- About: British Chinese poet, writer and broadcaster Anna Chen
- On the radio
- Arts Reviews
- The Steampunk Opium Wars
- Foot and Mouth Campaign
- RSC The Orphan of Zhao controversy
- A Bad Case of the Trots
- Reaching for my Gnu: poetry
- Print Room protest: In the Depths of Dead Love chronology
- Poetry Live!
- Yellow Peril Orientalism
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
James Marsters of the Universe: Torchwood returns
This is what telly would look like if you gave an infinite number of internet sex-pests an infinite number of keyboards.
Thank Who that someone at the BBC remembered to administer a big dose of Ritalin to Russell T Grant's team for the new Torchwood, turning the hysteria down to "screeching" from 11, which is where the dial was stuck throughout season one.
I still had to check the script wasn't by Julian Clary, though, what with the rogue Time Agent, played to great media fanfare by the lovely James Marsters of Buffy fame, embodying sex 'n' death and having to utter lines like, "Mine's smaller but it lasts longer", speculating on Captain Jack's "tourist entrance", and in the strangest mano-a-mano fuck-fight since a naked Alan Bates and Ollie Reed pummelled themselves silly in "Women In Love", arguing over who had been the "wife" in a two-week romance that felt life five years due to a space-time-continuum rift wormhole thingy. (Heh, heh, she said, "wormhole".)
Make no mistake: this was bitchslapping on a Grande Dame scale.
I was glad to see they've given up trying to turn Owen into a sex-stud. Among all these pretty people, Owen's sole function seems to be that of the plainer variety of male porno-flick stars (the tubby hirsute Ron Jeremy being a case in point, so I am told); to show their punters that ugly guys can get laid, too.
It may have had all the sexual tension of a Donald McGill seaside postcard (we British do saucy so much better than sex) but with at least the makings of a coherent plotline, it was followable. One of the climaxes (oh gawd!), when they were about to be blown up was marred by James asking, "Anyone fancy an orgy?". Subsequently moved to take a vow of celibacy by the relentless shoving down my throat (stoppit!) of the writer's single-entendres, I managed to tune out the smut flying thick and fast (oh, Jeez!) and enjoy pretty James in his pirate get-up.
Naming and shaming, the script was by Chris Chibnall; direction by Ashley Way.
See why I need Celine and Julie Go Boating?
More on James Marsters and Torchwood here.
Bloggers do Torchwood: Splintered Sunrise, Louise and A Very Public Sociologist.