Doctor Who’s a woman! Or is she?

November 23, 2018 at 7:44 pm | Posted in tv & film | Leave a comment

I’m SO excited about the new Doctor Who. She’s great, isn’t she? Real, believable, relatable, funny, brilliant, alien-yet-so-human. You can see the links back through previous generations; the wit, the sagacity, the heaviness of a heart that knows so much, the relentless, unstoppable hope of someone who’ll outlive anyone else in the galaxy.

And I utterly love that she’s a woman. Not just because it sticks two fingers up at the old guard, but because this representation is so important, and so overdue. I think about all the girls, watching her and thinking, ‘I’m going to be a Time Lord when I grow up.’ I think about all the budding scientists and historians and psychologists and sociologists and anthropologists and naturalists, with one more role model saying to them, ‘Women do this stuff too, and we’re brilliant at it.’

I loved that conversation in the first episode, where she asks the police officer why she’s calling her ‘madam,’ and the officer says, ‘Because you’re a woman,’ and the Doctor says, ‘Am I?!’ And then she gets on with the job anyway. I love that she strides around like she owns the place, never questions her right to be somewhere, never thinks twice before taking control of a situation and telling everyone what to do. I love that she’s the Doctor before she’s anything else. She’s a person, a character, a brilliant mind, a skilled and talented individual, not in any way defined by her physical form. Because this is how it feels in my head. This is what women are, whatever claptrap society wants us to believe; we are our minds, our skills, our talents, our histories, our hopes, our fears. It can be a bit of a shock remembering that you’ve got a body, and that people respond to you in a particular way because of it.

And this is the one problem with it all. The new, marvellous, brilliant Doctor reminds me of lots of terrific women I know: forthright, uncompromising, funny, clever, taking no crap from anyone. But her world is different from theirs. The Doctor’s world is perfectly aligned with her reality. She stomps into tense situations and demands attention, and gets it. She’s listened to, respected for her knowledge and her expertise. She moves through the world without hesitation, unquestioning and fearless, and the world budges up to let her pass. In short, it treats her like a man.


Doctor Who: not taking any crap from anybody since 1963

I wonder what’s in store for her. Will the scripts carry on reflecting this utopia, this brilliant possible future where nobody cares what you look like, what body you’re in, as long as you can do the job? Or will she start to bump up against the realities of being a woman? I’m kind of hoping for the latter, however much I’d like those impressionable girl fans to believe in that incredible future for themselves. I’m waiting for the episode where the tiny evil mouse-like things ignore her and talk to Graham, assuming he’s in charge. Or the one where the horrible shapeshifting slime keeps interrupting her, like she’s not actually talking. Or the one where she has a brilliant idea at the very last minute, and Ryan gets the credit for it. I’m waiting for the one where she’s got such excruciating period pain, she needs to land the Tardis in Meadowhall and send Yaz out for cocodamol and gin, then carries on and saves three planets anyway. I’m waiting for the one where passing cyborgs leer at her and yell, ‘Smile, darlin’, it might never ‘appen!’, or the one where the glacial hypermonarch mocks her for insisting on being called ‘Doctor’: ‘You insecure, or something?’ I’m waiting for the one where the genocidal mastermind gets right up in her face and puts his hand on her arse and makes it clear that if she wants his cooperation, she’ll have to sleep with him.

That’ll do for starters. When we’ve seen how she deals with all that, we can consider getting her pregnant.


Build your own Downton Abbey Christmas special

November 9, 2015 at 6:47 pm | Posted in tv & film | 1 Comment
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Grand Designs bingo

September 19, 2015 at 9:14 pm | Posted in tv & film | Leave a comment
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Well, it’s a sitting duck, isn’t it. But anyway. I celebrate the return of everybody’s favourite unfavourite.

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I (sort of) go to the THEATRE to see FRANKENSTEIN

October 31, 2014 at 12:12 pm | Posted in reviews, theatre, tv & film | 2 Comments
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I used to love a bit of theatre. I mostly blame my Dad, who was an am-drammer in the great Coarse Acting tradition. At school, I hammed my way through Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and the Wizard of Oz, and directed one of Dad’s tiny plays for the drama competition (I credit myself with discovering the huge comedic acting talent that is Ralph Bailey, who is now, er, a vet. Such a waste.)

who killed cummingsThis carried on for a bit at university, where my strategy of auditioning for everything in sight and hoping I got into something generally worked. The Crucible, where I did that popular staple, the All-Purpose Crucible Accent, and the other actors were brilliant, and I cried every night at the final scene. Who Killed Cummings?, a spoof whodunnit written by the director which we (unbelievably) took to the Edinburgh Fringe.

