As the rest of my friendlist prepares to watch (or has just finished watching, I'm not sure about broadcast times) the fiftieth anniversary of Doctor Who, I am preparing to attend a modern opera about Lizzie Borden. We'll watch "The Day of the Doctor" when we get back. If there isn't enough John Hurt, don't tell me.
We did observe the twenty-fifth anniversary of the program last night:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel showed me "Remembrance of the Daleks" (1988), written by Ben Aaronovitch of more recent Rivers of London fame. I can see why the Starship of Madness cast was willing to go to Long Island for Sylvester McCoy—his Seventh Doctor is a wonderful mix of registers and incongruities, his clown's dress and manners (bits of business with pens and Panama hats, his quirked mouth and that question-mark umbrella) offset by that sharp, precise, irritable voice and the cynical intelligence behind it, dropping hints of being something much more and much more dangerous than a time-jaunting eccentric with a taste for paisley and sleight of hand. Not to mention the willingness to destroy planets and talk the last remaining member of a species into terminal meltdown. I like Ace as well; I'm not sure how I could have been expected not to, seeing as her dystopian future looks a lot like the punk '80's and she never goes anywhere without at least one blunt object and a backpack full of explosives. I have already been warned that their run together is very short; the series went into limbo before any of its mysteries could be more than tantalizingly raised. I really want to read Aaronovitch's own novelizations, though.
Excuse me while I run for a bus.
We did observe the twenty-fifth anniversary of the program last night:
derspatchel showed me "Remembrance of the Daleks" (1988), written by Ben Aaronovitch of more recent Rivers of London fame. I can see why the Starship of Madness cast was willing to go to Long Island for Sylvester McCoy—his Seventh Doctor is a wonderful mix of registers and incongruities, his clown's dress and manners (bits of business with pens and Panama hats, his quirked mouth and that question-mark umbrella) offset by that sharp, precise, irritable voice and the cynical intelligence behind it, dropping hints of being something much more and much more dangerous than a time-jaunting eccentric with a taste for paisley and sleight of hand. Not to mention the willingness to destroy planets and talk the last remaining member of a species into terminal meltdown. I like Ace as well; I'm not sure how I could have been expected not to, seeing as her dystopian future looks a lot like the punk '80's and she never goes anywhere without at least one blunt object and a backpack full of explosives. I have already been warned that their run together is very short; the series went into limbo before any of its mysteries could be more than tantalizingly raised. I really want to read Aaronovitch's own novelizations, though.Excuse me while I run for a bus.
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