collective as though if I touched it, the Facehugger of Deadly Nerddom would jump out and facerape me into a John Hurt-style coma where eventually an ugly geek child version of myself would burst its way out of the chest cavity of what used to be a nice, normal girl before she got mixed up in all that - gasp - science fiction.  I mention this because a) I have actually encountered this attitude in people in real life and b) Ridley Scott has created a film that is extraordinarily beautiful, both visually and otherwise, and you should go and see it, like, right now.

The most common criticism of sci-fi seems to be that it's too unrealistic to relate to and, indeed, there are two ways you can go with this.  You can acknowledge you're in a science fiction movie and just have fun with whooshing doors and phasers and unintentional dystopias where everyone dresses the same and nobody comments on this sinister conformity.  Or you can look at the potential within science fiction to transcend that genre, and build something that no other genre gives you the sheer freedom to imagine.  Come to think of it, that's why people who 'can't relate' to sci-fi confuse me.  Empathy.  Imagination.  Your special gifts as a member of the human race.  Use them.

Because ultimately science fiction is all about environment.  It's saying, "Yeah, this is set in a world like ours but not ours, and the go-to explanation for weird shit is science.  (If the explanation is 'a wizard did it', you're looking at fantasy.*)" It's world-building.  And what Scott does best, of course, is world-building.  Blade Runner isn't really a significant cinematic achievement for its plot or characters (Harrison Ford eats Chinese food a lot, looks cool, bangs robots) so much as its vision of our dystopian, corporate-run yet grimly beautiful future.  The world-building in Prometheus is off the charts.  We are taken from one stunning environment to the next, from bleak, haunting vistas on the Isle of Skye (Scottish Tourist Board, Ridley will accept with cash or cheque) to the clean, threatening lines of the Prometheus ship itself - the design of which is reflected in everything from the dark blue minimalist space suits to the silver-plated champagne bottles to Michael Fassbender's new Aryan hairdo - to the depths of an otherworldly colony, the twisting black gooey textures of which will recall some familiar creatures to those who have seen the previous Alien films and seriously unsettle those who haven't.  It is a miracle of design from beginning to end, though for me the standout moment (without giving anything away) concerns Fassbender's lonely robot David standing inside a holographic projection of all the terrifying, awe-inspiring majesty of space.  It's a beautiful moment of seamless design, effects and acting combining to make me go a little bit wibbly.

And speaking of awe-inspiring majesty, all the awe and majesty and awesome and majestic bobbins on show here are no accident.  Voltaire said (and if your inner Adolescent Philosophy Student Alert Alarm is going off right now, I don't blame you) that if God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.  Neil Gaiman wrote an entire novel based on the concept that faith is a creative energy, constructing gods out of things that we put our belief in.  Prometheus runs along the same lines, juggling hefty questions about our origins and what it means for God and faith if we start finding answers: discount religion entirely or keeping believing nonetheless?  The questions it raises are thoughtful but also lead to one of the few minor criticisms I had of this film, that all this faith-religion-science stuff is just a bit too nebulous to amount to anything tangible.

Fortunately, the cast is universally strong so you can just focus on the human drama if you like.  Noomi Rapace is excellent as Dr Elizabeth Shaw, all bright-eyed curiosity and calm capability and, crucially, possesses at least a modicum of common sense that makes her intensely rootable-for.  Logan Marshall-Green as Boyfriend Doctor Charlie Holloway is less likeable as the film's purveyor of Dickish Hubris but puts in a good performance.  Idris Elba is the film's Cool Black Dude (there's one in every Alien film, go check) but he is the Coolest of the Cool Black Dudes.  The more I think about Charlize Theron, the most I liked not only her performance but her character Meredith Vickers, the icy bitch-queen of Weyland Corporation.  Guy Pearce is slightly odd casting as the ancient Peter Weyland, founder of said corporation, and one of the rare decisions that doesn't hold up (what have you got against actors who actually, like, old, Ridley?  Enquiring minds want to know).  The standout performance is Michael Fassbender as aforementioned lonely robot David, who just wants to be a real boy.  Sort of.  I'm not sure if Fassbender's characters always start out as the most interesting ones or whether he just makes them that way by dint of sheer acting.  Seriously, that guy must be exhausted from all the bloody acting he does.  Actually seriously though, it's a fascinatingly detailed performance and I'm unsurprised that my cursory google turned up an interview where he stated avoiding watching the androids of previous Alien films and taking the Blade Runner replicants as his reference point, because that's exactly where my brain went.  He combines the Rutger Hauer arrogance with the Daryl Hannah childlike naivety and is thoroughly compelling throughout ("thoroughly compelling" - that's a thing that people say in reviews, right?).  It also doesn't give anything away to say that of the two blockbusters I have reviewed this summer, both contribute to the trend in sympathetic be-cheekboned villains with really shit sort-of dads.

Prometheus  has received mixed reviews from the press, largely because "it's not like Alien".  I can't help but think much of these are missing the point.  No, it's not Alien.  It's a totally different genre to Alien.  I'm not sure what genre it is, except maybe pseudo-philosophical-aren't-we-profound-here-are-some-pretty-things-to-look-at-so-you-might-not-notice-we-don't-know-what-the-fuck's-going-on (also included: Danny Boyle's Sunshine).  If I sound like I'm making mock, well, only a little.  Prometheus aims for something huge and succeeds on many many levels, enough to make a stunningly well-made film and, for a film where a lot of violent shit goes down, a strangely uplifting paean to human endeavour and courage.

Gosh, I've gone all serious.  Batman.  There, that's better. Though if I use Batman to drag things back from the brink of attempted profundity, my review for The Dark Knight Rises is going to be a very confused affair.

*Sorry for stealing your joke, Simpsons.  Your penetrating understanding of nerd culture is too much for me.

Jane Shakespeare Watches Buffy: Seasons 1-2

Gather round, kids, it's confession time.  Now, this is very hard for me.  I, Jane Shakespeare, have always proudly called myself a Joss Whedon fan.  Hell, I might even say I'm a fangirl.  (If you don't know the difference, you clearly haven't been on the internet very much.) But in all my nearly twenty-two years on this planet, I have never watched Buffy.

GASP TURN IN YOUR GEEK LICENSE RIGHT NOW, YOUNG LADY.  ALSO YOUR FEMINISM LICENSE WHILE WE'RE AT IT.

But Officer, let me correct myself.  I have never watched Buffy....until now.

Because I, in a fit of what I term 'productivity', have been mainlining episodes of this sweet, televisual goodness like all the illegal streaming sites are going down tomorrow.  Which they may well do if SOPA has its way. (Your slightly outdated satire quota of this blog has now been completed.  Thanks for reading.)

And what I must say is this: YOU GUYS WHY DID NOBODY TELL ME.

All those times when someone went "You've never watched Buffy?" and walked away from the conversation leaving me in no doubt that they thought a little less of me as a person, I kind of assumed that they were being weird because, like, it's a just a TV show and certainly I have always been measured and grounded and suchlike about fictional mediums and not at all prone to sweeping overreactions and abuse of the capslock button.  I'm so sorry, universe, I retract everything.  I now realise I've been letting you down by not engaging with one of the finest on-screen portrayals of attractive teenagers that our times had to offer.

Btdubs, from here on in there be spoilers for Seasons 1-2 and a bit of Season 3.  Spoilers that are fifteen years old and that everyone in the known universe has seen except me but spoilers nonetheless.

So the very first thing I am struck by is how incredibly 90s everyone looks, which makes me happy and sad at the same time because on the one hand the 90s were a truly tragic era for self-expression but on the other, hello childhood.  Seemingly all this 90s chic has wormed its way into my subconscious and thus my wardrobe, because once I start watching I spend the next week looking like Monica from Friends circa Season 3 or, on better days, Linda from Press Gang.