It all started to go a bit wrong with The House Of Bernarda Alba. Cast as ‘a maid’ (not even ‘THE maid’), I had to come on first, and deliver the terrible, portentous line that would set the stage for this most desolate of plays: ‘Dong, dong, dong!’

I started to doubt my commitment to the Craft. Halfway through rehearsals for The Real Inspector Hound, I had that sinking feeling: ‘Oh, no. This is going to be terrible. And it’s too late to pull out.’ Gradually, I found other things to do, like writing essays.

There’s something about being in a lot of risible am dram productions that colours your view of theatre forever. You Know Too Much. You can see the workings; you can’t stop yourself. Did he bring that hat in himself, and insist on wearing it? Was that boat meant to fall over? Are we supposed to notice that ‘a maid’ and ‘a prostitute’ are being played by the same person? And is she Scottish, or Irish, or South African, or what?

Despite all this, I set off to watch the National Theatre’s live ‘Encore’ screening of Frankenstein with high hopes. After all, Cumberbatch! And Jonny Lee Miller! And a full six hours in make-up! What’s not to love? Fiona and I settled down right at the front with our cups of tea and glasses of wine and acres of legroom (I love Hebden Bridge Picture House).

The initial scene – the ‘birth’ of the Creature – was terrific. Cumberbatch slowly learned to control his unfamiliar limbs: to stumble, then walk, make sounds, lit by striated flashes from thousands of lightbulbs. It was like watching dance: absorbing, fascinating.

It all went a bit pearshaped when people started talking. The play aims to tell the story from the Creature’s point of view. When he is the focus of the action, this works well; scenes where he learns about literature and morality from a blind man, or meets a child and tries to make friends with him, or confronts his maker are well-handled and gripping.

The trouble is, a lot has to happen without the Creature, and these scenes were less believable. Frankenstein does a lot of striding about wringing his hands and shouting things like ‘I must go to England! They are far ahead in Electricity!’, while Elizabeth pleads with him to reconsider in that ineffectual way fiancées have, and his father dejectedly strokes his chin and wonders where he went wrong (a baritone role, if ever I saw one). There was one brilliant moment where I thought Elizabeth was going to abandon decorum and become his partner-in-crime, but then she went back to furrowing her brow and being all moral. Frankenstein’s motivations remained unexplored: Jonny Lee Miller’s body language and all the SHOUTING indicate madness, but what kind? Frankenstein struggles with all sorts of incompatible drives – the desire to see his name in lights, a real commitment to Science, the need to put right the errors he’s made, the bizarre inability to think through the consequences of his actions. It would have been fun to see these tackled with a modern eye.

A lot of energy went into the relationship between the Creature and Frankenstein, and these scenes were the best: you could almost forget for a moment that Cumberbatch was up there Doing Acting, and lose yourself in it. Sadly, everything else felt a bit pencilled-in and last-minute; supporting characters were sketches with no hope of three dimensions, relationships strange and implausible. There was even a woman doing the All-Purpose Crucible Accent, just for me.

It’s not ALL their fault. After decades of watching cinema and TV drama, where nuanced, naturalistic performances are possible, I found it hard to go back to theatre, with its Declaiming and Projecting and Enunciating and Making Sure You End Up On This Spot Under The Light. But for a subject with so much potential, this just lacked life.

How Not To Die, from The Art Of Coarse Acting, by Michael Green. I don’t have permission to use this image, but I am mitigating this by telling you all to click here and buy the book, which I have read approx. 1763 times, and which still makes me weep with laughter.

I go to the OPERA

June 18, 2014 at 9:09 pm | Posted in music, reviews, tv & film | 4 Comments
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I’m an opera newbie. My Dad was obsessed with Verdi and Puccini, but I never paid much attention (though I realised halfway through a school trip to La Bohème that I knew all the words to Che Gelida Manina from hearing him singing it in the bath).

