Project Runway’s fäde zu grau makes and wears ‘ATHEIST’ t-shirts

Greta Christina will be mad she didn’t catch this.

Remember that Project Runway contestant fäde zu grau, mit seinem komisch ausgesprochenen Namen? (If you didn’t know, it’s a pun on ‘fade to grey’.) Mid episode, I spotted him wearing this shirt.

fäde1

Being from the DDR, it’s not surprising if he’s an atheist – but he seems to make the shirts himself too.

fäde2Interviewed by Project Runway‘s producers, he says the following:

If you had to name your label, you’d call it…
I do have labels that I work on right now, nothing selling yet, only for myself. One is called ‘messfit’ (a combination of ‘messy’ and ‘misfit’) another ‘happy atheist.’

Perhaps he could collaborate with the Atheist shoe company in Berlin – their shop is only a few streets from my house.

Highlight text for spoilers: Sadly fäde was sent home in the latest episode, but perhaps we’ll see more of him in future.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

GiTfollowthisblogonfacebook

Buffy, Project Runway and queer politics: Greta Christina and Alex Gabriel in conversation

Greta and I did another of our Google Hangouts – this time on vampire-reensoulment ethics in BuffyProject Runway and Under the Gunn; horror in the queer imagination and arguments about assimilation.

Annoyingly the Google elves cut us off just over an hour in, but the plan is that we’ll reconvene shortly and talk more on assimilationism – as well as the Oxford comma.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

GiTfollowthisblogonfacebook

Recommended reading: bumper edition

Life happened and I haven’t posted much recently. While I catch up on the work, you can all catch up on the reading.

  • ‘On The Ethics of Vampire Slaying in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, by Greta Christina (io9)
    I was recently re-watching ‘Becoming, Parts 1 and 2’, those Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes where geeky witch Willow does a spell to give the vampire Angel his soul back. And suddenly I had a burning ethical question. Why don’t they just keep doing the re-ensoulment spell — on all vampires? Or at least, on all the vampires that they can?
  • ‘I Re-Watched Forrest Gump So No One Else Ever Has To’, by Lindy West (Jezebel)
    ‘Hello!’ Gump says to the lady. ‘My name’s Forrest. Forrest Gump. You want a chock-lit? I could eat about a million of these. My momma always said life is like a box of chock-lits. You never know what you’re gonna get.’ I mean, you mostly know. They write it on the lid
  • ‘101 Sins I Commit During the World Cup and Ramadan Just in One Day’, by Kaveh Mousavi (The Ex-Hijabi Photo Journal)
    I eat. I drink. I smoke weed. I masturbate. I will have sinned at least 3030 times by the time this month has ended. See you all in Hell, my human friends.
  • ‘You’re Not Oppressed, White Atheist Dudes’, by Stephanie Zvan (Almost Diamonds)
    It’s the Dear Muslima of atheist progressives, so knock it off. If you’re hearing complaints from white guys about oppression that isn’t some form of ‘reverse discrimination’, you’re likely looking at an iceberg.
  • ‘An Open Letter To The “Women Who Don’t Need Feminism”. Here’s a Clue: You Do’, by Laurie Penny (The Debrief)
    If you are ever raped, or beaten by your partner, and you suddenly realise how monstrous it is to be told to ‘take responsibility’ for violence that has been done to you, to be told that you asked for it, to be intimidated into silent smiles so you don’t upset the boys, we’ll be here.
  • ‘Here’s what happens when you try to shoot Walter White into space’, by Kevin Collier (The Daily Dot)
    A group connected with the app TV Tag attached a bobblehead depicting Breaking Bad‘s Walter White to some sort of amazing balloon, then filmed the micro-Heisenberg’s ascent as it soars near a claimed 85,000 feet, into the stratosphere.
  • ‘“Unspeakable Things”’: the predictable sexist troll backlash’, by Laurie Penny (Penny Red)
    Today, they moved in on my book, Unspeakable Things, which was released two weeks ago. On the 20th July, a racist, misogynist Twitter account going by the moniker ‘@TurboHolborn’ posted a link to the customer review page of Unspeakable Things, with the instruction ‘let the trolling commence’. Subsequently, over 20 one-star reviews full of vile sexist and scatological language were posted on the UK page of Unspeakable Things, almost all of them from users who had reviewed nothing else.
  • ‘Why the Medical Model of Disability is Harmful’, by spasticfantastic1995 (Skeptability)
    It gives society at large a metaphorical “free-pass.” It suggests that we have lower quality of life based on our pathologies, and it doesn’t look into the impact of societal attitudes and structures.
  • ‘Mocking Versus Understanding Religion’, by Miri Mogilevsky (Brute Reason)
    I’ve actually spoken to many Orthodox Jews for reasons other than to mock them in front of my Facebook friends. They are very aware of how others perceive them.
  • ‘Love the Machine – Review of Spike Jonze’s Her (Haywire Thought)
    Samantha is probably a ‘real mind’ in the eyes of most major philosophical theories asides religion-based dualism. But it’s not that which makes Samantha convincing AI.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

GiTfollowthisblogonfacebook

In the Flesh: the best LGBT series since Queer as Folk

As I write, zombie drama In the Flesh is soon to air its second series’ penultimate episode. Chances are you’re reading this after watching; those who aren’t, spoilers follow.

