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Boxing Day

Hello all.

Been a bit quiet of late here, apologies. I’ve been hard at work on Vworp Vworp!, the fanzine of Doctor Who comics and things that we’re waiting for the printers to get round to. Here are the two covers:

Vworp Vworp!

More to follow when the zine hits the stands in January.

Vague review of The End of Time Part One:
I found yesterday’s Doctor Who the predicted mixture of the exhilarating and the irritating, and am putting off watching it again until I see Part Two. Didn’t much like the sub-Matrix Reloaded ending, but look forward to seeing some hard-ass Time Lord action next week… but what’s the betting that instead we’ll have another hour of faffing around, plot holes, annoying music that either drowns out important dialogue or signifies comedy, then, hopefully, a truly exciting and moving regeneration. Loving John Simms and Bernard Cribbens, and can’t wait to see more of Timothy Dalton.

Thanks to Alex Wilcock for sending me this. Apparently Russell said it was “really rather good”. Hurrah!

william20russell20in20an20exciting20adventure

Anyway, turkey sandwiches beckon. I hope you’re all having a marvellous Christmas!

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After raving about it on first viewing, I now find myself loving and hating ’Planet of the Dead’ in equal measure…
 

Tongue40 things I hated…

  1. If the Cup of Athelstan has been in the International Gallery for 200 years, why the sudden need to surround it with a security grid (open at the top and a two-foot gap at the bottom, of course)? Or do the armed guards go through their little ritual every night? If it’s been brought out for display, I’d whack it in a vault at night. Little tip. (Incidentally, I’m glad we never got to see this disaster of design and punctuation.)
  2. Might’ve been an idea to have oiled the waving cat, you silly bint.
  3. Why the ricocheting gunshot sound effect when the camera flips? Followed by a quite deathly twenty seconds of Christina looking hither and thither from one police car to the next. Over and over.
  4. Stock working-class bus driver. Irritating in so few lines, with an over the top accent that’s just weird.
  5. incompetentD I McMillan: awful awful awful, like a bumbling comedy policeman from an episode of Terry and June. Or CBeebies. “It’s definitely her, come on! Jackson, follow that bus!” Perfectly reasonable lines, but from the mouth of Adam James somehow… shit. And later he says “You do not have to say anything, et cetera et cetera” which proves he’s a rubbish copper too.

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Notorious (1946)

Notorious has the best of everything: thrills, suspense and intrigue, an exotic setting, a “very strange love affair” between Hitchcock’s two favourite stars, a clever and complex plot of jealousy and deception, and some of Hitch’s giddiest direction.

Ingrid Bergman is at her most elegant and luminous as Alicia Huberman, daughter of a Nazi spy who is convicted and commits suicide at the beginning of the film. She meets and has a turbulent affair with suave, frighteningly handsome American agent, Devlin (Cary Grant), and travels to Rio with him to smoke out a group of desperate Nazi criminals there, headed by a former lover, Alex Sebastian (Claude Rains). In another recurring favourite theme of Hitch’s, Sebastian is clinging in a love-hate relationship with his distrusting mother, who suspects Alicia and is horrified when her son asks Alicia to marry him. She agrees, partly it seems to spite Devlin and her strange, tempestuous relationship with him. Their plan, it transpires, involves uranium ore hidden in bottles in the wine cellar. Devlin discovers this after Alicia steals Sebastian’s cellar key, leading to one of the most brilliant shots of the film: It is a party at Sebastian’s house. The camera drifts from the top of a staircase way above from where Bergman is talking to Rains. Slowly and smoothly it closes in, down, down, until Bergman nervously holds her hand behind her back, and eventually the cellar key she holds there fills the screen. It’s similar to an equally effective shot in Hitchcock’s earlier Young and Innocent, where he sweeps over the heads of people at a dance to the band behind and into the twitching eyes of a murderer.

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