My second reaction is to curse how wrong I was.  Somewhere back in the early 2000s I got the impression that Buffy was a show about Sarah Michelle Gellar being hot and giving teenage goths something mainstream to call their very own.  Which it is, but it isn't.  I should have known from Firefly, really, that Whedon doesn't take on a genre unless he can subvert the hell out of it.  His recent forays into super heroics should have taught me that.  It isn't perfect.  There's some really dud episodes, like the one with the Internet Demon Robot, which I guess is Joss Whedon's equivalent of a Stranger Danger After School Special or something.  In fact, most of Season 1 plods along at a nicely goofy pace and the monsters are fun rather than scary.  The praying mantis/femme fatale thing is well done, the one where Xander gets possessed by a hyena demon confirmed all my worst impressions of him, and even the one with the ventriloquist's dummy (usually a fast-track into my nightmares) is just kind of silly.  Also having 'The Master' as your boss fight villain just makes me think that no self-respecting Time Lord would be seen in such passé attire, no matter how evil he was.

The show really grows some balls throughout Series 2 though. I particularly liked how much they upped the seriousness of Angel and Buffy's relationship, playing off that teenage intensity, and then going "OH BUT YOU THOUGHT THERE WOULD BE NO REPERCUSSIONS, EH?" Without making obvious comparisons with certain contemporary teenage dramas concerning romancing the undead, it's a tremendously clever way of using a sappy teen romance to further plot and character development.  In fact, you could say that of the whole show: it has this gleefully self-conscious B-Movie feel about it - for every bit of "Monsters in High School!" cheesiness, there's a snarky one-liner commenting on how cheesy and ridiculous it is.  My favourite so far is in the Series 2 opener from some kid in the hallway: "This is going to be our year for the football team! If we can just practice really hard, do well, and hope the unusually high death rate goes away!"

I love the characters too.  It's sort of impossible to dislike Buffy, even if I have started to tune out during her "my life is so hard" episodes.  I mean, obviously it is, but it's taking screen time away from characters I like more.  Xander starts off sort of awful but has become less awful as it progresses.  The bit of me that painfully identifies with Willow at that age kind of gets it though as he is pretty nice to look at, and would be comic relief were it not for the fact that everyone's lines are at least as funny, all the time.  Willow is adorbs and would definitely have been my favourite had I watched the show at a younger age.  By pop cultural osmosis, the two things I know about Willow are that she's a lesbian and she's a witch and so far neither of those things are greatly in evidence so I guess Joss really goes in for this whole 'character development' thing.  It's almost a shame because I really, really like Oz and have a dim memory of confiding in a schoolfriend that I kind of fancied Seth Green in the Austin Powers movies (well, the good ones anyway) and her asking if I watched Buffy because he was a cute werewolf in that.  So yeah.  I guess.  Cordelia is also sort of great and I am enjoying her horror at finding herself in a relationship with Xander (taking a bullet for womankind there, one feels).  I spent the first series being surprised at how swoony I found Angel and his throaty-voiced angst but then it became apparent that David Boreanaz ages at thrice the rate of a normal human being and I've kind of gone off him now.  Also, is his soul on elastic or something?  Jesus, man, get a grip.

And Giles!  Giles is consistently excellent and hey, he's a British character on American TV who isn't evil or sporting a completely ridiculously accent so that's progress, I guess.  Though speaking of ridiculous British accents, I was sort of aware that Spike had Billy Idol hair and a leather jacket but holy crap, that voice was not at all what I was expecting.  By which I mean, I did not expect to spend the next hour wandering delightedly around my house bellowing, "OI'M SPOIKE, THE COCKERNY VAMPOIRE, SO OI AM, SO OI AM.  MOI GELFREND'S NAME IS DROOOOSILLAH.  OI'M A BAD, ROOD MAN."  Seriously, he sounds like a cross between Michael Caine and Dick van Dyke.  (Try saying any of this to a female who was in her early adolescence at the time of airing and they look at you like you've just kicked a puppy.)  Drusilla is a product of Whedon's apparent fascination with pretty girls doing bad Mockney, I guess (see also River Tam).  We've also been introduced to Faith and considering that Eliza Dushku was seriously grating on me by the time I got to the end of Dollhouse, she's not too bad here.

But mainly I am struck by how much I would have enjoyed this had I watched it as a kid.  Maybe not when it first aired (I would have been seven and Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was already scaring the crap out of me and my over-stimulated imagination) but in my early teens.  Thus all my reactions to the show came accompanied by the voice of little thirteen-year-old me, who - bespectacled, dead straight long hair, bookish - would have had no trouble identifying with lovely, insecure Willow, safe in the knowledge that I would never be as cool as Buffy, no matter how many times I almost threw someone in my after school judo class, and would probably end up spending my days watching the Xanders of my life lust after every other girl but me.  Thirteen-year-old me was remarkably accurate in her predictions.

So to finish, I leave you with this touching scene, of a nominal adult failing to live up the expectations of her younger self.

Now Jane (21) and Then Jane (13) are sitting on a cloud somewhere, eating popcorn.  No wait, that makes it sound like they're dead.  On a sofa, watching Buffy.  Yeah, that'll do.

Now Jane: So Xander is pretty much the worst, right?  He just needs to stop.

Then Jane: I like his eyes.

Now Jane: Oh god, no.  Honey.

Then Jane: He's funny.  We like funny guys.

Now Jane: Yeah but there's a difference between funny and just an awful human bei- holy crap, is that Xander in that tiny bathing suit?  I do not recall any of the nerds I know being that ripped.

Then Jane: Is that - why are you drooling?

Now Jane: Don't worry about it sweetie, you won't have your sexual awakening until Pirates of the Caribbean comes out this year.

Then Jane: Anyway, Xander is a better life choice than some bad boy who just broods and is all mysterious and -

Now Jane: Shut up, Angel is onscreen.

Then Jane: You are a very disappointing future version of myself.

Now Jane: Sorry.  If it makes you feel any better, your generation's angsty vampire-human romance is so much better than the next generation's.  You see that there, when Buffy says that being stalked isn't a big turn on for a girl?  Remember that, Young Jane.  There will come a time when that isn't taken for granted.

Then Jane: I've just started identifying myself as a feminist, you know.

Now Jane: And in a couple of years you'll actually know what that means.

Then Jane: Future Me...

Now Jane: Yes?

Then Jane: I know I said that liking bad boys was stupid...

Now Jane: Yes?

Then Jane: ...but Spike makes me feel all funny inside.

Now Jane: Ah.  I was afraid of this.  I think we need to have a frank and open discussion about the facts of life.

Then Jane: I know about sexing, I'm not an idiot.

Now Jane: Jesus, no.  I'm talking about something much more devastating and potentially life-ruining.  I'm talking about cheekbones.

Then Jane: That sounds exciting.

Now Jane: Oh, it is.  At first.  But pretty soon it's all you can think about and then before you know it you're losing whole days on Eddie Redmayne.  You drift off in the middle of a lecture because the tutor says something that sounds like 'Fassbender' and when you wake up, it's dark.  Cheekbones are dangerous.  You shouldn't be messing around with that shit.

Then Jane: Pfft, you're such a square, Future Jane.  I bet I'll be fine.

Now Jane: Oh, honey.  We can but hope.  Anyway, you're kind of right about bad boys not being worth the effort.  While Future You will be drawn to Spike's nigh-on Michelangelan bone structure, you will also harbour a secret soft spot for Oz.

Then Jane: Oz? Oz? Future You, I think there is something you are not telling me.  Are you on the marijuana?

Now Jane: No! Though, FYI, not nearly as big a deal as they tell you in PSHE.  But yes, Future You will be drawn to this guitar-playing teenage werewolf and feel really weird about fancying Seth Green, even if he is all young and cute and quietly deadpan.  And then Future You will reveal this aberration to the world in the form of a blog that combines pop culture with rage and far too much spare time.

Then Jane: What's a blog?

Now Jane: Trust me, you can wait eight years to find that one out.

Then Jane: Hey, Future Me, can I ask you something?  About the future?

Now Jane: No, you don't get married to Orlando Bloom but you'll also be pretty over him by the end of the year.

Then Jane: No...how does Harry Potter end?

Now Jane: You cry for three hours.

Then Jane: Yeah.  I thought so.

Finis.

5 Reasons Why You Should Be Really Fucking Psyched About The Avengers Film: Video Blog

And now for something completely different.

