A Saturday night in

Okay, so by one day I meant over a week. These things happen. Now, I was planning to do a blog reviewing the first episode of the fourth season of Doctor Who a week ago, but circumstances conspired against me – however, I don’t think that’s been such a big problem. I feel a lot better being able to write about the first two episodes than the one on its own, and that’s because, like last season, the season opened with a slightly more comedic first episode before getting down to a serious drama in the second.

I came into the first episode, Partners in Crime, trying to shed my mind as much as I could of the preconceptions I had of Catherine Bloody Tate (as you can see, I was not entirely successful). I was really disappointed upon learning that she was returning after her less-than-stellar Christmas special in 2006, and Partners in Crime didn’t really do anything to change my perception. She’s still shouty and annoying, especially as there is a constant fear while watching her that she may say “am I bovvered?” as a little writers’ joke, although she was good for the minute or so where she didn’t have to speak – her through-a-window conversation with the Doctor was great. Other than that, I wasn’t so keen on the episode as a whole, mainly because as Who is primarily a kids’ show, the humour is a little underdeveloped for my tastes, so I much prefer the hard drama and action episodes that make up the bulk of the 21st-century series. The whole thing was made worth watching, mind you, purely on the basis of that 5-second surprise cameo for Rose Tyler. Hooray! Billie’s back! I realised in those five seconds just how much I’ve missed her.

The second episode, The Fires of Pompeii, which aired yesterday, started an evening of TV which I am on the whole pleased to have watched, although the jury is still out on some of it (more on that later). I certainly preferred this episode to Partners in Crime – even Donna was slightly more watchable this week, Tate did a decent job with her reaction to the Doctor’s refusal to warn the people of Pompeii. I’m pretty sure neither Rose nor Martha would have made such a fuss about it (I shudder to think what Captain Jack would have tried if he’d told everyone they only had 24 hours to live) so that was a nice change. Some points of interest; that’s two for two so far in terms of episodes in which they’ve mentioned the Shadow Proclamation – to do with this season’s story arc maybe?; the excellent CGI throughout the episode, really impressive work on the fiery alien rock monsters in particular; and the warning that Donna “has something on her back”. I know there are rumours of her character’s story arc taking a turn for the sinister this season (it’s a comfort to think that Catherine Tate is the villain of the piece), and I’m looking forward to seeing how it’ll pan out.

Now, on to the rest of my Saturday night in. Unfortunately, my family, particularly the women in the house, are prone to falling into watching all of the inane talent shows like the X-Factor and (god help us) I’d Do Anything, or whatever Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest PR scam is, but occasionally this works in my favour. Having been around while they watched the week-long festival that was last year’s Britain’s Got Talent, I have to say that it was a good laugh, if only because it deviated from the singers-only format that weighs down the entire genre. Obviously, it was won by a singer, but Paul Potts was at least not singing in English, and he was awesome. So this year I decided I’d put my dignity to the side and indulge myself again, starting yesterday with the first bunch of auditions. And while so far I’ve yet so see anything both really different and really good (such as my favourites from last year, the drink-juggling Bar Wizards), it was worth the time I put into watching it, and the 13-year-old at the end of the programme is surely Paul Potts’ test-tube baby. It’s totally uncanny their resemblence, and I’m quite sure he’ll be there in the final live show. As usual, there was a lot of cringe-worthy rubbish on the show, but that’s quite enough talk about Piers Morgan.

My evening concluded with the show that followed Britain’s Got Talent on ITV, the award-winning American import Pushing Daisies. My interest in the show was only slight, and I only really thought about watching it when I realised that it was about to come on next. I’d heard of it in various SF and TV magazines and knew it was winning awards for being slightly quirky, but I really was unprepared for quite how quirky it is.