Flesh, which last month won BAFTA’s Best Miniseries award, is a knockdown argument for several things, among them BBC Three’s value, the rewards of employing first-time writers and why genre shows will never, ever be low brow. It’s one of the best things on television, as well as one of its freshest takes on the undead. (Creator Dominic Mitchell, who clearly knows horror inside out, describes it as what would happen ‘if Alan Bennett and Ken Loach got together and did a zombie show’.) The apocalypse has come and gone, and those with ‘Partially Deceased Syndrome’ – among them depressive, perpetually eighteen Kieren Walker – are re-entering society amid mistrust and violence. The risen are the heroes here; the living, the monsters.

Critics have said all this before. I want to say what In the Flesh means to me personally – why it has a place in my heart as well as in my viewing schedule. Kieren, like me, is from a remote northern English town; like me he longs to escape, planning at one point to move to Berlin as I did. Like me he’s bookish, artistic and reserved; like me he self-harmed and, like me, he’s queer. (The first series unfolds against the backdrop of his prior relationship with best friend Rick, which ended bloodily.) Kieren’s story, death and resurrection notwithstanding, is my story, and while LGBT characters are everywhere, Flesh is the first TV drama to make me feel my sexuality is represented.

Outside shows where everyone is gay, such characters are almost never the protagonist, and Kieren, more rarely still, is canonically bisexual. Beside an ambiguous connection with undead bon vivant Amy, both his romantic interests have been men to date, but Mitchell – understanding perhaps that same-sex pairings are for some of us the default – doesn’t bend over backwards to shoehorn a straight encounter in. His lead’s bisexuality doesn’t need to be proven, and is superbly handled, neither fetishised nor sensational. Kieren isn’t another gender-blind sex fiend like Jack Harkness, Oberyn Martell or Sherlock‘s Irene Adler, nor a depraved Bad Bisexual like Tony Stonem, Faith or John Hart. In fact, his quietness makes him one of television’s first bi characters to have the texture of a real person.

In fact, Flesh’s portrayal of queer sexuality in general is exceptionally good. Although he displays angst about his village’s homophobia, killing himself over the loss of Rick (whose insecurity appears as a flaw), Kieren never seems cut up about liking men, and it isn’t what the series is about. The fact he’s not straight is just there. This said, Mitchell and co-writers Fintan Ryan and John Jackson never fall into tokenism. Characters in mainstream shows we’re told just happen to be gay often feel only nominally non-straight, experience not colouring their outlook in any realistic way, but Kieren’s sexuality intertwines beautifully with his undead status. ‘I don’t take orders from a lad who wears makeup’, antagonist Gary tells him at one point, referring not just to the cover-up concealing his corpse-white skin, and his relationship with Rick is inseparable in Rick’s father’s eyes from their both being zombies. Simon, the undead liberationist he begins seeing in series two, is uncomfortable dressing respectably to meet the parents over Sunday lunch – a reflection of his views on straight society, surely, as much as his feelings about the living?

Moments like this stir memories of X-Men‘s ‘coming out’ scene and other onscreen allegories. But Kieren’s, Rick’s and Simon’s queerness isn’t allegorical: it’s real. Where LGBT people’s best hope has often been to read ourselves into the story, these characters are queer as much as they are zombies, and this isn’t subtext, it’s text. It adds to Flesh’s deconstruction of the genre, whose traditional heroes – straight men with guns – it makes the homophobic villains such figures often are for us in reality.

What’s best of all is that gay relationships here, especially Kieren’s with Simon, have realistic context, politics and meaning. Their first kiss isn’t the arbitrary lip-locking of Jack and Ianto or Kurt and Blaine on Glee, but a moment of choice and transformation. ‘You’d be amazed what I can do to your sort,’ Gary tells Kieren, stamping on another zombie’s head, ‘and what you can do sod all about.’ Simon, who if Kieren is teenage me must be who I am now, has berated him lacking defiance, trying to fit in and trusting the living too much – so when Kieren appears, incensed, at his door soon, his kiss is a turning point and an admission: Help me. I need you. You were right. What he learns from Simon, displayed at one point in a fierce monologue at the dinner table, is to let go of thirst for the acceptance of others – the same righteous rage many of wish our younger selves had had.

It fits the series’ theme of resurrection as a gift and second chance. ‘This time’, Kieren’s mum tells him in series one when Rick is killed a second time and suicide beckons, ‘you live’ – and his choice to do so is a scriptwriting rebellion against the tragic, morbid sexuality of queer characters past, too many of them dying by obligation. With solid, three-dimensional figures and true-to-life relationships, Mitchell invites us to un-bury our gays.

There are so, so many reasons to love In the Flesh. The fact it’s the best LGBT show since Queer as Folk is as good as any.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

GiTfollowthisblogonfacebook

Conchita Wurst never needed your acceptance

I didn’t want to like Conchita Wurst. Perhaps it was that Britain’s Eurovision act this year, our best for some time, was outperformed by busty Polish milkmaids, but as Austria stormed the vote and our stuffy Berlin bar cheered, I couldn’t summon much enthusiasm. Try as I might, she’s grown on me.

Like Lordi and Dana International, Fr. Wurst will likely be remembered longer than her song. There’s an argument her win is a step backward for the contest: apart from Azerbaijan’s Ell and Nikki, of whose act I recall nothing, winners since 2009 have reaped the rewards of strong material. ‘Rise Like A Phoenix’, a sort of Shirley Bassey Bond pastiche, is as subtle as anything you’d expect of a drag queen with a beard; it’s not bad, but nor was it as well devised as Sweden’s song, as well performed as Spain’s or as unexpected as the Netherlands’.

