Because I am a couple of weeks behind, the episode of Doctor Who I watched tonight was "Victory of the Daleks."1 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rushthatspeaks has said that the first Doctor you see is always thereafter the Doctor for you; I'm not sure this is true, because Tom Baker isn't my ideal of the role—although as the owner of a seven-foot scarf, I may be disqualified from comment—but I actively like Matt Smith's Eleventh Doctor in a way that I did not (pace) David Tennant's Tenth; I like Karen Gillan's Amy. And I was fascinated by this episode, because objectively it was a piece of complete silliness pulling most of its resonance from the enduring anchorage of World War II as the defining myth of modern Britain, and yet it contained a genuinely touching scene in which the Doctor and Amy must convince an alien bomb of its humanity.
( Cut for meditation on Doctor Who that everyone else got over with in April. )
Either that, or it's an ironclad kink thing. Either way, goodnight.
1. I'm sure I could be streaming it all off my computer at this point, but I figure I'll watch the two-parter all at once next week. "The Vampires of Venice" doesn't air on BBC America until the week after that, but I can only pray it makes use of the sixteenth-century corpse with a brick in its mouth. If not, someone had better throw it into the fanfic.
2. Which is how I discovered TV Cream, a fiendish cross between TV Tropes and BFI Screenonline. It is exactly as much of a time sink as this likeness would lead you to fear, with analyses like "This is, you may have gathered, what Leslie Halliwell would have termed 'metaphysical codswallop', and rightly so. But this isn't just any old codswallop. This is pan-walloped breast of finest transatlantic cod, lovingly drowned in a portentous whimsy and herb jus" (Boom!) and tags that range from the only sensible (David Hare, stories all about spies) to the more thoughtful (vaguely symbolic stuff that sticks in the mind, toffs sitting in window seats looking flushed) to the ridiculously specialized = awesome (about half a dozen French infantrymen made to look like slightly more than half a dozen French infantrymen with cunning use of some mirrors, people taping Top of the Pops, Thorin sits down and starts singing about gold). Seriously, don't plan to do anything for the next two hours.
rushthatspeaks has said that the first Doctor you see is always thereafter the Doctor for you; I'm not sure this is true, because Tom Baker isn't my ideal of the role—although as the owner of a seven-foot scarf, I may be disqualified from comment—but I actively like Matt Smith's Eleventh Doctor in a way that I did not (pace) David Tennant's Tenth; I like Karen Gillan's Amy. And I was fascinated by this episode, because objectively it was a piece of complete silliness pulling most of its resonance from the enduring anchorage of World War II as the defining myth of modern Britain, and yet it contained a genuinely touching scene in which the Doctor and Amy must convince an alien bomb of its humanity.( Cut for meditation on Doctor Who that everyone else got over with in April. )
Either that, or it's an ironclad kink thing. Either way, goodnight.
1. I'm sure I could be streaming it all off my computer at this point, but I figure I'll watch the two-parter all at once next week. "The Vampires of Venice" doesn't air on BBC America until the week after that, but I can only pray it makes use of the sixteenth-century corpse with a brick in its mouth. If not, someone had better throw it into the fanfic.
2. Which is how I discovered TV Cream, a fiendish cross between TV Tropes and BFI Screenonline. It is exactly as much of a time sink as this likeness would lead you to fear, with analyses like "This is, you may have gathered, what Leslie Halliwell would have termed 'metaphysical codswallop', and rightly so. But this isn't just any old codswallop. This is pan-walloped breast of finest transatlantic cod, lovingly drowned in a portentous whimsy and herb jus" (Boom!) and tags that range from the only sensible (David Hare, stories all about spies) to the more thoughtful (vaguely symbolic stuff that sticks in the mind, toffs sitting in window seats looking flushed) to the ridiculously specialized = awesome (about half a dozen French infantrymen made to look like slightly more than half a dozen French infantrymen with cunning use of some mirrors, people taping Top of the Pops, Thorin sits down and starts singing about gold). Seriously, don't plan to do anything for the next two hours.
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