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2002-02-05
"Dave? You're my journal now, Dave..."
Last night, the husband showed me our latest DVD -- The League Of Gentlemen Season 2.
And we went "Oh, let's watch a few."
A few became, as you can imagine, the entire bloody series.
Which, okay, six episodes, not that big of a deal, but I know I swore I'd go to bed early last night, not stay up until 1 am occasionally covering my eyes in horror and laughter.
But, God, what insane geniuses they are -- terrible carnivals, evil twins, and a butcher that produces "special stuff" -- answers as to what exactly that is on a 3 by 5 card, please.
It's horrific and it's hilarious and it's exactly what it should be -- and it's damn amazing.
"Dave? Is that you, Dave?"
I think tonight will be watching the deleted scenes and the million other features we have. I know I definitely need to hear the commentary because I'm positive there were twenty million movie references that I just barely caught -- vague memories of similar scenes, that sort of thing.
Of course, speaking of movie references, the second season of Spaced is out on DVD come March...wheeeeeeeee!
"I dealt with my issues."
"Oh, with Sarah?"
"No. With George Lucas."
Also got my copy of last week's BtVS & Angel, which was nice.
Oh who am I kidding? "This Old Gang Of Mine"? Fan-fucking-tastic.
Nearly everything I could ever dream for or ask from when it comes to a plot like that -- tense as all hell and with that gorgeous amount of ambiguity and oh merciful Christ, I was nearly screaming with anticipation. "What happens next!? What? What?!"
Gunn's delicious morality issues and the gang and Angel and Fred and goddamn.
My only complaint is this -- it was too short. There's no way you can treat this subject perfectly in the under-an-hour timeframe. This should've been a movie. This should've been a miniseries. This should've been a little more drawn out and Gio shouldn't've been just eaten.
(although, actually, now that I think about it, Gio being eaten by a character that had, up until that point, been sympathetic, does work rather well -- the whole glorious greyness of it all.)
Of course, in my dream world, Gio, being from Miami, would be a second-generation Cuban boy raised up on Santeria and demons and would have less of a "they're demons, they kill" and more of a "they're wrong in this universe" sort of vibe -- a religious fanatic instead of just that thinly veiled racism vibe.
God, how can anyone hate this episode? It's reduced me to babbling! Gunn good. Wesley cool. Angel cool. Cordelia...
*sigh* She looked so good in that dark brown shirt. Her hair was perfect, her quirky eyebrows glancing up at Angel just so, and...god, she's beautiful. I want to spend hours just staring at her. The only way she could be better is if she got a gun and became that vague "commando cordelia" fantasy I have...
God, okay, see, I have this big fucking epic in my head -- this gorgeously laid out story about Los Angeles and riots and demon/human hysteria. And Jen and I...we've been laying out plot for awhile on it. I mean, I've had the initial plot points since fucking last February, and I've just been unable to really get coherent on it. And she's been prodding me into it, and we worked out details and I have these gorgeous scenes in my head...
But I don't think I could write it now. I don't think that it's...
It's not right anymore. Minear's done it now and anything I do will look just painfully hackneyed compared to that. Everything I was trying to say, encapsulated in the smallest of gestures and the tightest of glances and, fuck, I didn't even get into the Alonnah thing, and how in the hell am I supposed to top that?
It was just...aaahhhh...I am content in my love of Angel. I don't care what happens later on, I'm not listening to what's been on in the States, I have "This Old Gang Of Mine" and "That Vision Thing" and I am so bloody happy.
Mmm...
As for BtVS, "Life Serial" was amusing, as you can imagine. The fact that they call themselves "the Trio" makes me giggle, because it makes me want to call them "The Heroic Trio," therefore referencing Hong Kong cinema and being sarcastic at the same time -- as you should.
Buffy's hard alcohol face annoyed me, though. Not just because drinking that much would mean that the effect it'd have on you would change pretty quickly (yeah, okay, hard-drink-face once. But then all those shots start affecting you and you start going "Mmm...yummy booze..." even if it's fucking gasoline...), but because sweet merciful Christ, she looked like Callista Flockhart and that's just scary. There's already one hideous monstrosity known as Ally McBeal in the universe, do we really need Buffy McBeal? Do we?
And it's nice to see that BTVS has now followed the comedy rule proven by Space Ghost and Spaced -- large groups of kittens meowing a lot = comedy.
Heh. Kittens. They're funny.
Of course, the husband is much funnier. He rocks on a level mere mortals can not understand -- he is the uber-rock. He gives "rock" new meaning -- you look in the dictionary, and there he is. When they do documentaries on "rock," he has to schedule in more interviews than a granite quarry. Oh, how he rocks.
Yeah.
Seriously looking forward to my vacation. Thinking about everything I'm going to do and see and wheeeeeeeee...
Although I know I'm going to be biting my lips and not saying a word when I end up seeing anything in that modern "patriotic" spirit. Just reading about the SuperBowl makes me nauseous. (Although it pretty much confirms what I thought about U2 recently -- whatever happened to the man who used to crank call the White House? Whatever happened to fucking "Sunday Bloody Sunday"? Does protesting against blood in the streets only matter in your home town [or your tax shelter]?)
But, no, I will not be going around swearing heavily at the world. I have BBC World News on one of the public tv stations in the evenings and I'm certain that'll help keep me sane. I have trashy fast food and large stores and my dad and my brother to pester and my grandmother's little pug to play with and, damnit, I have Escapade, which will be all about being nothing but myself. No overwrought faux-academic pretentious, no "I'm more meta than you," nothing but me.
And a Josie & The Pussycats t-shirt. But who can blame me?
Who's a rock star?
I am.
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