With the BIG BIG Buffy News aripplin' thru town, it gives me great honor to forward the FCC's latest ruling on Alyson Hannigan--yay! What next--the Dushku/Whedon project to premier in my back yard?????
FCC Okays Nudity On TV If It�s Alyson Hannigan
Showing posts with label utopias. Show all posts
Showing posts with label utopias. Show all posts
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Oh Baby, I... I...I'm Gonna...I'm Gonna CLIFFHANGERRRR!!! {guys only}
Since I Know Who Killed Me has become my favorite movie since No Country for Old Men, I think we all know I have a high/low art problem (see my dissertation, in which I actually gave close reading to Boxing Helena--yes, Boxing Helena).
It's just so much fun knowing that if you had Hollywood connections, you'd be more successful than the hacks you skewer on a nightly basis.
The latest skewering goes to The Tudors (pronounced Choo-dors; say it with me: Tudors, tulip [choo-lip], tuna [choo-na], TUDORS!). Showtime is obviously trying to compete with Rome on HBO, but whereas Rome invented lower-class characters to contrast the heavies of history, The Tudors cares very little for the facts. They CGI crane shots over London, the sets are awkwardly small--even a joust takes place in what looks like my back yard--and each episode jumps the shark by either a) someone buggers a scullery maid/lady in waiting, or b) someone gets "the sweat," which, yes, is historically what they called the Sweating Sickness, a plague-like illness which slowly killed you with fever and had no no origin. In real life, you could fight it and win sometimes. On The Tudors, you DIE WITHIN ONE DAY. You'll be delivering food on a silver platter to His Highness when you suddenly trip, then fall to the ground, all the while ripping open your shirt so the that the sweat may escape like a demon clawing its way out. Everyone who shows symptoms dies--the gay character first, of course--but one person, Anne Boleyn.
As a good soul on imdb says of the show: "It doesn't look like a bit like England, the actors don't look English, the script manages to be both hideously turgid and blindingly prosaic at the same time and some of the performances hit a nadir we haven't seen on mainstream British TV since Crossroads came back. Ann Boleyn looks as if she's just come in from playing shinty, Sam Neill clearly thinks he's in an episode of Star Trek or Red Dwarf and Catherine of Aragon looks as if she could go fifteen rounds with a good light heavyweight and drink Boris Yeltsin under the table while Thomas More, instead of being one of the engines of the enlightenment, seems to have the IQ of a fruitbat. The sets are hilarious. You could fit their Tower of London set in a B&Q greenhouse and the jousting scenes, of which there are a lot, seem to take place in Charlton Athletic's car park. The episode with the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the most extravagant meeting in history meeting between two rulers of Christian monarchies, looks as if it were shot in an unloved corner of Legoland and will have you in stitches. And historical accuracy? Whoever was in charge of that has never read anything longer than a jamjar label. So I'm hooked. Can it get worse? You betcha . . . .
By the last episode, we know what history tell us: Henry cannot be seen with Anne until his illegal divorce goes through (damn those popes!), so they must meet in "the wood" (Many Europeans omit the 's': "I'm scared of what might be in the wood!"). They thrust together, bodices and codpieces ripping and unsticking, respectively; but then, right as Hank is about to spew his divine-right essence, Anne pushes him off her, crying, "We musn't!" or something to the effect of, "If I have a child by you, I'll be in big do-do; everyone knows who I am now." With giant blueballs, Johnathan Rhys Meyes does this:
Then...FADE TO CREDITS! I shit you not. They literally made the cliffhanger narrative blueballs. So if you want to tune in/come next season, rise out of denouement and re-harden, folks, and see:
You see, Showtime is great and all--thanks for The L Word, especially--but they're TOO sexy. And I'm sick of sexy. Watching The West Wing reminds me that some American TV uses real people with real faces, and people in their 40s and 50s go on dates and have actual sex appeal. But Showtime just doesn't get that they will be old news, and soon. Dexter may survive, but I dunno. The Writers' Strike is still in full force. The Tudors returns in March, somehow. What? I'm eating IN tonight, honey. Just be back before bedtime, okay?
It's just so much fun knowing that if you had Hollywood connections, you'd be more successful than the hacks you skewer on a nightly basis.