But it’s sucking me in. As usual, I blame twitter: in my new experiment with classical music fandom, I’m following a gaggle of writers, performers and enthusiasts, and they’re all obsessed with it. They’re being terribly nice to me, sending me YouTube clips and reviews and blogposts, and being lovely about the fact I don’t know my arias from my Elgar. And the excitement is catching.

So. Benvenuto Cellini! Directed by Terry Gilliam! Everyone was in a flap about this. No chance of going to London to see it, but happily it’s part of the ENO Screen season, and was broadcast live in cinemas last night. Now, I was a bit nervous about this. I remember watching televised dance, and being wound up that the cameras never seemed to be where I wanted, and I couldn’t get the perspective I needed. But the trailer looked stunning, and it was the ideal excuse for a night out with a good mate. We got our gladrags on and downed a glass or two of prosecco (just to get in the Glyndebourne spirit, you know).

As we wandered in, the audience on screen were finding their seats too, standing on each other’s feet, sitting on their bags by mistake and offering each other Murray Mints. One portly chap stood and wearily hitched up his trousers (I wonder if that’ll make it onto the DVD). The cameras squinted over people’s shoulders at their programmes while we listened to the strange meanderings of the orchestra warming up. I tried to spot @joshspero, who was on the balcony somewhere.

josh conv re celliniThe lights dimmed, and we were off.

The opera, like all good operas, contained a number of essential elements: 1) star-crossed lovers; 2) rowdy drinking scenes; 3) women in elaborate underwear. I liked the staging very much: the space was used cleverly, the crowd-scene choreography was great, and there were lots of visual gags. The script’s a daft romp, with lots of implausible events, wild emoting, railing against fate and so on; the principals played along with unironic gusto and almost managed to make the story credible. Minor characters tended towards Coarse Acting hamminess, but once I’d reminded myself the scenes were designed to be peered at from the back of the upper circle, this bothered me less. I wasn’t too thrilled by the music: I’d expected some memorable, sing-this-in-the-shower type arias, but nothing stuck with me (except, perhaps, the one where the dissolute sculptor yearns for a pure life among goats, which probably sounds a bit more solemn in French). But the singing was truly marvellous; I’d convinced myself years ago I didn’t like operatic voices, all silly vibrato and peculiar pronunciation, but things have changed – or I have – and I was swept away by some performances. Willard White’s bass-baritone Pope was mesmerising, like watching a limbo dancer (lower… lower…), Michael Spyres was a clear-voiced and almost loveable Cellini, and Paula Murrihy stole the show in that other operatic staple, a chick playing a chap (this is called a ‘trouser role’, which just makes me giggle like a loon).


Well. It made me really, really wish I’d been there to experience it in person. I hate you, people who live in London. But I got a lot out of watching on the screen: in many ways it was better than being there. Somehow, seeing it all up close brought home the mad, bizarre brilliance of opera as an art form: not just the artistic vision and the organisation and the hard work, but the sheer astonishing fact of people, up there, making this extraordinary, beautiful noise, perfectly, live. Add to that the detail of faces, costumes and sets; the sweat running from the conductor’s sideburns; the glint in an oboist’s eye. Even opera glasses don’t get you that.


May 15, 2014 at 9:34 am | Posted in music, tv & film | Leave a comment
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I’m living with two Thunderbirds obsessives. Here’s the younger of them, in his home-made Scott Tracy outfit:

He’s just started learning the piano, and wants more than anything to play the Thunderbirds theme. I decided I’d try and work it out by ear. Here’s the result. My timing is all over the place, I forgot the dynamics, and you can hear my dodgy ankle crack at one point. But it doesn’t matter, because the boiz think I am a GENIUS.

I’m not sure the 6yo will be playing this any time soon, as the right hand fingering is FIENDISH. I sometimes persuade him to help me with the final BONG BONG BONG BONG BONG BONNNNNGGGG! though.

I stop grumbling and get my ‘cello out

January 19, 2014 at 8:20 pm | Posted in music, tv & film | 1 Comment
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Weirdly, all that griping about violin playing in Sherlock made me itch to play the ‘cello. I learned at secondary school, did grade 8 in sixth form and joined the orchestra at University (when I auditioned, the conductor told me I’d ‘just about scraped in’… ba-dum TISH). The orchestra finished me off; packed with serious, high-achieving music students, the repertoire was far too hard and I dropped out before the end of the first term.