Just for a change (and because even typing is apparently too much effort now), I've decided to try something new and do a video blog. Possibly this is because I've been watching too much Nostalgia Critic and fallen into the dangerous trap of going "Pshaw! How hard can it be?", possibly because I am simply a dangerous egomaniac with far too many opinions. Who can say?

Either way, I apologise for the crappy picture quality, crappy sound quality and crappy editing. It's my first day.

Enjoy.

Telly Wrangling: Home Brew (Spooks, Merlin, Fresh Meat)

Greetings, gentle readers, and welcome to what I hope will be a regular instalment in the (let's admit, patchy) adventures of this blog. Amongst my many, many areas of expertise, I think we can all agree that mindless over-analytical witterings about T.V. is a particular strong point. Here I review a selection of the week's British telly, with some thoughts on the broadcast outings of our friends across the pond still to come.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Spooks, Series 10 Episode 3 (BBC, Saturday 1st October)

Imagine being told "have sex with this woman or everyone will die". Yeah, it's a hard life being in the secret service, eh? After a rather scrambled start to it'd final season, Spooks is back on form with a cracking episode that sees Handsome Dimitri finally step into the limelight. Actor Max Brown must be the only person not mourning the absence of Richard Armitage from our screens as it means he very nearly gets enough character development to stop me mentally referring to him as 'Handsome Dimitri'. Almost, but not quite. He is very handsome. This week sees him going undercover to seduce the sister of Anarchist Johnny and stop a potential dirty bomb threat aimed at a thinly veiled Rupert Murdoch caricature (current affairs, y'see?). The sister - let us call her Average-Looking Natalie - lights up as she spots her blind date for the evening, 'Ryan' the 'estate agent', and doesn't do much else except be awkwardly working class. The following 50 minutes were packed full of exactly the kind of low-tech thrills, spills and double crosses that prove Spooks still knows how to produce a pleasing, intelligent episode when it wants to.

Elsewhere, after the untimely demise of Poor Tariq (only to be reincarnated as a twattish musician on Channel 4's Fresh Meat - see below), Callum is finally proving his worth by investigating the death of the bromance that never was. Lara Pulver continues to put in a performance that can only be described as a "Poor Man's Ros", leading me to dub her character Grim Erin. Given that Pulver is also due to appear in Series 2 of the excellent Sherlock in the contentious role of Irene Adler, I hope she learns to emote a little by the end of the series. Having her plot-point - sorry, daughter - put in mortal danger by the end of the run should do it, as will surely happen.

Harry and Ruth continue to be the real stars of the show, sharing pained looks across the briefing table. But with Harry's film-noir-esque ex-lover and belligerent son (a kind of Russian spy version of Harry Enfield's Kevin) muddying the waters, it seems Ruth is in danger of being driven into the arms of the oily Home Secretary, both professionally and perhaps otherwise. Don't do it, Ruth. Harry may have less hair but he's the better man by far. Though for a show that slaughters its characters with such apparent glee, can there really be any hope of a happy ending for these two? Godspeed, you middle-aged Romeo and Juliet, godspeed.

Merlin, Series 4 Episodes 1 & 2: The Darkest Hour, Parts 1 and 2

Also making a welcome return to our screens is the BBC's 'not Doctor Who' show, Merlin. despite the fourth series' Dark and Edgy makeover (and increased budget, perhaps?) the silliness and heart of the show are still intact. We've been served up two surprisingly tight, well-written episodes with genuinely scary villains, the Dorocha (blue ghosty dementory thingies that screech unsettlingly), controlled by Bridget Jones' mum.

Bradley James continues to play Arthur with just the right hint of self-awareness, as is only right for a character who has failed to notice for four years that his BFF's eyes go strangely glowy every time his life is miraculously saved yet again. Plus, of course, those obligatory Arthur shirtless scenes, along with a rather loving shot of his arse in literally the opening minutes of the first episode. It's in his contract, I swear to god. Colin Morgan is still strong as the titular boy wizard and in the midst of all the angst, there was some of the bromantic bantering we all know and love: "Clotpole," says Arthur. "That's my word," says Merlin. Self-referential, see. Oh boys, you make me so happy.

Gwen (Angel Coulby) took a backseat to the boys' adventures in the first part, which I hope is not a sign of regular things to come, as she is by far the best actor on the show. However, my prayers for less Regulation to Love Interest, more Promotion to Blacksmithing and Dispensing of Wisdom were swiftly answered, with Part 2 providing a glimpse of those Once and Future Queenly powers. Essentially, she's being set up as a kind of people's princess, pseudo-medieval Diana, only with less designer outfits and more practical advice at her fingertips, like "don't remove the only protection that extremely vulnerable people have from screaming blue ghosts". And now apparently she's as much of a threat as Arthur to Morgana and Agravaine having regular smirking parties, so she's also in the firing line for more Scooby-Doo-style villain plots doomed to failure. Excellent, excellent, excellent.

However, the main focus really was on the newly christened Knights of the Round Table or, as I like to think of them, Princely Arthur and his Jukebox Knights, Camelot's No.1 Boyband. Obviously, you've got Arthur as frontman, with Gwaine as the cheeky Irish one, Elian the 'urban' one (one of two black people in Camelot and yes, they're related), Percival the Sweet One and Sir Leon, the long-suffering band manager. And, of course, the shock exit of Lancelot the Soulful Latino One. Dead for Real or Sleeping Lions? I'll be honest, I couldn't quite tell if that was a body they were giving a spuriously Viking-style funeral to (though if I listed every historical or mythological inaccuracy on this show, we'd never see sunrise) or just his sword and what have you - we last saw him striding manfully into a howling void of death in order to save his friends so will the veil spit him back out or has he gone down the Sirius Black route? Only time will tell. It would make sense if he's Dead for Real, given that the thing Lancelot is really famous for in the stories is bumping uglies on the sly with Guinevere and on the show the writers have really painted themselves into a corner with the Arthur/Gwen/Lancelot love triangle. Where we left it, Arthur and Gwen were happily ensconced in cosily forbidden domesticity with him looking angstily and nobly into the distance while she delivers reassuring speeches about what a great guy he is... aaaand that's still where we are. Basically. There's really no room for Lancelot in this scenario, given that Gwen won't even glance in the direction of his ridiculously defined jawline, so he's stuck staring moonily at her and suffering through the self-inflicted torture of keeping safe Princess Arthur. And looking wry every time Merlin does magic, of course. So the show can probably toddle along without him but then again - an Arthur legend with no Lancelot at all? It's like a sky without a rainbow every once in a while. A really good-looking, sexy rainbow.

Elsewhere, not much has changed. Eoin Macken's Gwaine is Irish and thus automatically comic relief, though with Lancelot out of the way, maybe he'll be enjoying some Dimitri-style time in the limelight. Percival and Elian's dialogue seems to be written with the idea that a show built around one bromance really needs another. I demand a spin-off: every week the unlikely pairing rescue more implausibly cute children from certain death while Percival models Camelot Gap's new chain mail range (conveniently short-sleeved to show off those rippling biceps) and Elian delivers cocky one-liners. Gwaine can come too as a kind of tall, handsome (one thing you can say about this show is that it panders to the female fans and those inclined to the gentlemen just as much as it indulges in male gaze, if not more) canary, wandering into the mine shafts of danger with nought but twinkly, Hibernian over-confidence to guard him.

It also seems like we've seen the last of Emilia Fox's sultry Morgause, sadly, as she makes way for new villain Agravaine, played with a double order of ham and cheese by Nathaniel Parker. The great thing about Morgause was that her hollow-eyed crack-addict intensity went some way towards balancing out Morgana's incessant smirking. Unfortunately, Agravaine seems to have a mean smirk of his own, in every sense, and I'm not sure my poor eyes can take much more of these mouth-acrobatics. On the plus side, maybe he'll teach her to do it properly now. Either that or she'll break her face trying.

Merlin. Long may its implausible plots, bewildering lack of character development and shameless fanservice reign.

