Being Human

Being Human represents a big gapping hole in this blog.

So far its only representation is a paragraph of me looking forward to it. Well guess what? It has arrived.

I’d love more people to watch Being Human. Being Human is seriously underrated. Thing is, I’d challenge anyone to have come in at the beginning of series three and not be totally put off by the whole thing.
This show is dark. And it looks like its going to get a hell of a lot darker.

In case you remain entirely in the dark about the whole thing let me get you up to speed. Being Human is a drama series created by Toby Whithouse. It is the only show I know who’s plot runs like a bad joke- a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost live in a house together…
I think that has a lot to answer for. Word of mouth tends to fall on its face when conversations run like this-
“You should watch this great show.”
“Oh really? What’s it about?
“So there’s a vampire and a werewolf and a ghost.”
“Ok…”
It defies description.

In a world awash with “supernatural romance” this is something different. Its clever and witty and sexy and dark. There’s a lot of tension and a fair whack of horror. But it’s also hysterically funny at times. And sweet and touching and romantic. How can one show, especially one with such an unlikely premise, achieve all that?
Honestly? I don’t know.

I’ve written essays about this show. Literally. I studied it as part of Belonging for the HSC. I could tell you all sorts of things about technique. About the way the outside of the house and the inside never touch- you see both but never at the same time, not even through a window.

Is there a point to this rant? I’m sure there was when I started. Can’t remember what it was now…something about how hard I ship Annie and Michael? Or how bitter sweet and wonderful the first episode of series three was? A rant wondering what the hell happened with Herik and all that blood and snow at the end of series two? Or was I going to tell you about the nightmares that train scene gave me? And how I had being trying to forget it ever happened? Maybe I just wanted to say how desperately I want them all to be ok. To live (I use the word quite loosely here) and love and transform peacefully in the basement on full moons and not kill any more attractive young women (there’s quite enough floating around with personal vendettas to be getting on with).

That’s right. I remember what it was now. I wanted to convince you to start at the beginning. Go out and find series one. I discover all these things for yourself.

30 Rock

I spent yesterday on a train, trying to see how many episodes of 30 Rock I could watch before my computer battery died.
This is partly because I’m convinced the little battery meter lies to me, but mostly because I couldn’t help myself.

30 Rock, for anyone who doesn’t know, is a television show written by a female head writer about making a television show which has a female head writer.
 If you followed that sentence you’re doing well.
Point is, they’re aren’t a lot of female writers in television. I just went through the list of Doctor Who writers and as far as I can tell there’s been less than five. Ever. Only a tiny handful of episodes. I’m not a feminist but that makes me a bit sad sometimes. (Ok, so I might have occasional feminist tendencies but that comes from being female in the twenty-first century.) I’ve long been searching for a show to love that has a female at its head.

I think that’s part of why I love Laid so much. A man would never have written a scene in which the love interest gets eaten by a giant satin, sabre toothed vagina. And that was brilliant. Similarly 30 Rock would be a very different show without Tina Fey.

This is the first post that I feel could sort of belong on the other blog (I seem to have done a weird sort of blog swap this week so you should probably read both posts). The reasons I love 30 Rock run a lot deeper than the brilliant writing, clever concept and spectacular characterisation. The show kind of epitomises a lot of my hopes, dreams and fears.

On the one hand, Liz Lemon is exactly who I want to be. She manages somehow to turn her obsessive, clumsy, dorkiness into sassy and charming. She’s succeeded in a world I desperately want to call my home. And her hair is quite amazing. The term “Head Writer” carries a wonderful, elusive mystique. Writing everyday for a show that is, in a very real sense, your own…lets just say I‘d give my right arm. I am not left handed.

On the other hand she’s also everything I’m afraid of. She’s got no social life, spasmodic friendships and a disastrous love life. And while staying in the office all night to pull a show together has a certain allure (maybe once) as a day to day reality it’s a little bit frightening.

I feel like I have a vested interest in Liz’s success and failures. I want desperately for happy endings. But I haven’t even finished season one yet. And I’m only nineteen.
So we’ll see.

For the record I watched eleven and a half episodes before my computer shut down. And yes, I do have kick ass battery life. Also- Alex’s Top Tip For Train Travel (via beccamarsh)- there’s a power point in the toilet. So I technically watched twelve…

Ashes to Ashes- finale

I’ve been trying, since last night, to come up with a way to describe that which doesn’t consist exclusively of strangled noises and arm waving. Not easy. Especially considering my mind was totally obliterated by the whole thing and I probably won’t recover for days.

I’ve found one word that fits- BREATHTAKING.

Because if I was physically able, I would have held my breath for the full hour. And probably for several hours before and after.