The latest skewering goes to The Tudors (pronounced Choo-dors; say it with me: Tudors, tulip [choo-lip], tuna [choo-na], TUDORS!). Showtime is obviously trying to compete with Rome on HBO, but whereas Rome invented lower-class characters to contrast the heavies of history, The Tudors cares very little for the facts. They CGI crane shots over London, the sets are awkwardly small--even a joust takes place in what looks like my back yard--and each episode jumps the shark by either a) someone buggers a scullery maid/lady in waiting, or b) someone gets "the sweat," which, yes, is historically what they called the Sweating Sickness, a plague-like illness which slowly killed you with fever and had no no origin. In real life, you could fight it and win sometimes. On The Tudors, you DIE WITHIN ONE DAY. You'll be delivering food on a silver platter to His Highness when you suddenly trip, then fall to the ground, all the while ripping open your shirt so the that the sweat may escape like a demon clawing its way out. Everyone who shows symptoms dies--the gay character first, of course--but one person, Anne Boleyn.
As a good soul on imdb says of the show: "It doesn't look like a bit like England, the actors don't look English, the script manages to be both hideously turgid and blindingly prosaic at the same time and some of the performances hit a nadir we haven't seen on mainstream British TV since Crossroads came back. Ann Boleyn looks as if she's just come in from playing shinty, Sam Neill clearly thinks he's in an episode of Star Trek or Red Dwarf and Catherine of Aragon looks as if she could go fifteen rounds with a good light heavyweight and drink Boris Yeltsin under the table while Thomas More, instead of being one of the engines of the enlightenment, seems to have the IQ of a fruitbat. The sets are hilarious. You could fit their Tower of London set in a B&Q greenhouse and the jousting scenes, of which there are a lot, seem to take place in Charlton Athletic's car park. The episode with the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the most extravagant meeting in history meeting between two rulers of Christian monarchies, looks as if it were shot in an unloved corner of Legoland and will have you in stitches. And historical accuracy? Whoever was in charge of that has never read anything longer than a jamjar label. So I'm hooked. Can it get worse? You betcha . . . .
By the last episode, we know what history tell us: Henry cannot be seen with Anne until his illegal divorce goes through (damn those popes!), so they must meet in "the wood" (Many Europeans omit the 's': "I'm scared of what might be in the wood!"). They thrust together, bodices and codpieces ripping and unsticking, respectively; but then, right as Hank is about to spew his divine-right essence, Anne pushes him off her, crying, "We musn't!" or something to the effect of, "If I have a child by you, I'll be in big do-do; everyone knows who I am now." With giant blueballs, Johnathan Rhys Meyes does this:
Then...FADE TO CREDITS! I shit you not. They literally made the cliffhanger narrative blueballs. So if you want to tune in/come next season, rise out of denouement and re-harden, folks, and see:
You see, Showtime is great and all--thanks for The L Word, especially--but they're TOO sexy. And I'm sick of sexy. Watching The West Wing reminds me that some American TV uses real people with real faces, and people in their 40s and 50s go on dates and have actual sex appeal. But Showtime just doesn't get that they will be old news, and soon. Dexter may survive, but I dunno. The Writers' Strike is still in full force. The Tudors returns in March, somehow. What? I'm eating IN tonight, honey. Just be back before bedtime, okay?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
South Hero, VT
OK, remember when I was talking about this mythical island of lesbians somewhere in New England, but I forgot what or where it was? My coworker was talking about how she goes to South Hero, VT "to get away from Americans on the 4th of July. Basically, it's an all-lesbian BBQ." Indeed, this sounds like the Isle of Lesbos reincarnate! I checked out the data before posting. Barring smallish places like Provincetown or Northampton, where the lesbian population is anywhere from 3.3% to 5 % of "all households," South Hero boasts a mighty 1.3% for a population of only 1,700! (gay men: 0.0%. Buffalo is at 0.3% for both gays and lesbians, by the way). But here's the thing: I can't find a single web page saying that it's Super Awesome and Amazing Dykeland Garden of Vaginas. There's nothing. Zilch. So what's the deal? Is this a really well-kept secret that my coworker wasn't supposed to know about? Or are these just really aged women who hate computers? Maybe they're all hippies--it is Vermont after all, and you basically can't live in Vermont without injecting patchouli directly into your veins and churning butter into the wee hours so that your lighbulbs will operate for the one hour a day you read (books on how to make composting toilets, of course).
Anyone up for an adventure next summer? Or have the cows already won? (actual photo from Google images of "South Hero, VT")
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