Conchita’s irresistible narrative was what clinched her the win – attacked in native Austria, slandered by Russian ministers yet loved by Eurofans, a stubbly Cinderella in moist-eyed reaction shots. That story only ends one way: when the Danish host congratulated her, asking if she had any words, Conchita instantly replied she did. ‘This night is dedicated to everyone who believes in a future of peace and freedom. You know who you are; we are unity, and we are unstoppable.’ Up in the air the trophy went, as it always had to.

Who was ‘we’, and on whose behalf did Wurst speak? While her enemies described her as a ‘clear hermaphrodite’, alter ego Tom Neuwirth calls himself a male drag artist with no urge to transition. If in-character, he’s made trans women’s next ambassador, anger – not least following recent tensions – will be understandable. On the night, she certainly played to that script, lyrics telling of transformation and a stranger in the mirror, lighting revealing her beard last of all. Even viewing Wurst simply as a gay man, we’ve watched the same scene on reality TV a thousand times, queer contestant humbled by accepting viewers’ generosity. It’s always rung hollow – but one senses Neuwirth, a veteran of such contests, is in on the act.

Eight years ago he rose to prominence on Starmania, Austria’s Idol-on-a-budget institution. In clips which resurfaced this week, his drag act’s crowdpleasing big notes and brassy camp are on show there, making up for his voice’s limitations. Conchita, who debuted on a primetime talent competition in 2011, seems to have been the logical end point of both: playing to Neuwirth’s strengths as well as being a talking point, she’s the persona his career needed. It’s not by chance Wurst first sought to compete at Eurovision mere months after this television breakthrough. If on camera she shows cultivated vulnerability, it’s because Neuwirth is shrewd at what he does.

‘Rise Like A Phoenix’ is a grander song by far than what she offered at the time: chances are if she’d won her country’s nomination then, she would have fallen at the semifinals. Moreover though, it casts her more perfectly as an object for sympathy than 2012’s disco anthem to self-love. The hostility – especially in Russia – that led voters to rally behind Conchita has escalated considerably since then. Might not Neuwirth, after giving 2013’s Contest a miss, have smelt an opportunity in it?

Provocation, he tells the newspaper Kurier in an interview, is the ‘whole point’ of his art. ‘The beard more than anything is a way for me to polarise people, to make them pay attention to me. The world reacts to a woman with facial hair. What I hope is that the less-than-ordinary way I look makes people think – about sexual orientation, but just as much about being different in itself. Sometimes you have to tell people plain and simple what’s what.’ Does this square with the helpless victim Europe saw fit to rescue?

Conchita never needed your acceptance: she played on the ego of her would-be saviours, as she played those behind the backlash against her. Their aggression, without which she would now amount to nothing, was part of the plan. How fragile, after all, can someone truly be who sings in heels, frock and facial hair for 120 million people?

Neuwirth’s character, while not possessing the best voice or song, will go down as a Eurovision sweetheart, but it’s the brain that’s won me over: I never could dislike a queen who knows so clearly how the game is played.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

Weird and wonderful: why Matt Smith’s Doctor was better than David Tennant’s

000At Christmas, in a sudden, violent lurch, Peter Capaldi’s face became the Doctor’s. His announcement in the role pleased critics and excited fans as David Tennant’s had in 2005, fresh off the smash-hit set of Casanova – both actors, loved by the public as it was, were hotly tipped for the part. Capaldi, pictured last month in his incarnation’s costume, was by all means a great choice, but I couldn’t avoid mild disappointment. I didn’t want another David Tennant. I wanted a Matt Smith.

‘Who’s he?’, family members asked indignantly when Smith’s casting went public. Headlines were similar. However the Doctor looked, he didn’t look like that. The Doctor’s face was famous – it had eyebrows, not a six inch quiff or polystyrene-block chin. And he didn’t wear turnups, hipster tweed or dicky bows. Whovians winced when on-set photos first emerged, Smith hands-behind-back in dad jacket and charity shop shirt. Where now the gravitas and style of Tennant’s greatcoat, his pinstripe suit’s effortless chic?

Then ‘The Eleventh Hour’ aired in 2010. Bow ties were cool, the new lead said… and suddenly, near magically, they were.

Tennant’s Doctor owed his popularity to populism, handsome, charming and more human than Christopher Eccleston’s had been. Pundits urged his casting when they sensed he’d play a version people liked – like Jon Pertwee’s and Peter Davison’s, Ten was dashing, spry and classically heroic, the handsome head boy with top grades and track prizes. Of all the Doctors, he could most easily be from a different franchise, Buffy or Harry Potter say; at Hogwarts he’d have been a Gryffindor. Russell T Davies envisioned a mainstream, commercial Who, primetime hit rather than fan indulgence, which meant a mainstream and commercial hero. Ten’s character, like his costume, was pitched to be crowdpleasing, a matey, likeable leading man giving noughties viewers what they wanted. They fell for him, and so did his companions.

Smith’s Doctor was, by contrast, weird. He ate fish custard, danced terribly and couldn’t say no to a fez, looked twelve but acted eighty, moralised then all but murdered. In costume, character and casting, he was leftfield where his predecessor was a shoe-in TV lead – less instantly accessible a take, but finished all the more impressively for it. Tennant, though a formidable actor, played a character fangirls and -boys would always have swooned over – he never had to work that hard for their affection. That Smith’s Doctor, like his bow tie, was a harder sell is what makes his success remarkable, the product of a singular, tirelessly layered performance.