Fresh Meat, Channel 4

And finally, let's round up with a quick note on Fresh Meat, Channel 4's new university comedy after their last effort Campus, which induced all kinds of confusing reactions amongst which laughter was strangely absent. I have many reasons to dislike Fresh Meat. Well, one. Namely that Channel 4 weren't the only ones to realise there hadn't been a decent uni house comedy since The Young Ones and I started writing one with a friend. And obviously, the BBC were going to be interested in this script by a couple of first time writers about thinly-veiled versions of themselves that was terribly middle-class and obviously there were going to make it and obviously it was going to be really successful and Rebecca Front was going to play my mum and we were going to win BAFTAs and I would use my acceptance speech to lobby for the role of the next companion in Doctor Who and obviously the only thing to stop that happening now is the appearance of Fresh Meat. Obviously

But, like the generous-hearted person I am, I decided to give these poor, misguided amateurs a chance and you know what? It's really good. As in, funny. As in, laugh out loud funny occasionally. Weirdly, for a show written by Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong, most famous for the (I don't care what anyone says) still excellent Peep Show, it feels much more like an episode of Green Wing moved to a university campus, than Campus, which was actually supposed to be Green Wing moved to a university campus, did. I'm even managing to tolerate the presence of Jack Whitehall, or as I know him, Oh, That Tosser Again. You've got the standard will-they-won't-they couple, played harmlessly by a pretty blonde and the only normal looking one from The Inbetweeners, but that's not really where the interest lies. Apart from Jack Whitehall playing (shocker) a twattish public schoolboy, there's the brunette overachiever desperately trying to reinvent herself as edgy and laid-back (I'm not really at the names-learning stage yet), who in in the unenviable position of playing an extremely unlikable character very well (though her storyline has just got interesting). My favourites, though, are Stoic Howard, the student who never quite managed to move out of the house and standout performance, Vod, even if she is basically Superhans's estranged daughter.

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And that's it for the first week of British telly-wrangling. Depending on how crushingly egotistical I'm feeling each week, the need to share my thoughts on the nation's favourite pastime (except for prostitution, obviously) will vary from programme to programme, but for now I'll say sayonara.

Can't believe Marianne didn't win Great British Bake-Off though. That Jo, with her four sons and inspirational story of breaking out of the kitchen (though admittedly she didn't so much break out as do a u-turn right back into the kitchen) and achieving her dream. What a bitch, eh?

Time Para-Docs: Doctor Who - 'The Girl Who Waited' Review

(Spoilers for Doctor Who and The Great British Bake-Off. No, seriously.)

First of all, sorry about kicking things off with such an awful pun. After I'm done, I'll get my coat.

So. The Girl Who Waited. Ah. Argh. There was so, so much that was good about this episode and I really wanted to love it. Unfortunately, the payoff just wasn't quite there for me.

The concept is brilliant: through various sci-fi-esque contrivances (in this case, a kind of intergalactic hospice that traps sufferers in a time-expanding/compressing goldfish bowl so their loved ones can observe them) we get 'Rory's Choice: The Revenge'. In the best tradition of British sci-fi, it was surreal, hard-hitting, eccentric and beautifully conceived (aesthetically a cross between Alice in Wonderland and The Prisoner*). I also enjoyed being treated to some more inventive camera-work than we've had in a while (artsy lenswork being something of a feature of the Moffat era); I loved all the sliding fades and woozy split screen in a lovely bit of subtle foreshadowing, though didn't relish the over-reliance on lens flares. (Then again, my favourite piece of camerawork in Who history might well be that sunburst across the lens in 'The Eleventh Hour' at the exact moment the Doctor convinces Amy to trust him for the first time.)

It is becoming something of a truism that both the Doctor-lite and the budget-saving episodes of Who are amongst the best, forcing the writers to sharpen their quills and get back to that old chestnut, narrative. No high-speed chases, no CGI monsters, just a few characters and an inventive concept (hopefully). The Girl Who Waited managed to achieve that rare thing of being both narratively and conceptually satisfying, having the driving force behind the storyline be Amy and Rory's relationship, whilst ensuring that there actually is a decent storyline in the first place. It reminded me a little of the standout episode of Catherine Tate's tenure, Turn Left, which didn't feature the Doctor at all and by pulling back from all the Madcap Space Adventures proved that Tate is a fine actress when she wants to be, and quite capable of bringing a tear to the eye. In a similar way, Karen Gillan (whose acting ability I have cast a few aspersions on in the past) earned my respect with her finely differentiated Old and Young Amys, while Arthur Darvill continues to be rather excellent (and apparently quite a fox in those glasses, for the second time this series).

Bu this is where my criticisms begin, I'm afraid. Narratively and conceptually satisfying it might have been, but emotionally it was not. That last conversation through the TARDIS door between Rory and Old Amy was surely meant to evoke fannish memories of the Doctor and Rose's goodbye - a bold move and one that I'm not sure was wise. For me at least, it reminded me that no matter how much I later griped and whined about RTD's inability to leave Rose alone, I was devastated when she was given such a cruel exit and wept like a child, despite my cynical then-boyfriend muttering under his breath about Philip Pullman rip-offs. When Rose left I cried because - despite having spent the entire series complaining about how cutesy and irritating the whole thing was getting - her emotional payoff was earned. In the space of The Girl Who Waited, there was no way the same level of emotional investment could be demanded and I'm afraid I found the last few minutes of whispered self-sacrificing conversation tiring rather than tear-jerking. This could also be down to the fact that whilst I'm prepared to admit Gillan raised her game this week, she's still not got nearly enough depth or integrity to make me feel for her. Unlike Rose (and let's remember that Billie was never greatest actress either) she also doesn't have the help of two series of solid characterisation behind her.

Moffat's characters serve his plot lines, rather than vice versa. This is not an intrinsically bad thing and it has led to some stunning mindfucks along the way, but it does mean that when we get to emotional episodes like this one, I'm not nearly invested enough in his creations to care. Rory and Amy's relationship has gone all over the shop, seemingly on the whim of whoever was writing that week: first it's Mickey-and-Rose Mk 2, then it's "oh shit, guess I loved him all along", then it's the Greatest Love Story of All Time, then ordinary domestic bliss, then back to Epic Romance again. It's a shame, because I was just beginning to like Amy-and-Rory as a team and I feel this lack of consistency may be fatal to my enjoyment of them. Speaking of inconsistency, much of my praise for Arthur Darvill stems from the fact that the writers clearly can't decide the first thing about his character. First he's wimpy, then he's awesome, then he's snarky, then it all changes again. Forget Time Lord-shooting Astronauts, 'Who is Rory Williams?' is turning out to be the biggest mystery of the series. A prime example this week: the same Rory who did the 'I don't flinch in front of explosions' thing in front of Cybermen in A Good Man Goes to War is apparently not only less helpful than a 60-year-old woman in a fight with some slow-moving robots but actually resorts to smashing a painting over its head like something out of Scooby Doo. Writers: this man does not add up.

And speaking of things not adding up, my maths tells me that for a show called 'Doctor Who', the good Doctor isn't figuring nearly as much in the equation as he should. I know I've said this before so I won't dwell on it too much but Matt Smith is the best actor in the show. Use him. I'm not just talking about the strangely small amount of screen time he seems to be getting either - his presence in the actual story lines is negligible. He seems to be taking a back seat to the adventures of his human companions and I object: it's not the Amy-and-Rory Show, it's not even the River Song Show, as much as I would obviously watch that. My guess (and it's an optimistic one) is that the season finale is going to be so Doctor-and-River-centric (in the vein of last series' finale, which really was about the Doctor saving the day with his timey-wimey, story-spinning cleverness) that they're shifting the focus to Amy and Rory while they can. Well, I hope that's case anyway.

Complaints over. As I said, it was brilliant concept, beautifully shot with some very good acting but the payoff just wasn't quite there for me. However, I could just be developing into exactly the sort of crusty Whovian whose favourite thing is needless criticism rather than brown paper packages tied up with string theory, as it seemed like a lot of people really did enjoy this episode. Once again I have high hopes for next week's episode 'The God Complex'. I'm getting a very 'British Horror' vibe from the trailer, what with the M.C. Escher creepy hotel, the specially tailored Room 101 horrors and the return of the Weeping Angels. And David Walliams. And...a minotaur. Well, of course. Perhaps it's best to remember that it's written by Toby 'Being Human' Whithouse, the man who gave us 'School Reunion' and busty fish outing 'The Vampires of Venice', so maybe I won't hope for something too classy. Then again, perhaps a proper good romp (I still haven't forgiven you, Stephen Thompson) is exactly what the show needs right now.