If you’re unfamiliar with the show, and I wouldn’t blame you, the premise is as follows: pie-maker Ned (Lee Pace) has the ability to bring dead things back to life with a touch, as he discovers at the age of 9 when his mother bursts a blood vessel in her brain and he resurrects her. Unfortunately, as evidenced when she kisses him goodnight that evening, if he touches those things again they die for good. What’s more, if he keeps that thing alive for more than a minute, something else will die instead to keep the balance – in this case, his neighbour, whose daughter “Chuck” (Anna Friel) he is in love with, drops dead instead. In the present day, a private investigator called Emerson (the excellent Chi McBride, last seen being excellent on House) finds out about Ned’s power when a man he’s chasing falls from a roof to his death only to touch Ned on the bounce and return to life. They start a business claiming rewards from murder cases by talking to the deceased and solving the crime. Eventually they cover the case of a woman who was murdered on a cruise ship – it turns out to be long-time-no-see soulmate Chuck who’s kicked it this time, and as he speaks to her in her coffin, Ned can’t bring himself to kill her for good, so some fat funeral director takes the bullet instead (metaphorically). Much romantic awkwardness ensues as the pair can not touch each other lest she keel over like the cadaver she really should be.

The thing about Pushing Daisies is that it’s the brightest thing on television. Immediately you are assaulted by full-power yellows and blues in corn fields that I’m pretty sure can not physically be that colourful, and from then on the tone stays exactly the same. Everything is sweet and sugary and happy, including a faintly nauseating narration by former Carry On regular Jim Dale, who if he keeps referring to Ned as “the pie-maker” may cause me to break my TV in frustration by episode three. It may well be that as the season goes on the continuous sweetness may eventually stop me watching but I was intrigued enough to decide to watch the next episode in a week’s time. Much of this is down to the overwhelmingly-cute Anna Friel (yes, that Anna Friel, who will, to her great frustration, probably always be known as the 16-year-old on Brookside who participated in the first-ever-in-Britain screen lesbian kiss), who is just totally compelling as the born-again village girl who muscles her way into Ned and Emerson’s enterprise. It’s great to see another English import do well overseas.

The big worry for me with Pushing Daisies is whether it can continue being interesting over more than one season (Friel is contracted for six-and-a-half years!) as the central premise loses its novelty. But I think I’m looking forward to finding out.

Backseat blogging

A lack of “news” material today (I hope you weren’t expecting me to cover the fact that gold is trading at $1000 an ounce for the first time ever) means I’ve got to think of something myself without being prompted by such trivialities as breaking stories.

I guess I could do a token piece on the US Presidential “race” (I wish they’d stop calling it that, even a marathon takes less than a day), but quite frankly I’m getting so bored of the whole thing. Why they all can’t decide internally on their candidates, or have all the states vote on the same day, or just fix it for Bush again, is beyond me. JUST END IT NOW, AMERICA!

So I won’t talk about that then. I should mention in passing that after I sent a general pressure email to my friends two days ago when I launched this blog, in which I politely guilt-tripped them all into reading, I received a reply from one of them who clearly fancies himself as a bit of a backseat blogger. (Not to sound ungrateful, particular reader, I appreciate your contributions. Keep them coming.) Anyway, this guy gave me a little list of things he thought I should talk about, and with a lack of material I have indeed turned to this list. First on it was the US Democrat nomination, which I have covered above as much as I feel I can without losing my will to live, so I might as well finish off the list.

It reads, in full: “The US democrat nomination, look at your favourite webcomics, websites, whatever, or do something on Eurovision. Or movies.”

So,

1. See above.

2. I am a regular reader of Questionable Content by Jeph Jaques, Ctrl-Alt-Del by Tim Buckley, and PvP Online by Scott Kurtz.

3. My go-to website when I have nothing to do is the BBC Sport page. I don’t visit as many websites as perhaps I should, there are a lot of geeky ones that I’m missing out on. Suggestions in the form of comments are very welcome indeed. I’m also a recreational user of Facebook (studies show it’s wise to refer to such things in drugs terminology) and I am contractually obliged to regularly visit MyFootballClub.co.uk, as through it I am a shareholder in Ebbsfleet United FC. More on that when The CDB Pod launches.