Living in Manchester about a decade later, I picked it up again, and had lessons with the terrific and hugely talented Jenny Langridge from Psappha. But then I got a lectureship, and all my spare time went on weeping about syntax and losing sleep over phonetics, and I stopped practising.

I kid myself I’ll take it up again, but I know what it involves, and to be honest, I’m too lazy. You know. But every now and again I dust it off, and crank up the vibrato, and laugh at myself making a great load of noise.

Yesterday I worked out two Sherlock themes. I’m ridiculously pleased with myself. The boiz (8 and 5) broke into spontaneous, unbribed applause when I played them this morning (this is absolutely true). By popular demand (well, @festinagirl and @pariswheels told me to, but it was late at night, so they may have been drunk) I’ve audiobooed myself playing them. Disclaimer: they’re not very good. Those of a nervous disposition may wish to change channels now.

I also worked out the Borgen theme, so this one’s for @ScandiCaroline and @scsmith4 and all the Scandi crew. You’ll have to imagine the piano:

The empty violin case

January 17, 2014 at 5:58 pm | Posted in music, tv & film | 3 Comments
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Everyone has their pressure point.

For some, it’s the wrong kind of aircraft, the tubes going the wrong way, the wrong route in a London taxi. For my mum (who used to be a vet), it’s inaccurate representation of medical phenomena (our family now call this Oh, Blood Doesn’t Spurt Like That, after giggling at her watching The Killing one evening).

sherlock pressure point

I adore Sherlock. It’s glorious. Such attention to detail. I love it to death: the clever visuals, the knowing script, the nuanced acting, the way every scene is set up around lighting Cumberbatch’s bizarre, beautiful face. I’m completely rapt. And then Sherlock plays the violin.

I should know better, but I watch anyway. It’s not as bad as some efforts I’ve seen on screen: his fingers are in roughly the right places, he’s holding the bow properly. But it’s not right. I start to twitch. The boyfriend (who is a proper musician, rather than being a lapsed I-did-grade-8-but-the-University-orchestra-broke-me ‘cellist, like me) starts to laugh. It doesn’t bother him, but he knows it makes me want to kill people*.

Why is it so hard to look like you’re playing an instrument? I should say, immediately, that I am in no way criticising The Divine Cumberbatch (TDC), because everyone knows he is marvellous and delightful and made a very good fist of learning to play in a single week (his violin teacher blogged about it). I understand that actors don’t have six months to spend on learning an instrument when it’s a minor part of the character**, and even if they did, there aren’t 10,000 hours in six months, so what would be the point? But surely this doesn’t have to be the only way. I’d like to see that week spent, instead, on looking really convincing. Sod the sound, or where the fingers are. Shoot long, or very close up. Bow convincingly, move with the music, feel it, express it. Sway. I can teach you to sway, TDC. NO CHARGE.

Twitter mostly thinks I’m splitting hairs.

Does it matter? Well, yeah, it does. Because when Sherlock picks up the violin and plays like a beginner but sounds like a virtuoso, the spell is broken. Even though I KNOW no-one hires (or even is) a consulting detective; even though Sherlock’s ability to deduce someone’s marital infidelity or sexual preference or childhood trauma or latest Strava KOM from the state of his fingernails is crackers; even though the explanation of the faked death is risible, it all makes sense within the show. It has internal consistency. Sherlock behaves as he should, everyone else behaves as they should, the world around them behaves as it should, and we can believe. This is why people get upset about the taxi rides, and the tube rolling stock, and so on. We can laugh, but for them, it breaks the spell.

The Case of the Singing Violin, 1955 (many thanks to @bazzargh for making the .gif)

The Case of the Singing Violin, 1955 (many thanks to @bazzargh for making the .gif)

And what I’m REALLY peeved about is that this is a missed opportunity to show us something else about the character. How WOULD Sherlock play the violin? Technically perfectly, but devoid of expression? Or would it be the outlet for the emotion he won’t, or can’t, show elsewhere in life? I want to know.

gif nicked from the wonderful bbcsherlockftw, who nicked it from somewhere else, I dunno, I'm sorry

*it’s not just Sherlock. I hate this in all films/ tv. Hence the boyfriend laughing at me.

**there are notable examples of actors making a jolly good job of learning to play when it’s the focus of the film, but this is a different issue.

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