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I've no idea—I'm a physicist
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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I am hoping to write it up in the next few days. The short version is that the conceit was fascinating, the acting and the singing were superb, and I thought the music was doing some very interesting things, but everyone I saw it with—myself included—had massive problems with the staging, which was actively working against the libretto in ways that were neither productive nor illuminating and far too often ran straight into WTF. We went out for dessert afterward just to post-mortem it.