‘I don’t even have an aunt’, Eleven tells Amelia Pond minutes after his birth, who lives with hers without a mum or dad. He’s lucky, she says. ‘I know’, he answers – the slightest bit too fast, voice tinged with satisfaction, even pleasure. Blink (don’t) between Scottish jokes and nonsense meals, and you’ll miss the ruthlessness Smith sneaks into the line, infusing grief with disturbing new bravado. If Ten was a lionheart like Three and Five, Eleven was a dark-sided eccentric of the Troughton-McCoy school, bumbling to all appearances but stone-hearted, sinister even, when need be. It’s a more complex and interesting portrayal, at least to me. ‘Look Solomon’, he tells David Bradley’s villain later on, targeting his craft with its own deadly weapons. ‘The missiles. See how they shine.’

Tennant played a similar moment in ‘The Family of Blood’ (2007), but never quite found Smith’s brooding subtlety. Who could forget ‘The Doctor’s Wife’, four years later? ‘Fear me,’ sentient asteroid House threatens Eleven, ‘I’ve killed hundreds of Time Lords.’ ‘Fear me,’ he replies with a nod, part haunted, part self-satisfied. ‘I’ve killed all of them.’

In his fair and relevant critique of Steven Moffat’s writing, ‘The Captain Kirk Problem: How Doctor Who Betrayed Matt Smith’, Ted B. Kissell attacks this incarnation’s habits of ‘telling people how awesome he is’ and scheming deviously, damning Eleven as ‘a swaggering bully – who also withholds vital information from the people about whom he supposedly cares’. This was what made him work. Deceiving Martha was the most manipulative Ten ever got, but Smith’s Doctor (as River Song was fond of pointing out) lied constantly and to everyone – Amy, Rory and Clara for a start. The Doctor’s more interesting when he’s less of a white knight, but more than that, it’s what made this one’s playful whimsy meaningful. Eleven indulged his eccentricities to hide his heart of darkness. His childish side mattered because often, it was a front.

Who’d never had such an intricately woven lead. It may not again. Yes, Ten went off the rails in ‘The Waters of Mars’ (2009), but only because hubris was the obvious flaw to script such an unreconstructed hero. Tennant is a script-led actor, hence his success in Shakespeare, but one always sensed Smith, who studied Creative Writing and devised his character by making up short stories, knew more about him than anyone. His Doctor was seldom if ever obvious – instead of giving viewers what we wanted, he gave us what we’d never seen before, then made us fall in love with it.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

Chutney, pineapples and flying spaghetti: why atheism can never be inoffensive enough

This month, posters were snatched from an atheist group at South Bank University. ‘Looking for logic?’ they read, Flying Spaghetti Monster in God’s place on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. ‘Pastafarianism is a real religion.’ Not quite The Satanic Verses, but student union officials took them down in the society’s absence, afraid they’d trigger ‘religious offence’. (The union has since apologised.)

The row recalled a string of prior ones. Censors initially claimed the problem to be Michelangelo’s Adam, painted nude, but changed once offered a blurred-out version to fears of offensiveness. We’ve seen this bait-and-switch before: when UCL’s union tried to ban Jesus and Mo from its atheist group’s Facebook page, complaints were just as interchangeable – the cartoons, said critics jumping between bad arguments, were wrong to show Mohammed in a pub, blasphemous for depicting him at all, or else a form of ‘bullying and harassment’. Officers’ invasiveness is likewise familiar: when LSE’s atheists wore Jesus and Mo shirts at their freshers’ fair, union staff ‘started removing material’; a year before, when Reading’s labelled a pineapple Mohammed, authorities ‘seized [it] and tried to leave’.

Drawings of the Prophet; fruit with his name; the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Targets of censure on our campuses grow, by the year, absurder. The pineapple, displayed in reference to a teacher prosecuted in Sudan for calling her class teddy bear Mohammed, was no doubt chosen for its innocence. The Monster, like space teapots or invisible pink unicorns, is a generic spoof-god – mocking no faith in particular, targeting no one for abuse. It’s a nicer god than any mainstream one, as venomless as parody could be. These items are whimsical, silly, fun. To call them offensive is to take offence per se at anyone finding religion funny.

Atheist blasphemy, even as atheism is blasphemy, has been called gratuitous. Drawing Islamic prophets like Jesus and Mo, or for Everybody Draw Mohammed Day, is one example. Mocking the Eucharist, like PZ Myers or Goodness Gracious Me – whose banned sketch where a British Asian adds chutney to his wafer visibly pained Ann Widdecombe – is another. These exercises, we’re told, are intolerant and crass, offending with intent and for the sake of it. It’s rarely true, but anyway: if any atheist meme attempts the opposite, being as inoffensive as it can, surely the FSM does? If Spaghetti Monsters are aggressive enough to ban, what isn’t?

‘There’s probably no god’, Ariane Sherine’s Atheist Bus Campaign proclaimed, ‘now stop worrying and enjoy your life.’ Just calling oneself an atheist, most of time, says something not unlike that, but the ASA got 141 complaints. When the British Humanist Association pushed for better census data, railway companies refused to run its ads, which read ‘If you’re not religious for God’s sake say so’ – suggesting nothing either way about believers or belief. In Pennsylvania, bus owners rejected signs as overly controversial and provocative which would have read ‘Don’t believe in God? You are not alone’ and, in one case, simply ‘Atheists.

