Aren't they supposed to be immortal?

Woke up this morning to this treat. (I got the DVD set for Christmas.)



Not sure what an angel and a demon are doing under lockdown. "Setting an example" sounds a bit flimsy.

Get thee to a nunnery

I'm looking forward to the upcoming television version of Good Omens.

God knows when I'll actually see it, because, once again, they're releasing it on some channel I don't get.

In the meantime, here's a treat, delivered, inexplicably, by a woman who has dyed her hair to match her shoes. With fellows who really don't understand what schizophrenia is.

Gang aft agley

Emotional wounds, like physical hurts, leave me chilled and exhausted. Shock is shock. At times like this, I turn to my tried-and-true therapies: family research, music, and (yes, still) David Tennant. When some warmth and energy return, I might go into detail, but right now, indulge me.

About a month ago, David Tennant received a special recognition award at the National Television Awards, held in London. What appeared on British television screens got posted on YouTube pretty damn quick, but just a couple of days ago, someone got hold of a video focussing on Tennant's reaction to the surprise presentation as he sat in the audience with his wife Georgia Moffett. This is made all the more touching by the recent revelation that Tennant's father Alexander McDonald is terminally ill.

As a matter of fact, I do know it's Christmas...

Racing down to the wire now. It is, as elder daughter points out, Christmas Eve's Eve. I've written my "aunt" letters for our surviving elderly aunts who are also non-computerized and thus need updating the old-fashioned way.

Of course, I keep running into pleasant distractions. Here's a gem. Theatre companies of (mostly) musicals in London, New York, Sweden, and Germany tear the lid off the old Bandaid classic "Do They Know It's Christmas?" for Water Aid.

Among the famous faces is none other than David Tennant, clad in a tacky Christmas sweater coveted by elder daughter (where oh where did you get it, DT?), and backed by the trio that sings the beautiful music in the Royal Shakespeare Company's current production of Richard II (hence Mr Tennant's prodigious plait).

Now I must knuckle down to the remaining Christmas cards. They'll be late, but after all, there are twelve days of Christmas….

MAAN-i-cure

Not everyone sees out Christmas by seeing one's youngerdaughter crowned The Royal Fool at a Twelfth Night celebration and having oneself serenaded with sonnets by two august members of the Company of Fools. Okay, one so-called sonnet was actually the lyrics to "Poker Face" as recited by the very handsome AL Connors, but being compared to a summer's day by the very intense Scott Florence was dreamy. Too bad I knew he was acting.

Then Epiphany dawned and I got all bogged down taking the decorations off the tree, so badly that I had to beg the Resident Fan Boy to only play major key music on the computer and to hide the tree out back until it's time to leave it out for the city.

Thankfully, I found this on the 'net yesterday. It's nowhere during the play, so I must assumed this was something reserved for those entitled few who actually got to to the theatre in person. Take it away, Davy and Cathy:

Wake me up before you nonny-nonny

Watching David Tennant and Catherine Tate in a filmed performance of Much Ado About Nothing downloaded to my computer is a bit like the live-stream videos of the Sunday services at my mother's church. Now there's something I never thought I'd be saying.

See, last week word came from DT fan sources that last summer's West End production of MAAN at Wyndham's Theatre would be available on DVD come February. Almost immediately, Amazon.co.uk seemed to back-pedal, announcing it wasn't happening just yet. Then word came through Doctor Who channels that this production is available now for downloading. You have to install something called Digital Theatre (DT - nice symmetry, wot?), and the downloading process takes more than four hours. Mind you, my computer is a bit of a dinosaur -- the programmes on it are almost two years old -- so that may be at the root of what ensued.

When I finally completed all this and settled down to watch, I found the images beautifully defined -- when the actors don't move much. Unfortunately, this production involves plenty of physical comedy, a revolving stage, and gyrating to eighties-style pop. When this happens, the images tend to freeze and jerk, and often the speech isn't quite synchronized to the moving lips. As I said, it's rather like the live stream of Unitarian church services in Victoria, which tends to freeze every time the camera pans or the congregation rises to sing a hymn. When the actors are still, they are beautifully visible, though; if you want to feast your eyes on Tennant's stubble and Tate's mole, you can do so. The audio, likewise, is crystal clear.