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To add to my televisual disgruntlement (is that a word? well, it is now), the hallowed Paul and Mary have just made the disastrous decision to get rid of dreamy Rob and brilliant Jason on The Great British Bake-Off. Rob I can understand (although I'm sorry to see him go), as he really did contribute nothing to the world of baking other than hair that had enough product in it to defy gravity but Jason? Jason was great - not just at baking but at his weird pseudo-metaphysical commentary on himself: "Sometimes I think I've got what it takes, and other times I don't. But I hope I've got what it takes."

Ah well. Jason, Rob, we'll miss you. But not half as much as the producers will when they realise their viewing figures have halved without you.

*I have since found out that the episode was, in fact, directed by the same guy who did the unsuccessful 2009 reboot of The Prisoner. Oh, the cleverness of me.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead - Review

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead - Tom Stoppard

The Haymarket, 11th July 2011

First, a confession - or perhaps just common knowledge: I love Tom Stoppard. Not romantically, that would be weird, but he is, without doubt, my favourite playwright of the 20th century, perhaps my favourite of all time after that little so-and-so from Stratford who manages to sneak in and steal the top spot. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead comes second only to Arcadia in my list of Stoppard favourites and, in many ways, seems to be a play tailor made for me: it's full of erudite, self-satisfied, undergraduate humour, contains long philosophical tennis matches on death, free will, determinism and storytelling, and, best of all, it does clever things with my actual favourite play of all time, Hamlet. (I'm aware, by the away, that all these are highly unoriginal favourites but, what are you going to do? Cliches are just truths people are tired of hearing.) Add in the fact that this is the first time I'd actually seen the play onstage and the whole production seemed to have been created entirely for my viewing pleasure (Directed by Trevor Nunn? Great. Tim Curry as the Player? Outstanding - even if he then dropped out due to a chest infection. Two History Boys as Ros and Guil? Yes. Please.) and I was almost bound to be disappointed - or at least incapable of reviewing it fairly and objectively. So please, if I get little excited at times, bear with me.

The play even opened with one of my favourite theatrical devices: precision lighting. In a lovely piece of foreshadowing, the disembodied heads of Rosencrantz (Samuel Barnett) and Guildenstern (Jamie Parker) seemed to hang suspended for a moment before the lighting spread slowly over their bodies and then the stage in general, revealing a very Beckettian tree in front of which the two hapless travellers are seated. Cue a sophisticated ripple of laughter from the audience. After all, how often do you get to laugh at a reference to a reference? Thankfully, however, Nunn's production handles the self-referential side of things with welcome restraint and the production is gloriously funny as a result, gently inviting us to laugh at the philosophical knots the characters tie themselves in, as well as with them. A word about the set here, actually, which is constructed of lines that vanish towards infinity and archways that seem to lead nowhere, perfectly evoking the idea that somewhere Hamlet is happening, only we can't quite find it but are stuck in its landscape anyway. The staging, too, is similarly simple yet inventive, making great use of two large leather satchels that Ros and Guil constantly sit on, use as pillows, pick up, sling round their chests, pull cloaks out of and put them back in, always travelling, never arriving. There was a nice touch also that took me a while to notice: Barnett and Parker's Renaissance courtier costumes turn out to be, on closer inspection, contemporary boots, jeans and jackets, leading to a lovely moment when they are faced with actor-versions of themselves, dressed this time in period costume that is familiar enough to give them pause, strange enough to make them uneasy.

Another confession, this one a real one: despite having been directed by Sir Tom himself and starring Gary Oldman and Tim Roth in the respective title roles, I don't really like the film. I find Oldman's Rosencrantz too obfuscatingly stupid and Roth's Guildenstern too prickly and defensive to be enjoyable and their chemistry sadly lacking. So it was a joy to see a kind of role-reversal enacted here: Barnett's Rosencrantz was childish and petulant but also highly strung and panicky, whilst Parker's Guildenstern had an air of stoicism, almost lugubriousness, that covered an altogether different kind of anxiety, a constant and wearying uneasiness about who they were and what they were doing and why he seemed to be responsible for it all. If forced to choose at gunpoint, I'd say that Barnett's Rosencrantz is more successful than Parker's Guildenstern by a hair, and I lay this more at the feet of the direction than the acting: a few too many of Guildenstern's lines that could be shocking or poignant or thoughtful are played for laughs.

In the event, this was my only disappointment about the production as a whole: in his note in the programme, Nunn calls the play " a masterpiece". It is a masterpiece, but Nunn doesn't direct it like one, or if he does, it is a comic masterpiece. The real, devastating impact of some of the contemplations of mortality are subsumed under the humour of the inept philosophers delivering them: Guildenstern's struggle to articulate the sheer negativity of death ("Death is nothing...death is not...it is the endless time of not coming back") seem oddly glossed over and the climactic moment in which he believes he has killed the Player was not climactic or shocking, with a fairly unconvincing death from the Player and little to no reaction from Guildenstern. Guildenstern accuses the players of cheapening death through performing it over and over again, arguing that it does not bring the experience of death home to anybody; it seems to me that the young Stoppard - as obsessed with mortality as anyone in their 20s - was trying to accomplish exactly this with the way Rosencrantz and Guildenstern simply vanish at the play's end. It is strange then, to see the actors march offstage, all the mechanics of theatre on show; one might have expected some of the fantastic pieces of lighting trickery exhibited elsewhere. Of course, much of this is just personal preference but I can't help but think the production would have been aided by a little more faith in the play's ability to do exactly what the travelling players fail to - "catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says - 'One day you are going to die.'"

But this does not significantly detract from all the wonderful things Nunn does do with play, and I was pleasantly surprised at some aspects of it that I had forgotten or just never occurred to me in the reading of it. The play's relationship with Hamlet, for once thing, with Nunn staging the extracts from Shakespeare almost as parodies, exaggerated versions of images we all know with the actors' lines echoing and reverberating through the corridors of Elsinore. I had also never appreciated Stoppard's sheer audacity: the moment in which Rosencrantz threatens to interrupt the 'To be or not to be' soliloquy in order to clap Hamlet on the shoulder and ask him "man to man" what's wrong is gleefully wicked, as is the Player's claim that he "extracts significance from melodrama, a significance that it does not in fact possess", in the middle of a rehearsal for a play that bears a suspicious resemblance to The Greatest Play In the English Language.

On the page, the constant sparring between Rosencrantz and Guildenstern can be quick and dry, on the stage, Nunn, Barnett and Parker bring it gloriously - and believably - to life. Individually, Barnett and Parker put in fine performances but together they are wonderful to watch. The best moments of the play occur when the two are alone onstage together, simply reacting to each other's absurdities. The relationship is fierce, tiring, desperate, immensely affectionate and by far the best aspect of the show; after a tiff, Guildenstern comments, "The only beginning is birth and the only end is death - if you can't count on that, what can you count on?" and the two spontaneously (well, 'spontaneously') embrace, eliciting an actual "aaw" from the same audience that had tittered so politely at the Beckett joke. An odd mix of brothers and lovers, Nunn's greatest achievement is in locating the emotional heart of the play in a relationship so co-dependent they can't even keep track of which is which. The charge often levelled at Stoppard is that his plays are too intellectual, that they are plays about ideas, not people - in some way soulless. I never found this to be the case and it seems neither does he: in a very interesting interview between Nunn and Stoppard, printed in the programme, Stoppard states that the Ideas-with-a-capital-I follow the story, not the other way around - that for all the treatises on death and determinism, he was really only writing the story of two courtiers in Elsinore out of their depth. This production embraces the idea that we are simply following the narrative of two men who have no idea what to do and its most moving moments are where it acknowledges the state we are all in: clinging together for comfort against the coming dark.