The advert U.S. bus owners refused to run

Unbelief can never be inoffensive enough. Items like these – bus and rail ads, sketches, spoilt Communion wafers, Mohammed drawings, Jesus and Mo, the pineapple, the Flying Spaghetti Monster – are awkward reminders atheists exist, and this alone, it seems, makes them impolite, unwelcoming and intolerant. Widdecombe, gasping in anguish for the cameras at the gentlest fun-pokes, seems genuinely unready for a world where not everyone shares her beliefs or has grace enough to act as if they do. In theory, no doubt, she’d concede atheists their right to draw breath, but that some might actually behave like crackers aren’t really Christ’s flesh appears to wound her. Response to Mohammed cartoons can be the same, and whoever tore the South Bank posters down must have felt similar. ‘We know you don’t believe,’ blacklisters say, ‘but for heaven’s sake, must you live like it, too?’

Few things but faith could yield such results: blasphemy, even apparently when most benign, threatens the norms on which religion rests. The earnestness of faith, and faith itself, can’t be taken comfortably for granted when its sacraments are others’ standing jokes, and what can’t be assumed must be explained. Spectators like Tom Bailey of Spiked overlook this, who conflate the campus banning of Spaghetti Monsters and unholy fruits with that, for instance, of Robin Thicke’s ‘Blurred Lines’, a song a score of student unions boycotted, which insists in colourfully violent language that women who dance with men ‘must want’ sex with them. No thinking person equates advocacy of rape, or any assault, with dismissing or lampooning doctrines of faith.

Conservative believers and the faitheists who aid them, on campuses and elsewhere, suppress the softest of critiques insatiably – motivated, it’s hard not to conclude, by simple shock at public sacrilege. We can only guess, after the hateful smörgåsbord of chutney, pineapples and noodles, what their next targets will be, but if ‘zero tolerance’ means anything, it’s this.

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

A study in reset buttons: the trouble with ‘His Last Vow’ and Sherlock series three

Sherlock had a good first series and great second one. The recently aired third helping fell somewhere in between, but its final part, the glossily directed ‘His Last Vow’, was deeply flawed. (Spoilers to follow.)

There was much to like, even to laud, about it. The story’s opening showed more promise than either of its predecessors’, Lindsay Duncan was on form in guest star mode and Lars Mikkelsen, playing Charles Augustus Milverton via Rupert Murdoch, served the icy creepiness his family has cornered. There was far more plot, too, than in either of the prior episodes, and fans seem to have welcomed it. Unfortunately, it falls to bits under the lightest scrutiny.

The denouement came as Magnussen tricked Sherlock, accepting Mycroft’s state-secret-filled laptop in return for showing him his vaults of blackmail material, then revealing they were only in his mind. Mycroft and his snipers thus caught John and Sherlock selling secrets, yes, but they also caught Magnussen buying them. Surely even sans faults, there’s an arrest in that?

‘I don’t have to prove it, I just have to print it’, he says when John points out his lack of hard evidence. If so, why does he need to know these things at all? If things he threatens to print don’t need to be true (or proved to be), why bother memorising endless, unverifiable details? Why not print just anything?

And if he’s only printing libel without proof, why is the secret service (Mycroft’s lot, at any rate) so scared of him? If all he publishes is deniable, why would they even be that worried? Magnussen is meant, of course, to resemble endless press barons – Maxwell, Murdoch, Dacre – raising the awkward point that the gutter press prints unsubstantiated gossip all the time. Harrowing for private individuals, certainly, but nothing for security forces to fear.

Given that Mycroft and his people, who seemed to want rid of him anyway, were apparently the only witnesses besides John to Magnussen’s death, why did shooting him even put Sherlock at risk? Given how shadowy Mycroft’s department seems, having seemingly tortured Moriarty during series two, hadn’t any of them thought of just assassinating Magnussen? And why didn’t Mary, who had, just do so anyway when Sherlock arrived? Sherlock would surely have covered for her, as he has for John – yes, she’d have a witness whose secrecy she relied on, but that’s what happened anyway.

Speaking of Mary… I’ve said it before, but Steven Moffat can’t write women. liked her in Mark Gatiss’ episode as a bread-baking part time nurse and disillusioned Lib Dem. I liked her lying about liking John’s moustache and their interplay in ‘The Sign of Three’ – I liked there being a normal person who took Sherlock’s side, and I liked how likeable Mary was made, a departure from her typical portrayal. I didn’t want another sex-crazed femme fatale – another Irene Adler, River Song or Tasha Lem. You can bet come series four, her gun-toting secret agent background will turn up again and she’ll be just one more of Moffat’s female tr(oll)opes. She was more interesting as she was.

Speaking of women and how Moffat fails at writing them: it wasn’t just Mary’s character that got retconned. Look what happened to Janine, the bridesmaid-on-the-lookout from episode two – here rewritten as a scrounging predator, by turns stupid and unscrupulous, combining sexuality and treachery as Moffat’s women (Song? Adler?) often do. Sherlock even calls her a whore. Then look at Lady Smallwood, the battleaxe and damsel in distress; Sherlock’s mother, ‘monstrous’, oblivious, fawning and a ‘flake’; Mrs Hudson, funny because she used to be a stripper, daft and treated with contempt by everyone around, heroes included. This must have been the most women in any Sherlock episode – and when the best-presented one is Molly Hooper, pathetically in love as ever, things aren’t going well. Yes, there’s a problem.

In the end though, ‘His Last Vow’ was a study in resets – retcons, reversions and suddenly-dropped ideas. Mary became a villain, then wasn’t after all. Sherlock shot up so Magnussen would think he was an addict, then Magnussen didn’t believe him anyway – despite him testing positive. Magnussen seethed and basked in villainy… then arbitrarily got shot. Sherlock was flown to probable Eastern European death, then flown back minutes later. This was a plot that didn’t know what to do or be. And then… that ending.

Look.

I love Moriarty. I love Andrew Scott as Moriarty. I loved his storyline in series two. But part of it was shooting himself in the head.

