Talk To Rex

A lot of people (journalists, bloggers, men in pubs) have been mouthing off about how shit Britain is, specifically in comparison to China and substantiated by our eight-minute segment in the Olympic handover – which was, let’s face it, shit to the point of being surreal.

I beg to differ. As a letter to the Telegraph pointed out earlier this week, in Edinburgh during the summer months they manage to pull off a spectacular Tattoo on a daily basis which wows even the Chinese. I would go even further – step outside Edinburgh castle in the month of August and the city is full of similarly spectacular achievements, although many people miss them for all the surrounding shit.

All over the country there are awesome – I’m not being sarcastic – awesome displays of jousting, morris dancing, Anglo-Catholic ceremony, the occasional royal jubilee spectacular (I’m thinking of the fireworks rather than the rock concert). We can do a damn fine state funeral, we can stage mock battles on a huge scale, and a group of amateurs can rescue a real live steam railway and make it run again – yes, it all sounds a bit odd and English, but it’s still impressive, so why on earth do people think we haven’t got anything of value to show the world? We can do spectacular, and moreover we can do it at a fraction of the cost of the Chinese opening ceremony.

All that our eight-minute segment in the handover demonstrates is that the decision about what ought to represent Britain should not NOT NOT be left in the hands of an Olympic committee with no experience of staging a spectacular. Give it to the people who run the Tattoo, give it to Cameron Mackintosh, give it to an amateur railway society for God’s sake, anything to avoid another brainstorming session with some enthusiastic intern saying “hey, how about Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis! On top of a red bus!”

Sadly, I suspect our own opening ceremony will be very much the work of the kind of committee that came up with the eight-minute handover show, or indeed the 2012 logo. If it is then it will at least sum up exactly why Britain so often looks shit in public these days.

So a couple of days ago I decided I really ought to watch the acclaimed episodes from season three of Doctor Who: Human Nature and Blink. And I did. And they’re great. (Well. Ish. Human Nature is the by-now traditional fifteen minutes too long.)

Then I watched all the other episodes of season three that I hadn’t caught the first time round. Honestly? Words fail me, although unfortunately for you not nearly as much as they could.

The second to last one I watched was Last of the Time Lords. This is certainly the worst writing Russell T Davies has ever done; I would have labelled it the worst writing on Doctor Who ever, including The Invisible Enemy and that strange two-parter that Pip and Jane Baker bolted onto the end of Trial of a Timelord.

But then I watched 42. Oh, my. The list of bad things about this is probably longer than the script itself. Where the season three closer was merely Sci-Fantasy done averagely, this was Sci-Fi written so ineptly I don’t know where to start. The obviously unscientific setup, midsection and resolution? The fact that it appeared to be a reject plotline from a previous Doctor Who set on board a space ship? Freema Agyeman’s breathless decision not to act for a whole episode? I’ve lamented Chris Chibnall’s complete disconnect from science before, but it comes across so strongly in this episode that it really needs mentioning again. And there’s more. So, so much more.

Fortunately Peter Fincham has already been forced to resign, although for less important reasons, so his head isn’t available for this televisual travesty. And I’m quite sure that Jay Hunt will have found plenty to resign over in season four, which I grudgingly will watch over the next few weeks.

I went to one of Henry Wood’s famous Promenade concerts on Tuesday, for the first time in three years. That sounds a little disgraceful for someone who is not only a music-lover but also a professional composer, but what with doing musicals and one-man shows and occasional choir tours this seems to be genuinely the first summer in three years that I’m actually able to make it to the Albert Hall for what is, after all, a mere two months of concerts. Also I had a bad experience with a Shostakovich symphony the last time I went, which left quite deep scars.

Anyway – so delightful was the experience on Tuesday that I even went round and queued again for a second ride, which turned out to be even better than the first (the Tallis scholars on blistering form).

What struck me, not for the first time, is how the Proms manage such an odd combination of high culture and unashamedly tacky. Obviously the high culture comes in the form of world-class musicians singing in a nice (if acoustically-challenged) London concert venue, and it’s marvellous that impoverished freelancers such as myself can, thanks to Sir Henry, get to experience them for a fiver. Obviously at such prices it’s no wonder that some of the people who manage to sneak in bring with them a level of tackiness, but almost as if they feel the need to pander to such people the organisers of the Proms have obviously thought, “hang on, we should probably stretch some blue LED rope lights along the back of the stage in case these common people feel out of their depth in a genuine concert hall”. So suddenly the Albert Hall looks like it’s trying to simultaneously pull off culture and gay bar chique.

It’s also worth mentioning that the conductor’s stand is shaped like a coffin. I suspect that Henry Wood himself is inside.

Still – it’s a shame that they’ve got rid of the water feature. Obviously I don’t know at what stage in the last three years that disappeared, but when I last visited the Proms, a trickling fountain sat in the middle of the auditorium. (They turned it off during the music, but if you got to the front of their queue you could often bag a place to sit on the edge if you didn’t feel inclined to stand through The Dream of Gerontius.) And in case that started to look almost tasteful, the organisers would always ensure that there was a fine collection of inflatable sea life on display as well. Plus, as I remember, a snake coiling round the fountain itself.

I can’t help feeling that the Tallis scholars would have been even more magical with it still there.

So, all acts are now out (or in, depending on which way you look at it). And it’s obvious that Dr Horrible is an anti anti-hero story. Or possibly an anti-anti anti-hero story. Or something.

And, like all good movies, you should watch the credits – not, this time, because there’s an extra scene in there, but because you get to find out the names of the Evil League of Evil (my favourite: Fury Leika). Also, there’s a credit for “BestBot Grip”, which I can’t decide is because Joss Whedon’s started employing Aibos, or is actually a typo for “Best Boy Grip”.