It is not a perfect production and, as I said, more could have been made of the play's serious moments but it is dazzlingly funny and sweet, and Parker and Barnett make a wonderful double act. A well-deserved four stars then, and I look forwards to my next Ros and Guil with some apprehension. Above all, it achieved the thing that is the mark of great art: it made me want to go and make my own. Here's hoping that next time Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead is revived in the West End, I have a hand in it somewhere.

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Apologies for the unintentional hiatus - the blog is officially back now! Expect posts about New York and lots of lists coming soon.

An Exercise in Awesome: Doctor Who - 'A Good Man Goes to War' Review

First, let me do this: OH MY GOD I WAS RIGHT I WAS SO RIGHT NO-ONE HAS EVER BEEN MORE RIGHT IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD THAN I WAS ABOUT DOCTOR WHO. Einstein? Bite me.

I don't know whether to dance for joy or weep at the preposterousness of my rightness. After all, this means that the Lulzy Mega Theory that I came up with to jokingly tie together every strand of the plot was...well, it was right. Like, actual bona fide canon plot. Steven Moffat you crazy man, I am no person to be filching storylines from their subconscious. LOL WUT.

Initial astonishment done with (it is quite lucky that I am so taken with the fact that I totally called this one because otherwise it could have been very disappointing), I genuinely loved this episode. Haters to the left, 'cos this is going to get raw like sushi. Honestly, I get why people might be disappointed. It's not like I've loved every minute of this series, it's been distinctly uneven in quality and I have serious doubts about the wisdom of a mid-series break in the first place. It obviously works for American shows that have a gazillion episodes per season and can take a convenient break around Christmas but for Doctor Who's thirteen episodes it just feels arbitrary and another ploy for the American market. Plus, it's just bad storytelling. Moffat is clearly invested in his overarching storyline and splitting the series in two means he gets to spend more time on it: three out of four episodes are justifiably siphoned off into Series Arc territory. But it does a disservice to the individual episodes - it makes us feel like we're just waiting to get back to the Important Stuff, especially when individual episodes turn out to really be about the series arc all along (Rebel Flesh/Almost People), especially especially when they have devastating cliffhangers tacked on the end (Almost People). And it's a shame because episodes like Neil Gaiman's are proof that the individual episode has as much to offer as the serialised one. So yeah, I'm not with you on this one, Steven: either do a four-part serial like Who of Yore or stick to the thirteen-episode series. No halfway house.

Plus the timelines are totally fucked now. I actually paused iPlayer to try and work out how River could know what happened at Demon's Run when Law of Inverse Timelines states she shouldn't know - I mean, it's her own future, right? It hasn't happened to her yet. I guess the Doctor told her or something? Yeah, Moffat has really screwed himself into a corner on this one. Personally, I hope they just abandon the prospect of trying to make the Inverse Timelines thing work because a) it doesn't and b) it's stupid. Plus it occasions unprecedented levels of angsting in my favourite badass and makes me all "Hey, Moffat, you got some 10th Doctor in my River". And please god, finally, I hope it means we just get to see them having crazy adventures together. Please. That would be awesome. Andtotallyhot.

And yeah, there wasn't really a story per se, just a load of build up and then...not much, and yeah, it really doesn't qualify as "the Doctor being raised higher than ever and falling harder than ever", like AT ALL, and yeah, for the 'Battle of Demon's Run' or even the titular War, it wasn't much of either but I honestly don't care. It was one of those ones where Moffat's real talent shines through: being awesome. If I'm totally honest, he's sort of gone mad with power and completely overreached himself this series, what with River's timelines and too much overarching plot but boy, can he make me forget his shortcomings quickly. There was some comment on the Guardian blog to tune that if this episode had been produced by Russel T Davies we'd all be baying for his blood and maybe so, but I think that just goes to show how much of the payoff is in the delivery: under RTD, this could have been a mess of mawkishness, goofiness and David Tennant's face collapsing under the strain of gurning. Under Moffat it was dry, tongue-in-cheek and Just. Plain. Cool.

I love that the show was finally confronting its own mythology - specifically NuWho mythology, that is. When they took the decision to rid the Whoniverse of Gallifrey and those pesky Timelords with a convenient genocide back in 2005, they might have done a service to the storylines but they lumbered the main character with a metric fuckton of angst and a dark side bigger than the freaking moon's. And yet they were always at pains to point that It's Totally The Same Doctor and He Never Really Changes. So, in my humble opinion, River's little speech where she called him out on what he'd become/was becoming was timely and effective, thank you. And again, will hopefully pave the way for glorious silliness come the second half of the series.

So there. I've dealt with all your petty complaints. Now can my joy be unconfined?

Because I flailed. Literally. And I do not use that word mistakenly, ever. I flailed with glee, I flailed with joy, I flailed with sorrow and I flailed with Matt Smithness. My limbs were all over the place with the wanton abandon of my flailing.

A long, long overdue Badass Upgrade for Rory there. I mean just that pre-credits sequence alone was great, with the callback to the Amy-talking-about-the-Doctor-but-really-talking-about-Rory trick (and yes, I admit, Moffat, you got me a second time) and that blank rage of the delivery of "Would you like me to repeat the question?" In fact, pretty much all the Rorytime of that episode seemed to be underscored by a little voice going, "Oh, you thought you didn't fancy Rory, did you? WELL WE'LL SHOW YOU." Seriously. Rory with cool explosions behind him. Rory in a centurion's outfit. Rory with a sword. Rory with a baby. Rory taking charge. Rory calling Amy "Mrs Williams". Rory Rory Rory, I salute you. Snaps for Arthur Darvill. (In fact, I think Moffat's having a wee giggle at the expense of the female fans there - after many episodes playing up excitingDoctor v homebodyRory, he suddenly gives us Rory in armour holding a baby in one hand and a sword in the other. He's practically the Old Spice man.) Plus, while I didn't totally buy Karen Gillan as a mum (no-one looks that good after childbirth), Arthur Darvill nailed it as a dad. (Or maybe find a female companion who can actually, y'know, act. It's just getting awkward.)

Some cracking classic Moffat one-liners in there as well. Stevie Wonder under the bridge in 1814 (we must never tell him), Jack the Ripper was stringy but tasty, all of Nurse Sontaran's Health Tips ("Don't slump, it's bad for your spine"). And I'm so glad River has the same thoughts as I do (Two Doctors? "That was a whole different birthday"). In fact, the whole episode had a distinctly Coupling-esque vein of British naughtiness running through it, as is only right for a story pivoting around the exact logistics of where and when Amy and Rory did ther nasty (presumably while roleplaying as a policewoman and a centurion - perhaps that's why the Doctor got Rory to dress up). I think my personal favourite (besides the Two Doctors gag, of course) was Cockney Strumpet pouting over her Silurian Lady Friend's roving eye, answered by "I don't know why you put up with me". Cue incredibly long, flexible tongue and some smouldering eye contact. Oh Steven, you are naughty.

I also love Moffat's PC vision of the ethnicity and gender diverse future (and the past) with the female president (speaking of which, it seems you really can't have a vision of the future without a bit of steampunk), the female pope, the thin fat gay married Anglican marines, the lesbian cross-species sword-wielding couple. Who are you, Russel T Davies? Seriously though, it was fun. And I know people say Moffat can't write character but honestly I shed a little tear over Lorna Bucket's death (what's the betting we get to see her encounter with the Doctor as a child in the second half of the series?), which is the second time I've cried over a character Moffat has introduced and killed off in the space of 45 minutes (thank you, Father Octavian). In fact, poor old Lorna Bucket. Let's take a minute to salute her. Yet another example of my favourite of the Doctor's qualities and its sharp edge: the ability to inspire people to be the best version of themselves, even if sometimes that just means dying. Anyway. Badass Silurian and her Sidekick of the Ridiculously Exaggerated Cockerney Accent were great. Blue Man Group Reject was amusing. Nurse Sontaran was Moffat at his most fun - he doesn't pull his punches on the show's more ridiculous aspects, does he?