When Moriarty aimed his gun inside his grinning mouth and pulled the trigger, it wasn’t just a way to write him out, but a character moment – perhaps the ultimate one. This man was so unhinged, so desperate to spite Sherlock, that he’d kill himself to cut off his escape route. Reversing or negating that doesn’t just wind the story back – it undermines a powerfully crucial aspect of who Moriarty is.

That episode of series two, in case you hadn’t noticed? January 2012. Two years ago. Three years at the very least before we tune in for Sherlock series four. It speaks to a stagnating story if two to three years later, we’re still hung up about what happened on Bart’s Hospital roof. Series three’s sole contribution to long-continuity appears to be John’s marriage, and that’s not much sustenance for a one or two year wait till we see Baker Street again. (Compared, at least, with ‘How did Sherlock survive?’) I didn’t want another Moriarty arc – I’d have much preferred a longer, fuller look at Magnussen.

All in all? A muddled episode and rather wasted, if entertaining, third series.

First (and unenthusiastic) thoughts on ‘The Day of the Doctor’

I was asked a short while back if I’d penned an ‘I hate Steven Moffat’ post of the now-familiar kind. Having seen ‘The Day of the Doctor’, this is it.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

I hated it.

[Major spoilers follow.]

I didn’t hate everything about it. A few aspects of it had me grinning brightly.

  • John Hurt is the Doctor! Now entirely and officially. (How’s the numbering affected by this, incidentally?)
  • Peter Capaldi! (And, to a lesser extent, Christopher Eccleston!)
  • Gemma Redgrave’s face twisting slimily into a Zygon: nightmarish. Good luck sleeping tonight, children. (On top of this, a sterling mention of the Brig.)
  • The Hartnell opening titles, and the I.M. Foreman sign!
  • The round things.
  • ‘I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but at the time, so did the Zygon.’
  • Clara being a teacher (getting much needed character development). More so, Clara on the motorcycle.
  • Eleven. People argue whether Smith or Tennant’s better. As far as I’m concerned, the argument’s over.

Speaking of which, though… things I didn’t like were legion.