(If I appeared grumpy before, perhaps it’s because I’ve been reading too much uninformed commentary on this. Like the NPR piece that quoted some inept idiot being surprised that Neil Patrick Harris can sing. That’s right, it’s a shock that the guy who’s played the Emcee in Cabaret on Broadway can sing.)

Well, isn’t that typical – Joss Whedon puts a musical online for FREE out of the goodness of his own heart and Aylett gets all critical.

But since we’re in the mood I’ll add the observation that, actually, the songs are not all that great. Oh, I’ve heard much less inspired songs in “real” musicals, but Dr Horrible doesn’t display the versatility and sheer brilliance of the music in Once More With Feeling, and that’s mildly disappointing.

Never mind. I loved it from start to finish and only wish that there was going to be another act every two days for the rest of my life.

Well, I was originally going to wait until all three episodes came out of Dr Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog before commenting, but thanks to James you’ll get my inexpert opinion early. Right now, in fact.

First, as James points out, it’s not the best thing Joss Whedon has done. It’s not Hush, it’s not Objects In Space, it’s not Once More With Feeling. But we have all of them already, so frankly who cares? Dr Horrible is still a joyous little slice of Internetdom, and if you haven’t gone to see it yet, or if you have but failed because of their server issues, then go there now. And if they have server issues again, keep on going until you see it.

Now for the bad things.

• Act I is clearly the first part of a single episode. On TV we’d see it all at once; on the Internet, with the bits coming out separately, it doesn’t quite seem to pace right. This will no doubt work better with Act II, because it’ll have the cliff-hanger, and Act III will slot it all together. So that’s, you know, coming along.
• The server going down, which probably wasn’t their fault but their ISP’s. But really, even though this is really just a bunch of creative people having fun and producing good product, someone should have thought about that. The ISP, probably.
• Sometimes, the budget (almost nothing) shows. Rarely, because the people working on it are top-notch, but there are a few times where things aren’t perfect. Most people probably won’t notice, but I’m obsessive about that, and spending far too much of my time thinking about where to shave money from film budgets for the web myself.
• Speaking of budget: no one other than Joss Whedon could have done this. (Or almost no one.) The number of highly talented people happy to jump on board without getting paid is what made this; sure, it’d still be fun if it was just Joss and his family, but it wouldn’t look professional. Getting Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion and Felicia Day made it work. Getting Shawna Trpcic to costume design. Getting Lisa Lassek to edit.
• It’s not going to change the industry. A look at comparative searches for Dr Horrible compared to Dollhouse, or even for Joss Whedon himself, shows it’s barely registering. Although it will be talked about a lot inside the industry, and although I’m confident that it will actually turn a profit, this itself isn’t going to change much. It’s part of a wider movement, though, so let’s keep paying attention, even if you think LonelyGirl is annoying. Which it is.

But these are gripes, they aren’t complaints. I watched it twice, and I was smiling inside. And outside. And in Sainsbury’s, when I went shopping. Watch it. Then watch it again. Then go to bed, have a dull day at work, go to bed (again), and wake up to Act II. Watch that a lot, watch the first one again a few times, sleep a bit, and it’ll be time for Act III. Seriously, what else do you have to do with your time?

The KLF were well-known for asking “What time is love?” – but it is a question which they generously answered after a couple of years with their follow-up single “3a.m. Eternal”.

I’m usually a bit too sleepy for love by then, but I’m sure the KLF knew what they were talking about. And I certainly think it’s commendable of them not to leave their original question hanging like a pseudo-philosophical mystery that they hadn’t really thought through. No, dammit – they asked the question, it was their responsibility to answer it, and answer it they did!

An example which I can’t help feeling ought to be followed by The Automatic.

“What’s that coming over the hill? Is it a monster? Is it a monster?” they muse.

Well? Is it a monster? I mean, you’ve been pondering this question for the duration of an entire song, surely you can at least make an informed guess? I mean, how fast is this thing coming over the hill anyway? It clearly isn’t moving very fast or you’d have a better idea of what it is, so permit me to suggest that even if it’s a monster it’s going to be pretty easy to outrun.

Since it’s not a particularly threatening monster, your song is not a warning so much as an observation, so can’t you just commit to an answer for crying out loud? Is it a monster? Is it??? I’m starting to wonder whether I really care any more!

I feel rather proud that I’ve managed to sneak in a blog entry about Dr Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog before Mr Aylett got there…

Anyway, the point is, you have to watch Act I now. Do it while you can still watch it for free, because you’ll only be really cross with yourself if you don’t.

It’s not Joss Whedon’s greatest work ever, but it’s a good reminder of how every line of script he touches turns to gold. And when was the last time something this good-humoured turned up on TV? If this is what happens when a group of actors get together during a writers’ strike to make something fun simply for the love of their art, then I think writers should strike more often.

If you did, you’d be scarred for life. Yes, it’s true: old ladies are knitting breasts (presumably some other people are as well, but not pictured). These are training aids, to teach pregnant women how to prepare their breasts for lactation. (No, really.) Even better, you can rent the knitting pattern from the Eastleigh Library for just 20p. Also available: baby’s first poop, doting father, and interfering mother-in-law patterns.

I assume there will be even more on display at this month’s international knitting conference In The Loop, starting next Tuesday in Winchester.

Catherine Tate: she’s a genius as well. Thanks Doctor Who Confidential for setting us straight on that one.

Pity her Doctor Who swansong was such a big pile of wank.