Anyway, it took me the first half hour to get over the distraction of the flashing and freezing and get into the story.

I've probably seen more productions of Much Ado About Nothing than any other Shakespeare play, although I've never sat down and done a tabulation. It is the one play I've seen at Stratford-upon-Avon (set in the British Raj with a line of Indian guards bellowing: "Stap in the niem of the Prince!"). It is a fine play, a rollicking play, but I actually have more difficulty with it than I do with The Taming of the Shrew or even The Merchant of Venice. This is because I find it hard to concentrate on the humour when, like Beatrice, I want to kill Claudio.

I wrote about a Company of Fools production of MAAN a couple of years ago which dealt with the problem of the Hero-and-Claudio plot by making both wronged Hero and cloddish, self-righteous Claudio attractive airheads. It worked very well. After all, why else would they end up married at the end of the play after Claudio has shamed Hero at their first attempted wedding on the flimsiest of evidence, unless both parties were not all that bright?

Tennant and Tate's version puts heavy emphasis on the rage of the wronged family: the reactions of Beatrice, Leonato, Ursula, and finally, Benedict to Claudio's (and the Prince's) appalling behaviour and lack of remorse. There still remains the problem of restoring the Prince and Claudio back to the status of "good guys", so we get to see Claudio go into paroxysms of grief in a vigil for the supposedly dead Hero with the aid of a bottle of whiskey, a ghetto-blaster and a pistol. He doesn't use the latter because he catches a brief glimpse of Hero whom he presumably mistakes for a ghost before the Prince arrives to escort him to his wedding to Hero's "cousin" (who turns out to be Hero herself, of course). It still doesn't quite work, but it's a nice try.

Things I liked about the production:

1) The neat conceit of paralleling Hero in this eighties-flavoured show with the late Diana, Princess of Wales, right down to her wedding dress. Too bad they didn't find a jug-eared actor to play Claudio.

2) The predicaments in which Benedict and Beatrice find themselves as they eavesdrop on their friends' staged conversations about their passion for each other. Benedict gets tangled up with cans of paint, and Beatrice is hoisted aloft by the seat of her pants (although the harness is clearly visible).

3) The serious scenes following Hero's shaming at her own wedding. I found myself, despite the technical distractions of this download, getting totally absorbed in events and believed, for the first time, that there was indeed a deep connection between Benedict and Beatrice. There was a truth there that simply hadn't been in the comedy which, coming from performances by Tennant and Tate, surprises me. Maybe they did too good a job of eighties shallow.

4) Elliot Levey's portrayal of the villainous Don John. This is a fiendishly difficult role to pull off because Don John is supposed to be a thoroughly unlikeable chap. He's shown here as being rather socially inept and it's clear that his princely brother Don Pedro loathes him. This rescues him from the second dimension and makes his actions more understandable.

On the downside, the director and Catherine Tate evidently decided to give Beatrice an awkward side. When Don Pedro suggests marriage, and when Benedict declares himself to her, Tate dissolves into odd vocalizations and hyperventilation. I can see what they were aiming for, but I found it more grating than humanizing and it rather spoiled my favourite line in the play (and possibly in all of Shakespeare), when Don Pedro comments that she was born in a merry hour and she replies: No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. In a flash of lyrical poignancy, we get the measure of Beatrice, but I think it was lost here.

I also didn't care much for Tennant's and Tate's more obvious playing to the audience. I'm sure it was far more amusing for those actually there, but it leaves us poor schmucks who couldn't come up with the airfare to London out in the cold.

All in all? It's good fun, but I feel I'm missing a lot due to the technical difficulties of this download and I really hope this is released to DVD soon.

Now THAT'S more like it...

I think it was when Matt Smith's Doctor was roaring along in a firetruck when I exclaimed: "David Tennant must be kicking himself!" (Or is that a spoiler? Sorry...)