  • Ten. I know you probably love him. I don’t. And this episode showed him at his babbling, abrasive worst. The Elizabethan scenes, especially early on, were an enormous weak spot. Oh, and… about that:
  • SO MUCH WASTED TIME. An hour in, I was still waiting for plot developments I cared about. 75 minutes is a long episode, but a painfully short feature film, which apparently was what this aspired to be, cinema showings and all. You do not have time to mess around with screwdrivers, fezzes, rabbits, picnics, helicopters or royal weddings. (Regarding the helicopter in particular, the lampshading ‘Why didn’t you just knock?’ did nothing to aid plausibility. It backfired, in fact.) Clara’s door-opening payoff made me laugh, but not enough to make up for the precious minutes wasted on its set-up, and all this is especially frustrating from a writer singularly skilled at prologues where lots happens rapidly (c.f. ‘The Pandorica Opens‘, ‘The Name of the Doctor‘). To specify what I think was a core problem…
  • TOO MANY PLOTS, only one of which I cared about. Zygons hiding in the National Gallery could have been a strong mid-series episode – the statues scene was inspired, even if it a little too reminiscent of the clock-smashing in ‘The Girl in the Fireplace’ – but I struggled to give a damn about it here, especially with all the complicated shapeshifting. I know I can’t have been the only one who found Ten romancing Queen Elizabeth a wholesale come-down after Daleks laying waste to Arcadia. Just because Moffat can spin several plates at once doesn’t mean he should, and in fact this made the whole thing rather joyless in my eyes.
  • I am sick of the overly self-referential nudge-nudge-wink-winking of Moffat’s scripts – the War Doctor bristling about lip-locking being a prime example, on top of the recurrent ‘timey wimey’ lines, which I’ve never found as funny as he seems to think they are. In moderation, this sort of thing is nice. Used as much as it’s used currently, it makes everything feel like a Children in Need sketch. (Remember those ‘Space‘ and ‘Time‘ clips? No? I’m sorry I reminded you.)
  • On the point of lip-locking, I’m no prude, but does anyone else feel the raunch is just over the top now? The Ten/Elizabeth smooching felt out of character even for an exceptionally romantic Doctor, and the ‘compensation’ line was frankly awkward on a teatime family series. (Eleven’s ‘tight skirts’ moment in ‘Nightmare in Silver’, which has ‘Moffat insert’ written all over it, remains the all time low.) Relatedly:
  • Steven Moffat can’t write women. I know this is blunt – I’m sorry – it’s just true.Rose/Bad Wolf/the Moment’s flirting with John Hurt’s Doctor early on was just out of character (see above), even accepting this wasn’t actually Rose (see below). It felt like Billie Piper was reading Irene Adler’s lines from Sherlock… or River Song’s from Doctor Who. Or Amy’s, early on. Or Oswin’s. Or indeed Elizabeth’s in the same episode, who felt (as Ten did, actually) like a panto character. Osgood meanwhile, bespectacled and with a hopeless, geek girl hero-worship crush, was Molly Hooper in a scarf.It’s not that writing women requires some special or distinct approach. Moffat’s women, with the odd exception, are just tropes rather than characters, and often repetitions of the same tropes. His habit of cavalier sexism in dialogue (‘She’s been brainwashed, it all makes sense to her. Plus, she’s a woman… shut up, I’m dying!’) doesn’t help: the ‘prettier sister’ line was just uncomfortable, and Elizabeth’s ‘Men!’ comment cements her status alongside River and Irene in the ‘sexy man-haters to be conquered’ camp. Further, the gags about Ten repeatedly insulting the woman he was seeing simply felt cruel.
  • Switching back to Bad RoMents (I heard it’s a song), why bother casting Billie Piper if not as Rose? I realise this is a rock-and-a-hard-place problem: if we’d had the vintage ’06 Rose-Ten drippery most expected, I’d also be complaining. In fact, I thought the character succeeded, but thanks to Piper’s performance and despite the script. Via the witches in Macbeth and Tina Turner in Mad Max, she gives a great mystery-desert-sorceress, and has more to work with than she ever did as a companion, but her actual casting felt perfunctory.
  • Similarly, and with no need of further verbiage: what the fuck was going on with that 79-year-old-Tom-Baker cameo?
  • The way the Doctors turned on an apparent sixpence from destroying Gallifrey to saving it felt wildly odd. It took nine lives, one death and assurance of the physical cosmos being destroyed for this to happen. One would think the War Doctor had slightly more resolve, having exhausted other options, than to be swayed at this point by a tear from Clara.
  • Likewise, saving Gallifrey should not have been that easy. We’ve been told Time Lords were the inventors of black holes, able to hop lightly between universes and eradicate, if need be, all material existence: it seems just possible that prior to opting for the latter, as The End of Time told us they did (and surely this would be worth mentioning as a decision-making factor?), they’d have considered ways to save their planet – not least ones based on apparently everyday technology. Paintings, for God’s sake. Seriously, no one thought of this?
  • How did those paintings, by the way, even reach Elizabethan England?
  • In more abstract terms, I’m sick of Moffat’s tendency to have his cake and eat it, saving everyone or bringing back the dead, handing the Doctor victories through ‘timey wimey’ paradox on paradox, thinking third options up at every turn. A tradition of the series has been that someone (nearly) always dies, that moral compromises have to be faced and hands are sometimes forced by universal laws.Especially considering how many of its audience are children, this is brave, mature, important storytelling. I liked, for this reason, the comment to Hurt’s Doctor by Tennant’s and Smith’s, ‘You were the Doctor more than anybody else: you were the Doctor on the day it wasn’t possible to get it right.’Like JK Rowling’s Snape, he’s a man whose heroism stems from the courage to take necessary steps with no alternative when others are unwilling. Should there be an alternative, then, provided by the writer? We shouldn’t forget either in all of this that The End of Time made the (inventive) point Time Lord society no longer deserved saving; that war had made it as monstrous as the Dalek enemy. This point was reprised as recently as ‘The Night of the Doctor‘, so it seems odd that it wasn’t in play here. I sensed briefly, wrongly as it turned out, that the Doctors would somehow mitigate Gallifrey’s annihilation – saving its billions of children, perhaps. This still seems more compelling than the contrived, too-easy resolution of the episode.
  • I’d looked forward to seeing the Doctors arrange to meet in a fantastic way, a little like series five’s invitations across time from River to the Doctor. The Christmas Carol style ‘Here’s your future – now make a decision’ gambit? It played as hackneyed and dull, especially only three years after Who adapted Dickens’ plot.
  • I confess I wasn’t living for the stock footage of past Doctors. It convinced in ‘The Name of the Doctor’, where it was used creatively. It didn’t here. (Why, more to the point and excellent though it was, were all thirteen Doctors involved in saving Gallifrey? How did they know about this plan? And if they all remember doing it, why does the War Doctor – body number nine – still try to use the Moment, embarking on a plan his past selves all averted?)
  • It seemed very strange to show a single planetary battle as the decider of the War, conflicting with what I felt previous dialogue implied. I’d always imagined a conflict spanning all of time and space, not just isolated physical battlegrounds, like Enterprise‘s Temporal Cold War but better and less cold. (‘Ten million ships’, the Ninth Doctor told us in Dalek, burned – a bit many even for Gallifrey, surely?)
  • Especially with all those people dying nearby, what did the War Doctor hope to achieve by writing ‘NO MORE’ on a wall in gunfire?
  • Why regenerate John Hurt at the episode’s conclusion? I’d hoped, especially after his arc this story, that the character might turn up again. He might still, I suppose, snatched from between his birth and this episode, but that bitter early self is less interesting than one reconciled to being the Doctor. On the off-chance Eccleston ever did say yes to coming back, it’d be nice too to have had Hurt on hold for a regeneration proper.
  • Also, ‘wearing a bit thin’?! Time Lords don’t just spontaneously die. (Fine, William Hartnell did. But he regenerated his bloody costume.) And how exactly wasn’t he wearing thin during the Last Great Time War?

These are only my initial thoughts, of course. On repeat viewings, they might change – and I’ll certainly be rewatching. Come to think of it…

Gitsupportthisblog

GiTwhyinowhaveadonatebutton

Project Runway: a question of triage (or, How the hell do you win anyway?)

Not for the first time in the last three weeks, I struggled last night to know who should be axed from Project Runway. On contestants’ outfits, I had quite clear views (stay tuned for those); what floored me, as it did last week, was which pros and cons should take priority.

A typical Runway prizes certain qualities – it rates designs by them, and uses them to dispatch losers and choose winners. The series looks for someone with a striking point of view, whose work innovates or is interesting conceptually; for someone who can execute these concepts well, properly sewing or otherwise constructing them; it looks for someone who can edit, shows consistency in all these strengths, and whose work is versatile and varied.