4. In retrospect, “whatever” probably wasn’t a specific suggestion, but I’ve come too far to turn back now.

5. Eurovision. Is it just me, or is that a really strange thing to come to after discussing Presidential elections and the web? Eh, anyway. I have a mixed relationship with Eurovision, probably because I watch British television. From a British perspective, Eurovision is horrible. These people really have got to decide whether they are taking it seriously or not. On one hand, Terry Wogan makes lots of noises about “we need a winning entry this year” or whatever, which is fair enough, he clearly cares about the whole thing, but then the BBC force him to present a choose-Britain’s-entry show in which an entire third of the voting ballot is made up of people who have histories of not winning public-vote TV singing contests IN THEIR OWN COUNTRY, LET ALONE EUROPE? It’s really sad, because like any sensible Brit I like Terry Wogan immensely and I don’t think I can handle him getting hurt again.

I’m going to fall out of list format now because it’s become clear that I’m actually writing an entire article on Eurovision now, so that pesky reader has got his way. I hope you’re proud of yourself – this is what you’ve done to me.

Of course, I say that in a cynical, hurt sort of way, but the truth is I do actually really like Eurovision. I will always make sure I am free on the night of the contest so that I can watch it with my family, because it is a great television event, as long as you set yourself free of the despair and painfully inevitable doom that comes from believing the British are in with any chance at all. There is much entertainment to be had watching people who actually think the contest is important (i.e. any country east of Germany). Every year, you are guaranteed to find at least one song, usually a handful, that are either fantastic fun because they’re quirky or actually a really really good song. I still want to find a copy of the Serbia & Montenegro entry from 2002, I think it was, when Wogan was somehow surprised that everyone liked it. It was a great, mysterious traditional folk thing that crept up on you out of nowhere. They came third, and they deserved more, if not for that pesky Ukrainian girl wearing Xena-style leather and cracking a whip.

Back to my point on how Britain chooses its entry, one of the talent-show failures inevitably won, in this case pleasant-but-dull-as-dishwater X-Factor reject Andy Abraham, and I hope he enjoys his nul points. There’s no way in hell Europe will vote for him. I haven’t even heard the song – I couldn’t bear to watch the show – but I saw him a couple of times on X-Factor (my mother and sister were watching it. I couldn’t watch anything else, I swear) and he appears to have pigeonholed himself into the grandparents-approved superficial soul niche. Considering that in the last few years, whip-flailing Ukrainian “roleplayers”, Tim-Burton-meets-Slipknot death metal and a transsexual granny from, er, Ukraine again, have enjoyed huge success, I’m not sure instantly-forgettable soul is what Europe wants right now.

Which leads me on to this question – why do we ask the public, who, let’s not forget, constantly prove themselves to be morons, choose between a bunch of people we’ve either never heard of before or have previously decided via a similar process are not talented enough to make it? Granted, it isn’t the 70s anymore, but Cliff Bloody Richard (full name) entered the thing about a million times back in the day! Many countries do actually enter people who have actual careers in music, and they do pretty well in general. I remember a conversation I had with my mother a few years ago when, for some unfortunate reason, Emma Bunton (Baby Bloody Spice, also a full name) came on the telly with some godawful video for some godawful song. This was her comeback before last, I hasten to add – the song got into the top 10, not #67 which I believe was as far as her latest attempt got – when she was actually popular. And my mother asked me “why don’t we get Emma Bunton to do Eurovision?”, and I couldn’t find a suitable answer for it. That was the year we entered James Fox, to put it into context. (What? You don’t remember him? Surely not, he came fourth in Fame Academy!)

So next year, can we please ditch the public phone vote and have at most three people who are involved in the music business in some way, and let them enquire to some actual musicians as to whether they’d like a go at restoring British pride. Call me crazy, but this year Britain are going to get beaten by a puppeted turkey. We cannot let that happen again.

The emailer had other points in his list, but I’ve forgotten what they are.

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P.S. A quick plug for a fantastic Eurovision book, Nul Points by Tim Moore. This fellow took it upon himself to visit everyone who ever scored the famous zero points, and it makes for a great read. Do check it out.