I mean, he could have been in this. And after suffering through the five overwrought specials of the last year that even David Tennant and a crew of other fabulous actors couldn't quite redeem, wasn't this a relief? It was scary. It was naughty. It was witty. It was edge-of-your-seat action. It was, in short, Steven Moffat. All hail the Moff. Whew. And where did they get Caitlin Blackwood, as the young Amy? Wasn't she fabulous? I think this is going to work. Mind you, I've been watching Matt Smith in Party Animals on TVO for the past few weeks, and knew from that and what little else I've seen him in, that he's a competent actor and that's really all you need with Doctor Who, aside from good writing. Loved Karen Gillian as Amy, trying to run full out while pulling down her mini.

Elder daughter worked her magic, illegally downloading the episode overnight and has informed me that if I keep referring to Matt Smith as "Frankenstein", she's going to get very annoyed. I can't help it; he's a literal tête carré, and I still want to stick bolts in his neck. Never mind; he'll do.

I'm so relieved. I'm off to finish my chocolate before my family returns from church, where I trust they weren't praying to Santa Claus.

Oh, and please tell me Annette Crosbie will be making regular appearances....

I'm always the last to know...

I've just discovered that there's been a blog following the filming of David Tennant's Hamlet which is now in its final week! Among the tidbits of info: Jenny Fava, one of the assistant directors on Doctor Who is also assistant-directing here; it is apparently very well-catered...

You can also follow these "Illumination" guys as well as the Royal Shakespeare Company itself on Twitter, if you like that sort of thing. (I'm still bemused.)

The eleventh day of Christmas (drugging myself with Who news and new Whos)

There are advantages being over a certain age. I discovered that, since coming to Hades, that I can cry in public. And no one notices. So there I am sitting in Planet Coffee which is a really wonderful little coffee shop squirreled away in the Bytown Market, sorting through the thick grey sheets of younger daughter's extensive assessment report resulting from those tests back in November, y'know, when the Resident Fan Boy was knocked down and out? I had saved this for the end of Christmas, we had the feedback session in late November, so I pretty well knew what to expect, so I'm not crying from shock, it was (oh, how do I explain this?) the combination of grief over what ground appears to have been lost over younger daughter's four years of so-called integration into her local school, the consideration of how far she has come when you don't compare her to other children, but only to herself, and gratitude for the fact that somehow between the clinical terms and percentiles, this psychologist's compassion and caring still comes through. When I read an assessment report, which is never fun (unless you have a gifted child -- which I do, and even then it's a guilty pleasure, because you can't take credit for it), I look to see if I can recognise younger daughter amidst the jargon. I can, and I weep. For the compassion, for the tough road ahead, for how I've failed her. No one, as I say, notices.

It was a mixed morning. Elder daughter and I left younger daughter bellowing with excitement as she slid down the steep hill at McDonald Gardens Park, and I listened as elder daughter regaled me with the antics of "vloggers" (video loggers at YouTube) into town. Her clarinet teacher did not come down from his rather posh apartment to collect her at the lobby; he's a rather scattered young university student, so I sought out a payphone and left a rather curt message on his voice mail, informing him we'd been waiting 15 minutes after a 45-minute walk into town due to the bus strike and would wait another five before hiking back. He showed up a few minutes later and told us there would be no charge. Elder daughter informed me I'd scared him, when she joined me at the coffee shop an hour and a half later and my tears had long been safely put away. I thought I'd been firm and certainly not abusive, but I guess I'm a dragon lady after all. I heard all about Twilight on the way home; she thinks the movie is cheesy but Robert Pattinson is hot.

Matt Smith (the new Doctor on Doctor Who after David Tennant's imminent and lamented departure) is not what I'd call hot (not that I use that terminology) but he looks "interesting" if way too young. Elder daughter is miffed when I pretend to check his neck for bolts. I'm sure he'll be fine; there's always Steven Moffat's writing for consolation. Just as I'm taking this ridiculous kerfuffle as consolation now.

This morning, I told younger daughter that school starts again tomorrow. She began to weep quietly, while I told her how brave she was, and that I would do everything I could to help. Then I went into the bathroom and had a little weep myself. When I came out, elder daughter was curled up in her bed, looking at me quietly. The heating vent from the bathroom opens out into her room.

....and He (She?) has a warped sense of humour....