Some of these points can matter more than others. Placed in the bottom two, for instance, badly made but formally ambitious work historically fares better (at least the first time round) than well-finished dullness; a talented contestant’s lead balloon receives more mercy, even when it’s slightly worse, than a third divisioner’s fourth misfire in a row; designers worthy of the final might be sent a friendly warning if they need to show more range, while diverse but less commended work can get its maker invalided home.

An All Stars season poses different questions about triage, and some of these preferences might be reversed. When all the contenders have placed high in previous series, we know each of them has vision and can sew clothes well: a poorly made ensemble might now deserve elimination more than a well made but underwhelming piece, especially when everyone‘s viewpoint is well defined. (Jeffrey Sebelia’s work these past three weeks epitomises this: there’s a strong case for automatic offing from an All Stars contest if you can’t construct things well.) Fashion on the other hand being a fast-moving industry, designers might quite fairly be expected to show evolution. If we’ve seen an entire season of your clothes a year or more ago, Melissa and Daniel, you’ve no excuse to make the same old things you’ve always made.

Observe the clash of these criteria.

MELISSAobverse

Images: Lifetime

These week’s challenge involved cocktail-inspired couture. This was Melissa‘s submission – an asymmetric dress we’ve seen from her a hundred times, with a little too much going on and some minor fit issues, but nothing heinous.

JEFFREYobverse

This was Jeffrey‘s – to his credit, and for the first time in the run, a well-sewn number. Vile, though, in every other way. The fabric is putrid, the collar and chain on the bag unconscionably vulgar and the bodice ill-fitting. Horrid, horrid, horrid.

KORTOobverse

This was Korto‘s – not the nightmare Jeffrey’s was, but certainly not good. The fabric smacks of tacky plastic tablecloth, the belt and bodice of medieval BDSM torture. Nothing between them gels, and each fails on its own terms too. The cut of the dress, as the back view shows, was also weird.

KORTOreverse

Who went? Melissa did – despite her dress being probably the least bad of the bottom three.

Isaac Mizrahi quickly dismissed the thought of axing Korto. There’s an argument an All Stars season should be sudden death, with no consideration of past work, because the standard is so high; that said, I’d tend to share his impulse. Korto shows a definite and strange attachment to butchered fifties housewife silhouettes, put produces work that’s interesting at least. (I loved her look last week.) Of the three of them, she has the most potential down the line.

Do I agree with Melissa going home instead of Jeffrey, then? His days are obviously numbered – I wondered last week why he’s there – and were this not an All Stars run with fewer competitors than usual and a run that needs the length to a) please fans and b) make money, double elimination might well be an option.

What Jeffrey made looked like it had been salvaged from a skip, and not in a good way, but although Melissa’s work was clearly better, it was the same work she did in tasks one and two – the same work she did a year ago. When her range was clearly just as limited as Daniel’s was last week, her viewpoint obviously undeveloped, she was demonstrably unequipped to compete further. I might still, though, have erred on the side of cutting Jeffrey now and her next week. I strongly suspect he’ll be next to snuff it anyway, as she’d have been if he went.

As for the best designs…

VIKTORobverse

Viktor won this week! And flirted sweetly with the bartender serving his cocktail. And was endearing in his workroom camaraderie with Elena. (Fine, I’ll stop.)

I was a great supporter of this dress, and of its brave use of a print. Note how in this respect, Viktor did what Melissa didn’t and moved his aesthetic forward. It paid off.

The parted lower section of the dress was hazardous given its shortness, but the Union Flag cut-outs in the top quite won me over. They may even have worked better in the back:

VIKTORreverse

But the other top two (this week, my rankings matched the judges’ pretty closely) were also strong.

CHRISTOPHERobverse

Christopher‘s work here was utterly beguiling. I’m not entirely sure about the gap between the beads and hem, but the former are perfectly arranged, even if reminiscent of those covers one occasionally sees over car seats. This outfit displays its maker’s muted subtlety at its very best, and while its style is heavily familiar from season ten, he’s shown new variation already in the past three weeks. High praise for this.

ELENAobverse

Elena: cut some of the cutouts out.

This dress was beautifully made, and as was noted at the catwalk show (and sadly isn’t as visible above), the seaming was phenomenally elegant. Why then did she have to overegg the geometric holes, destroying the piece’s understated style? One pair of cutouts would have been fine – the ones at the waist worked rather well. For my taste, there’s just too much going on here.

It’s notable, of course, that none of the top three designs could be worn by a woman keen to cover her midriff. But this is Project Runway – what did we expect?

IRINAobverse

Elena’s piece, the least of the top three, competed once more this week with similarly-named Irina‘s. I don’t understand this season’s vogue for peplums, particularly juxtaposed as here with a sheer, slim-fitting bolero. The combination of leather, gold and lace was winning, though, a gothic biker dressing for a cocktail bar. Très bien. I’m enjoying Irina’s style.

MYCHAELobverse

I’m struggling to grasp Mychael‘s point of view. Even his model looks confused. The strange penchant for leafy, tacked-on embellishments his work this week and last shows feels like a contrivance, the diving neckline and wrapping lower segment of this dress rather bizarre given its (lack of) length. Like Tom Hanks in Big, I just… don’t get it.

SETHAARONobverse

Seth Aaron‘s model looks like she wore a binder for the first half of the day, then cut its middle section out to show her bust. Either (more probably) this detail or the leggings are a detail too far, but the stripe going down the latter’s rather nice, if nothing very striking. It’s a nice enough assembly, but it’s giving me no great impression.

Probably the right result this week, then – the judges were more or less on point, specific commentaries aside. But if Jeffrey doesn’t leave next week, I’ll eat Viktor’s hat.