In case you’re still wondering- I loved it. I loved it more than I can say. I honestly can’t articulate that right now. I might come back and do it when my brain has reformed, if you guys don’t mind an ‘Alex gets technical and fangirly about scripts’ post. Because that script. THAT SCRIPT. *insert arm waving and strangled noises here*

Before the episode started my German house mate and her friends were having dinner. Seeing as the dining table and the television are in one room, I got very stressed about this. But I couldn’t exactly explain that I really needed them to go and chat somewhere else because this was the most important television event since Smithmas and it was really, really very important that I gave it my full attention and could hear every single word of dialogue. I find it difficult to explain this stuff to people who speak fluent English. But they went out on the town pretty early on and I was left to watch the episode alone.

Which is lucky.
Because I cried.
And not just ‘this is quite sad’ tears. It was that really intense sort of crying. The kind that isn’t pretty or quiet or dignified. Proper, agonised sobs.
When did I cry?
From about the fifteen minute mark.

I cried when I saw the ID badge and when Gene and Alex where in the cellar (even though I was horribly confused). I cried when Ray saw his tape and when Chris saw his. And I bawled when I realised what Shaz was about to see on hers. Shaz’s broke my heart. And I cried when it finally sunk it what was going on. When Jim hurt Gene and when the ceiling turned into stars and when Alex was standing over Gene, protecting him. There was a lot of hysterical babbling at the TV. A lot of “No no no no no. Don’t go. Don’t do it. For god’s sake don’t.” And I cried at the end. From the moment The Railway Arms appeared.

Television has put me through a lot of things. I’ve experienced pretty much the full spectrum of emotion. But never have I felt like that. I was a mess when that episode ended.

This is just the equivalent of an agonised noises and arm waving post. I’ll be back to do it properly and articulately. But for now- Belgium man. Belgium.

A god amongst men

mini Moff

This is a Steven Moffat appreciation post.

In case you haven’t noticed I love the man. If I could write like anyone in the world, I’d choose to write like him. Because I genuinely think he’s one of the best writers alive today. Its also worth noting that I more or less worship him and refuse to hear, or read, a single word against him. Recently some people were being mean to him on Twitter. I had the strong desire to track these people down and set fire to their letter boxes.

Probably the worst thing you can say to me is “Steven Moffat’s good isn’t he?” That is assuming, of course, that you don’t want to have an extended and in-depth discussion on all the various reason why the man’s a genius and how this can be demonstrated conclusively in his scripts. But I’m yet to meet anyone who does. You’ve been warned.

This post then is a slightly more light hearted version of that rant. This is me, explaining it gently and with as little arm waving as possible. And trust me, you’re better off without the arm waving. I’ve accidentally slapped people before.

The advantage of fiction is having the leisure to come up with those great lines that always fail you in real life. But that’s just it- in real life its almost impossible to think of them. So its also quite difficult to give such lines to a character without it seeming fake. There is a very important difference between “I wish I was that cool” and “that would never happen.”

Moffat is a master at conjuring the former. He writes these incredible characters. Characters you either want to BE or who you’d immediately like to adopt. You have no idea how many times I’ve wished I was more like Lynda Day. Actually you possibly do. Especially those of you who’ve witnessed my haircut or seen me side part it. And what about Amy Pond? Wouldn’t we all give our left arm to be that effortlessly sexy? To charge feistily into the face of danger and never, ever chip your nail polish.

Take this exchange-
“Maybe its because I’m certifiably crazy about you.”
“Certifiable?”
“It’ll be your name I’m muttering when they take away my shoe laces.”
Now that. That would never happen in real life. No one could come up with a line like that. But somehow Moffat makes us hold out hope. It happened in Press Gang, maybe, just maybe, it could happen to us.

And here’s another thing. Death. Not once have I seen one of these wonderful characters go to the wall. The cast of Press Gang survived gun sieges, getting trapped in vaults, massive gas explosions. Lynda actually went to hell and back and yet, somehow, they survived (and yes, I stubbornly believe she survived). Think about the episodes of Doctor Who he’s written. In Blink the victims were allowed to “live to death,” Madam de Pompadour just got old and the people in the library were “saved.” His entire career can basically be summed up by that line in The Doctor Dances-
“Just this once, everybody lives!”

And yet somehow we hold out the belief that he WOULD kill them. It never once crosses your mind that maybe that’s something he wouldn’t do. I’m totally unable to figure out how he does it.

I think maybe I’m viewing it all through rose tinted glasses. I know that other people see fault but I’m still unable to find it. Plus I like it better this way. And I happen to think  that Mr Steven Moffat Sir has earned my adoration.

No wonder the power’s gone to his head.