...because I couldn't get Disc Number One or Five to play --- and those are the ones with the David Tennant video diaries. Furthermore, these are scant, compared to previous seasons because DT claims he hasn't "any more stories to tell". For gawd's sake, man, unbutton your shirt a little and read the phone book! These discs will play on the upstairs DVD player, but get this, we accidentally lost the remote in the waste bin one Garbage Day and we can't access "Special Features". Aaaaaargh!! I finally got both discs to play downstairs, but only saw a few minutes of the video diary before rushing out to retrieve younger daughter from school. Now I'm home, the Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter are watching "Voyage of the Damned" without any features and it isn't even one of the good ones....

What exactly did I do to tick you off, God? (No, no, put that list away...)

There is a God

Sorry, not meaning to upset my atheist friends, but the last 24 hours have stunk to high heaven, and it's taken every ounce of strength that I have not to sink into the slough of despond. Someone rapped on our front door:

See you later...

Just what I need with winter closing in...

The axe has fallen. Curfew has rung. David Tennant is leaving Doctor Who. Music cue:

Okay, maybe it isn't. But damn...

(This YouTube video is the work of Marlene Steinberg of California, who is obviously very creative and clever. And possibly somewhat disturbed. As am I, at the moment...)

Catch a falling star leaf

Are all superstitions delusions or proof of impossibly magical thinking? I think superstitions can be useful metaphors. Take lucky pennies (and I do, at every opportunity). I found five last weekend, and I saw them because I was not rushing, I happened to look down, and I was willing to stoop to scoop them up. The Resident Fan Boy is fond of saying that luck is preparation plus opportunity. A lucky penny illustrates that nicely. If I'm with someone, I hand it to them, saying: Find a penny, give it away; have good luck for the rest of the day. That's not magical thinking; that's a reminder.

So every autumn, I try to catch falling leaves. It's actually devilishly difficult. If the wind is high, they whoosh above my head. If the wind is low, there are few leaves that appear to drift lazily down, but dip and slip off in a random directions even as I reach. Others fall in scores just where I'm not standing. See, I read in a book in the school library that every leaf caught while falling is good for a wish. I aim for six leaves each year, three leaves per the two most desperate desires from my own personal Mirror of Erised. (Check Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets if you don't catch that reference. That J.K. Rowling knows some dark truths about the human psyche.)

Thus, every tree becomes a tree of dreams: fiery ones, crimson and scarlet ones


and golden ones.

And what prevents me from catching leaves? Sometimes someone is approaching me and I feel too self-conscious, sometimes I simply don't have the speed or agility, sometimes I don't want to trespass or get run over, sometimes my arms are full, and sometimes a child is holding my hand. See? It is a metaphor...

This morning, I made the time to catch leaves, but I always seemed to be standing in the wrong place. As I made my way down the hill, a gust blew a shower of them across the street, and I swept my arms towards my chest, looked down and two golden maple leafs were clutched to my left collarbone. I kissed each and made my wishes, tucking them in my breast pocket. A few minutes later, an ash leaf sailed by and I simply reached out and snatched it from the air. This brings my total to four because last week when I was taking most of these pictures (in fact, it was while I was taking this very picture), a leaf swooped down and landed on my left shoulder. I tell you, my friends, in all my years of leaf-catching and wish-snatching, that has never happened before. Nor is likely to happen again.

Oh, and as for my Mirror of Erised wishes? They may be on their way, but no signs yet. And if I tell you what they are, everyone knows they'll never come true. (No, nothing to do with David Tennant...)

Synchronicity

Every now and then in my life, when the time is so often out of joint (probably due to my less-than-steller organizational skills and self-discipline), I get a little gift of synchronicity. Some time ago, I blogged a bit on William Shatner and his musings on parenthood. This morning, while waiting on the kindness of internet strangers for more internet goodies related to the penultimate Doctor Who cliff-hanger, I checked my "recommended" page at YouTube and found this surreal rendition of Pulp's Common People featuring William Shatner reciting the lyrics with vocal back-up by Joe Jackson, plus Ben Folds on the keyboards:
Good Lord.