But really, the star of all this was, of course, the Doctor. As I said, it was an episode that probed what the reboot had done to the character but celebrated it as well. It was a bold move not to have the main character in evidence for almost twenty minutes but for me it paid off; I was practically hopping with excitement by the time that ever-so-classy reveal of Matt Smith under the hood came around. And this, really, was why I loved this episode: it spoke to every adrenalin-junkie, explosions-and-one-liner-loving, lip-biting nerve of my inner seven-year-old. I bounced with excitement from start from finish; I didn't even mind the return of those goddamn Spitfires in Space. The whole thing was a feast of Woah Cybermen, Woah Explosions, Woah Cool Swords, etc etc. Steven Moffat is great at adrenalin. There's no other writer on television that manages to sustain quite that sense of snarky glee that I get from watching his stuff, and that's not just Doctor Who, that's Sherlock and Jekyll and countless others as well. And by the looks of it, it's not just me, I'm pretty sure that's the most fun Matt Smith's ever had, he seemed like he loved every minute of it.

Matt Smith who was, for the fourth week in a row, stellar. By the way. Not that I don't always think he's good, it's just that he hasn't been given much to do of late and I felt like the magic was lacking a little somewhere around the middle there. But what with Idris/Tardis and the Two Doctors and now this, he's fully cemented himself as My Doctor. I am seriously apprehensive about Doctor Twelve. I think Smith is at his best when he exploits that young-old appearance he's been gifted with, and this was a prime example - all that high energy glee when his plan went right, all that blushing prudery (somehow childish and old mannish at the same time) over the specifics of the conception. I also thought this was a tremendously endearing performance; I defy anyone watching not to feel at least a little affection for that space lunatic. Special mention to the Doctor imitating the Spitfires overhead, I was seconds away from doing the same myself. And the carousel of facial expressions as he realised that the first time Amy and Rory had been on the TARDIS together was their, ahem, wedding night. I am trying to be delicate.

And (because I've managed to avoid talking about The Reveal in detail so far) how great was that bit between the Doctor and River as he realised he was shortly to be hopping on the good foot and doing the bad thing with the daughter of his two best friends? It's a funny thing, that twist. I came up with my Mega Theory precisely because it would be preposterous for it to happen and now it has, it kind of is, but I've accepted it remarkably easily. So River Song is Melody Pond is the Regenerating Girl is Amy's Daughter. Yeah, I can get on board with that. Do we get to see her regenerate again? Will she join the TARDIS gang full time now? Will we have some Hilarious Shenanigans where Amy pauses mid-adventure to try and wipe her face? For the last, undoubtedly. For the others, we shall see. I hardly dare try and match my current Theory Predicting Success but the dots we're clearly supposed to join are that River kills Flesh Doctor and is sent to prison for it. I'm not sure though. With recent developments, perhaps she ends up killing Rory? 'Greatest man she ever knew'? It would be a neat way to end the They Keep Killing Rory arc and would continue Amy's trick of conflating descriptions of her two favourite men. Guess we'll find out. As to whether we'll find out this year, the jury's still out on that one; Death of the Doctor could be Moffat's way of linking this series to the next, just like the Silence linked us to the last. Anyway, so long as none of this affects River Being Awesome, I'm cool with it. (Also, remember when River said "he's not my Doctor yet"? I have a sneaking suspicion that now the Doctor's going to start being 'her Doctor'.) Plus, this sort of confirms something else I suggested a while back: River is completely justified in being a badass who tells everyone else what to do - she's a part timelord who's been specifically trained to be a badass. I can't even drive. I feel better about myself now.

Overall, a corking episode: wildly exciting, snarky-funny, tear-jerking, and with a reveal that most 9-year-olds probably saw coming a mile off because they have no concept that it just might be ridiculous. Not five star Doctor Who, but entertaining enough to be damn close.

...

So. What's the verdict on Series 6 Part 1? Um. Not sure. First off, it's a story only half told, there's still lots to come that may well determine what we think of the whole. Secondly, I don't feel like there's been enough of it to judge. But I do know that I preferred Series 5. Why? Well, it was just more unified. I've been thinking a bit about 'themes' in Doctor Who and whether they have a place there or should remain the preserve of more 'adult' drama (by which I mean, specifically written for adults, thank you).

Russel T Davies, he didn't really have themes. He had character arcs and, for the most part, he did them well: Rose, Martha and Donna all learned the value of themselves in one way or another and in turn, they were the show's links to the audience, our representatives. Moffat's characters don't really do that; they're more ciphers that represent certain things. I still don't really know who Amy is, beyond the fact that she's Scottish and 'feisty', and I certainly don't feel like she's my representative. (In fact, I sort of feel like Rory is my representative as the only one who ever suggests running away from the Scary Thing instead of towards it, but he's objectively a much better written character than Amy - but then, I don't think Moffat can really write women very well at all, although there are notable exceptions.)

But Moffat does do themes. Oh boy, can he do themes. Series 5 was dominated visually by the fairytale motif but there was also a strong Peter Pan-esque 'don't grow up' element as well as a 'real life v. adventure' aspect and, of course, the ever-present timey-wimey stuff. Most of all though, it was a discussion of storytelling and the way that the stories we tell end up shaping the tellers as much as the tellers shape the tale. I love that. That ticks every single one of my boxes. And it held together the series, elevating even the more formulaic episodes so that they became part of one long chain of adventure, Amy's Reward for Waiting. Ironically, Moffat stated somewhere that he doesn't 'do' themes consciously, he just writes his ideas and sees what happens. This seems to work well for him and I'd advise him to give it another go: Series 5's fairytale/storytelling preoccupation seems something organic, something even the Doctor didn't notice until it was important. Series 6, on the other hand, has suffered from too many decision by committee: we keep being told it's 'darker', 'scarier', 'more mature', elements which have clearly been shoe-horned in even where they don't fit. The Curse of the Black Spot should have been a romp - a proper one.

The current success of the show (and the Davies v. Moffat debate) really comes down to what you think Doctor Who should be. With Davies, it was a representation of our universe, in which there happened to exist this clever guy who talked too much and had a time machine and accordingly the Doctors were more humanised and the companions more woman-on-the-street. With Moffat, we hardly ever see our own earth; instead we're taken to mystical places with exotic names where fantastical events play out and consequently, the Doctor is extraordinarily alien and the companions are story archetypes. In a way, Moffat's era is just fleshing out all the planets Davies' Doctors name-dropped in Series 1-4: Davies showed us the familiar side of the universe with chips and council estates and daleks, now Moffat is showing us the unfamiliar side, where all it takes to bring back the Doctor is to remember him. I don't think either approach is necessarily better than the other but I prefer Moffat because a) my tastes run in that direction (beautiful escapism over hyper-realism every time) and b) I think he writes his approach better.

Series 6 has been a mixed bag. Jewels of episodes like The Doctor's Wife made up for clunkers like The Curse of the Black Spot. The scope and ambition has been impressive and the production values remain high, producing one very good-looking show. The series arc has been intriguing but overbearing and there are definite signs of Moffat overreaching himself. I prescribe cutting back on the timey-wimey, investing in a little more character development and continuing with the great line in wisecracks, scary monsters and awe-inspiring coolness. I may not be a Doctor, but I watch enough TV to know what's good for it.

The F Word and The R Word

If you have ever met me, even for the briefest of brief encounters, I have probably mentioned feminism, being a feminist or women's rights in some form. I make no bones about it. I'm a feminist and I'm proud of being a feminist.

I also think that everyone who doesn't actively oppose gender equality is a feminist. If you think that men and women are equal, then you're a feminist. Now, few terms are more loaded than "feminist" and few single words have had so much written about what exactly they mean, so I'll try and keep my two cents brief. As an English student, I tend to approach things from the point of view of what I can analyse in the way of semantics and phrasing because I feel that's where I'm best qualified to comment. It's also because I think the way we make our arguments and the words we use to express our views are hugely important and often indicative of the biases that shape them. For example, I try and discourage my sister from using the word "gay" as a derogatory term - I know she isn't homophobic, but the appropriation of the word as a negative descriptor certainly began that way. A better example might be David Cameron's repeated recent use of the hilarious* Michael Winner catchphrase "Calm down dear" to a female MP during PMQ. That the phrase is a well-known line from an advert is irrelevant (and it's not like Michael Winner is a poster boy for gender equality anyway) - it is a phrase that would not roll off the tongue of a man who sees an equal opponent, rather than a female opponent.