And what do I find in the video response section for this? A Doctor Who fan-vid set to the original Pulp recording of Common People. It's a competent effort (I much prefer the original video which was one of the last music videos I clearly recall enjoying), but it's rather fun to see Rose smiling smugly to the line "Everybody hates a tourist, especially when he thinks it's all such a laugh", so in honour of those excited over Rose's return over the final three episodes of this season (which doesn't include me -- although I'm perfectly pleased to see her back), I include it here:

Pirouettes and popcorn

With younger daughter's birthday party in less than a week, I'm battling back the panic with a clever combination of small accomplishments and major procrastination. However, finding a focus for younger daughter's Saturday since her tutor moved away is a weekly must. This week we decided to try one of the artistic offerings at the local cinema. I've noticed them in the paper for the past couple of years. For about twice what you'd pay for a movie ticket, you can go see a sort of one-time-only screening of a recent production of an opera or ballet from New York or London. We decided to take the leap with the Royal Ballet's production of Frederick Ashton's ballet Tales of Beatrix Potter

Younger daughter is thoroughly familiar with almost all the stories, so we set out in the oppressive humidity (which, sadly, isn't nearly as bad as it's going to get) via a thankfully air-conditioned bus to the air-conditioned multiplex at World Exchange in downtown Ottawa (and it better damn well be, at those prices). The higher price gets you greeted at the door of the designated showroom by one of the older ushers, who hands you a programme. We entered to find a sea of white heads. No complaints there; I'm rapidly joining their ranks and they tend to be more considerate to fellow-attendees. To my relief, a number of children, all girls of course, arrived closer to the screening time. This is supposed to be in high definition, but these shows are usually shown in Silver City which has the big bucks equipment, so I didn't notice anything fabulous about the clarity.

Younger daughter was entranced, and I enjoyed the ballet in-jokes: Jemima Puddleduck departs the stage like a combination Dying Swan/Odette; Pigling Bland and his partner use moves from the Sleeping Beauty pas-de-deux. Oh, and the steeper ticket price also gets you an intermission and a bathroom break which is a welcome thing, considering real ballet-goers aren't usually eating popcorn and sipping on pop during the show. It's Sleeping Beauty in a couple of weeks; maybe we'll go.

Now, wouldn't it be lovely if they decided to film David Tennant's Hamlet like this? I understand it's sold out...

Memed again...

Rob of the madly eclectic blog Eine Kleine Nichtmusik has "memed" me with an interesting one: List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they’re listening to.

Shaping my spring? Hmmmn. Well number 1 is easy; I just blogged about it --- You'd Think by Now by Carrie Newcomer, one of those songs that get into the sore spots of your life, then presses down. Lovely song, tough situation to be in...

2. Well, as I blogged yesterday, we've just seen The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, and while the music isn't the strongest point of the show (songs are pleasant enough, but the overall humour is what makes the show entertaining), I have had the theme song stuck on the brain (watch for special guest Al Sharpton in this excerpt performed at the Tony Awards):

3. I'm been turning to The Proclaimers for comfort quite a bit this spring, but I really have a soft spot for "When You're In Love" from their Perseverance album: "Romantic love rots your brain, no doubt about it/ You're out of your mind..." Oh darlin', no truer words spoken (or sung):

4. For some Can/Con, I've been singing Had Enough of You Today, my favourite song from Bark by Blackie and the Rodeo Kings (a sort of folk/rock/country super-group comprised of Stephen Fearing, Tom Wilson, and Colin Linden - okay, they're reasonably well-known as solo artists in Canada). Can't find a decent You Tube performance of this rocker so the 30 seconds at Amazon.ca will have to do. I think this is Tom Wilson's song (ooh, just checked and he co-wrote it with Davor Valuma [a record producer in Vancouver] and Bryan Potvin of The Northern Pikes -- no wonder I love it!) and he wrote it after a road trip with his mother and his ex-wife, but we've all had days like this. Love the grrrrind...

5. I was listening to Colin Murray's "In the Company of" on BBC radio with guest star David Tennant, and right afterwards they played this amazing song, "Oxford Comma" by Vampire Weekend: Just to give the illusion that I'm in the know...

6. I've loved "Face the Face" by Pete Townsend for years, but lately have been attempting to find a clean version of the original video, which features, among other things, a turn by Pete's daughter. All I can find is this posting with the first verse missing: Oh hell, let's jive!