In fact, our current government seems to have something of a history of gaffes regarding public statement concerning women. We had the Minister of Universities and Science David Willetts' remarks that feminism was the primary cause of unemployment for working class males and lack of social mobility. I expressed some strongly-worded discomfiture over this and was told by several people that I was making a fuss over nothing and he wasn't being sexist, just stating a fact. I found it very telling that Willetts didn't cite 'a growing percentage of women in the workplace' or even 'greater opportunities for women'. Whilst hardly better, they would certainly be closer to 'stating a fact'; it would be untrue to say that a growing number of women in the workplace won't have consequences elsewhere (although I still disagreed with the point Willetts was making - social mobility is surely the responsibility of the education system, which is the responsibility of the government). Instead, Willetts specifically blamed 'feminism', implying a negative causal relationship between the women's rights movement and unemployment. The words you choose - they matter.

Then came the above David Cameron Winnergate Scandal. Believe it or not, I was not amongst those screaming in instant outrage for Cameron to step down, although I do think he should have apologised and next time I hope he thinks twice about how he addresses a fellow MP. It merely confirmed my suspicions that, in many respects, Cameron and his government are nowhere near as progressive as we are led to believe. Eton Boy who moves in mainly male circles addresses a woman in a patronising way. And the Titanic sunk. More at 11. But again - the words. They matter.

The most recent of such incidents is Ken Clarke (the Justice Minister) who, in a radio interview, committed (as I see it) two different faux pas. Firstly, he confused statutory rape with date rape, saying "That includes date rape, 17-year-olds having intercourse with 15-year-olds." To clarify: statutory rape is where one or both partners are under 16. Date rape is a much more nebulous term, where a woman is sexually assaulted by an acquaintance, although not always someone she's dating - a friend, a co-worker, a teacher. It is thought to be the most prevalent form of rape and also the most unreported, especially on college and university campuses. The vast majority of rapes (84%, according to recent statistics) are committed by someone the victim knows, putting them either in the 'date rape' category or the 'domestic rape' category (rape by a spouse or partner). Now, whilst one would expect the Justice Minister to know the difference, I also know that Ken Clarke was a serving QC so I expect he does, in fact, know and simply got confused. To err is human, etc. No need for anyone to resign here.

However, he then went on to make a much more serious implication with his choice of language, stating, "A serious rape, with violence and an unwilling woman, the tariff is much longer than that [of statutory rape]." Asked whether he thought "date rape" counted as "serious rape", he said, "Date rape can be as serious as the worst rapes, but date rapes, in my very old experience of being in trials, vary extraordinarily one from another and in the end the judge has to decide on the circumstances." Clarke is making a clear distinction between different forms of rape: some is "serious rape", therefore other forms of rape aren't. The very phrase is an oxymoron - we would never say "serious murder" because it's ingrained into us that the consequence of murder (death) is bad. So why don't we feel the same about rape? Perhaps because as a society we have not fully grasped that rape is not a crime of passion or lust - rape has nothing to do with sex at all, in fact - rape is crime of violence. It is about humiliating and degrading the victim and proving the attacker has power over them. I believe this is true of all rape, of all forced intercourse, all intercourse without the consent of either party. I don't think there are any date rape victims out there now who would thank Clarke for implying that their harrowing experience is lesser than someone else's harrowing experience because of where it took place and who did it. And when we consider that date rape is the most prevalent form of rape, that every day women are raped by people they know, these comments become even more unacceptable.

I acknowledge that Clarke was making his suggestions about lesser sentences for rapists pleading guilty as a way of increasing conviction rates but it's a seriously skewed vision of how to do so. We badly need reform in the way rape trials are conducted, with the victim's sexual histories and wardrobe choices frequently dwelt upon. We need to create a climate in which rape is universally condemned, in which victims are entirely free from blame and feel safe to come forward and report their attackers, secure that they will be believed and the rapist rightfully punished. Rape is the only crime where it's acceptable to blame the victim, partially or wholly, for what has happened to them and if you think 'no-one thinks that any more', let me assure you, this attitude is still alive and well, often in the very law enforcement services that are supposed to protect the victims. So much of this starts with the language we use. Get rid of the term 'date rape'; it's vague and misleading and encourages the idea that the victim was somehow complicit with the attacker. Don't talk about "serious rape" as only one form of rape; this country doesn't take the most prevalent form of rape seriously enough already. The words. They matter. Obviously, this is a huge and complex issue and one I will attempt to cover in more depth soon, regarding the upcoming Oxford SlutWalk (hugely in favour, by the way).

To come full circle, I'd like to return to the word "feminist". As I stated initially, I believe that anyone who believes in gender equality (i.e. most people) is a feminist. For me, it's not a political position but a description of my beliefs. The word has fallen prey to identity politics and negative stereotyping - so many women disassociate themselves from the word because it brings to mind the image of the man-hating, bra-burning, strident, humourless cartoon feminist. I have to say, I've never met a feminist who even remotely resembles this description. I'm sure they exist, just as any group built around beliefs has its extremists. I'm pretty sure no-one reading this would subscribe to the old 'all Muslims are terrorists' line, or even 'all animal rights activists are violent', yet somehow feminism winds up as the movement being defined by its most unstable members. And I do use the word unstable advisedly: I have read the arguments of women unable to get past their hatred, who claim all male-instigated sex is rape or that all men should be raped to give them 'a taste of their own medicine' and it appalls me. Progress never came from hatred, and the vast majority of people understand this.

I usually try and consider my language very carefully when debating gender and other political issues. Nothing makes my heart sink quicker than a well-intentioned feminist/socialist/lefty knee-jerk reaction, ranting about how "omg men all just suck!" and "Typical bloody Tory demeaning women!" and (this one is real) how we should "put Dave Willetts up on a podium and throw rocks at him". At the end of the day, ranting might be fun but it doesn't help. In fact, it just makes it easier for people to dismiss you as an ignorant brat looking for an excuse to complain and believe me, I've learnt this the hard way. So in general, I try and keep a lid on my rage and use measured language and tight arguments that address all areas of the issue. Of course, a lot of the time I fail but I am only human, and a 20 year old human at that who studies English, not politics or gender studies or economics. And do I wish I could get mad? Sure. But that's a rant for another time.

I believe in a dialogue between the sexes. I believe that we'll start being proud of describing ourselves as feminists when it feels inclusive, when both genders start to examine what it means to be male or female in the 21st century. After all, if we're going to reconstruct our expectations of what it means to be a woman, we need to readjust our expectations of what it means to be a man accordingly. I don't think we can ever live in a truly gender-neutral society (gender differences are to be celebrated, variety being the spice of life an' all) but I do believe it is possible to rid ourselves of gender prejudices. My personal feminist philosophy is that there is room for both the thinkers and the doers. We can take direct action (try and get real social inequalities dealt with - such as the way rape trials are conducted) and we can work on educating ourselves and our children, trying to change attitudes (opening up dialogues and debate).

For me, saying "I'm a feminist" is like saying "I have brown hair". It's just a description, a shorthand. The movement has become divisive and factionalised over the years, as with any complicated or sensitive cause, and it's easy to forget the very essence of feminism: that women and men are equal, and deserve equal rights and opportunities. It's also about choice - wanting to live in a world where a man or a woman can choose to have a career, choose to raise a family, choose to walk on the moon and there's no societal pressure or stigma attached to their choice. If all the people who have ever said "well, I believe in equal rights but I'm not a feminist" stood up and proudly declared "I am a feminist", we could bring the movement back to these two basic tenets and restore the word's positive political power. "Feminism" not only describes my beliefs but the will to do something about them.

So own the word "feminist" and be proud of it whoever you are because, in the end, it's really only a by-word for the beliefs you likely already hold. I'd even go so far as to say that, in the end, feminism is only common sense. And if you're not ready to order your 'This is what a feminist looks like' t-shirt quite yet, then at least consider the mantra I've been repeating this whole time: the words you use when discussing gender, class, race, politics matter hugely. Choose them wisely.

*Sarcasm.