7. Another one I loved for years is the Rankin Family's version of Ho Ro Mo Nighean Donn Bhoidheach. I just heard a version in English yesterday "Ho Ro My Nut-Brown Maiden" which was all testosterone, lust, and thrusting. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be sung, but I adore this dreamy wistful interpretation with its lovely harmonies and round-like ending:


So there, I guess, is my musical spring this year. It's actually not the meme that's tough; it's the tagging. I tend to "lurk" at most blogs, and those where I actually speak up are darned busy blogs. Darnit, I'm only going to tag three people. (Does this mean I'll die at midnight, or lose a million dollars or something?) I tag Vanessa of Stopping to Eat the Roses for her no doubt interesting perspective from her perch in the Philippines, Jonas of Poetry in Motion who has recently rejoined us in blogger-land, and Jane Henry of Maniac Mum who, as a writer and mother of four, clearly doesn't have enough to do. Now I suppose I have to go tell these lucky people that they're "it"....

I'm in love...

...but it's a warm, maternal sort of love. Liam is 18, a student in Edinburgh, and hysterically funny. He's two years older than my elder daughter, and I'm sure his mum's heart melts on a regular basis. Liam is also a "vlogger", and his videos, which I stumbled upon yesterday, were really my introduction to serious "video-logging" which boasts quite a community consisting of young people talking mostly about themselves. Liam's differences are his witty presentation, clever editing, spot-on timing --- and the fact that he's a dead ringer for David Tennant. What follows are two examples of his work. In the first, Liam reveals a worrying development:
He's rather adorable, isn't he? Here, Liam tries to "vlog", but keeps getting hijacked by a certain time traveller: This is one clever fella! I plan to keep watching him, because I'm sure he's going on to great things!

Just a short one...

The new season of Doctor Who has produced a spate of fan tributes at YouTube; unfortunately, it's mostly the Ten/Rose bunch, all in a dither about Rose's impending return (however brief) to the series later this season. I don't mind a good Doctor and Rose fanvid, but it actually has to be good. Really, really good. Otherwise, my points have to go to those intrepid vid-makers who have actually moved on. I'm delighted to see "Thehellishgnome" has pulled together a delightful ode to the petiteness of both the Sontarians and Martha Jones who have appeared in the Doctor Who two-parter that concluded last night. (Last night, I said I was hoping the second part might be better than the first part. And it was, though admittedly, it wouldn't have taken much. The ageing fan-boys seem happy, so that's something. I say, bring on the Doctor's daughter, the Steven Moffat two-parter, and Agatha Christie's alien wasp...)

I hadn't actually noticed that Freema Agyeman was all that short, but she does always seem to be in heels: The song (for you infants) is Short People by Randy Newman. It caused quite a kerfuffle in the late Seventies, because Little People thought Randy Newman was being offensive. He said it was a poke at prejudice and discrimination of all kinds.

As if I didn't have better things to do

It will be a few hours before the first illegal postings of Doctor Who appear on the Internet, so I was blog-checking and noticed that Rob of The Medium is Not Enough is posting pictures of David Tennant sitting (or lolling or reclining), in order to titillate the fan-girls. (Rob's or David's? I'm not sure. I still haven't quite forgiven the former for an vitriolic review of the television series "Saving Grace", based on sixteen minutes of viewing. And he thinks fundamentalists are judgmental. But I digress.) I just happen to have this hidden away for my private enjoyment, so I tried to share it. It showed up beautifully in the preview of the comment field, but failed to show up in the published form. But it's too good to keep to myself. (It's Thom Yorke --the lead singer of Radiohead -- with DT and Catherine Tate in the holding tank at the Jonathan Ross talk show a month or so ago. I think they're watching some sort of snake-handler. Or John Hurt.)

Oh well. Back to waiting. I'm not sure why I'm anxious; it's the second part of a two-parter by Helen Raynor and the first part was not great. She did a two-parter last year and the first part was better than the second part. So maybe the second part will be better. Gawd, I really do have better things to do...

Bohemian Like Whoa!

I like Bohemian Like You by the Dandy Warhols, but when I added the song to my ILike list on Facebook, it brought up a rather graphic video. I don't mind that so much, but I don't like stuff being sprung on me, so here's another Doctor Who fanvid tastefully pulled together by "piffo". It's nice to have options. Right?