'The Macra Terror' and 'The Waters of Mars' reviewed.

So, in an effort to provide slightly more regular and engaging reading, I'm going to begin by reviewing some of the things I'm watching at the moment and right now that means Doctor Who, both the classic and revived series.  What better way to begin this than to review a story from each.

First up, we look at a story from 1967, The Macra Terror.

The Macra Terror, was the seventh story of Doctor Who's fourth season and was the fifth story to feature the second Doctor, Patrick Troughton.  His companions at this stage were Ben Jackson, Polly Wright and Jamie McCrimmon.

This era of the series was markedly different from the first three seasons, not just in the presence of a new Doctor, but also in the style of the episodes.  Whereas the stories of the first Doctor's era tended to be long and relatively slow-paced, focusing on atmosphere and mystery more than anything else, the second Doctor's era had the hallmark of shorter, faster-paced adventure stories.  The character of the Doctor had changed to match this, moving from the thoughtful, often grouchy first Doctor of William Hartnell, to a more whimsical, chatty but also less human second incarnation.

As it happens the style of the episode plots and the character of the second Doctor really appeal to me.  I grew to love Hartnell's Doctor as I watched my way through the first three seasons, but Troughton won me over far quicker and it is his charm, more than any other feature, which makes The Macra Terror entertaining.

By modern standards the plot is fairly cliché, but then Doctor Who often is and it is not always that much of a problem for the quality of its episodes.  The Doctor and his companions arrive on a planet with a human colony that quickly turns out to be too happy to be true.  We soon meet the crab-like Macra (who will later hold the record for the longest gap between appearances on the show when they reappeared, super-sized and super-stupid in the revived series three episode, Gridlock) and it becomes apparent that they are running the colony behind the scenes for their own benefit.  The Doctor bumbles around in his slightly insane way, his companions get caught, escape, get caught again, turn against each other and generally achieve very little and then, in his continued bumbling, defeats the Macra and frees the colony.

It's all fairly prosaic and the Macra themselves are fairly ridiculous - not because of the quality of the special effects, which seem fine for the time (as much as one can tell from soundtrack and telesnaps only), but simply because they are apparently super-intelligent, lumbering crab monsters.

I have no idea why they had to be crab monsters!

Despite all this the story is perfectly entertaining and it's all because Patrick Troughton has such charm as the Doctor.  His unravelling of the equation that controls the gas which the Macra need to stay alive is hilarious, as is his confounding of the gas flow process.  The rest of the story could disappear and it really wouldn't matter all that much.  We pay to see the Doctor, or so it seems.

Another actor who's charm redeems a great many sins in the role of the Doctor is David Tennant, however even his skill does not do quite enough to make me like my second story: The Waters of Mars.

Written by Russell T. Davies (who seems to think that good science fiction is spouting nonsense and covering it in a thin veneer of Coronation Street) and Phil Ford (who belongs to the same school of thought as those writing Doctor Who in the era of Patrick Troughton), The Waters of Mars is one of the series of specials which made up the gap between seasons four and five of the revived series and the end of Tennant's tenure in the role of the Doctor.  It has won awards.  I'm not entirely sure why.

The premise of the episode is an interesting one, albeit one we have seen many times before: first colony on a new world, terrible menace, everyone destined to die, struggle for survival, etc. etc. etc.  The twist is that the Doctor is there and that he knows what is going to happen and that he cannot change it.  The events that are supposed to unfold are somehow to shape humanities future in a profound way and the Doctor knows he cannot interfere.  So along come some monsters which are supposed to be creepy (and so nearly are) but which look too rubbery around the mouth and patently ridiculous when they start spouting water and the Doctor prepares to leave the crew of the base to their fate.

But he changes his mind and the scene which follows is a familiar moment of awesomeness - the Doctor defying fate and saving the remaining crew in flamboyant style.  Tennant's flair for the part really shows off here and the combination of music and visuals is really exciting - the best part of the episode so far.

And then we hit the epilogue and we learn that characters who had been facing death moments before actually kinda wish they had died (although they give no good reason as to why) and the Doctor, who, admittedly at this stage is starting to sound overly arrogant, is forced to realise that he was wrong to change their fate.

It all fits in very well with the classic series story The Aztecs, where the Doctor was constantly saying the history could not be changed, but at no point do Davies and Ford give us a convincing reason that the people of Bowie Base One had to die, or that the Doctor could have convinced them that and when Adelaide Brooke, the commander of the expedition and fulcrum of humanity's apparently great future, tells the Doctor that no-one should have the power to decide that future, she seems to forget that everyone has that power every day with every choice they make.

Okay, sot he Doctor knew what was going to happen in a way no ordinary participant of history could, but still, it's all just too much nonsense trying to be profound.  Tennant plays it all very well, but it's the one episode of the revived series that, on re-watching, actually makes me angry.  I feel insulted by it!

The fact that it then follows on to The End of Time parts one and two, probably only adds to that insult, but that is another review for another time.

Until next time...

A Sense of Direction.

It has to be said that this blog has been lacking any kind of forward momentum.  The truth is I'm never entirely sure what to write in it.  A brief re-cap of some of my earlier posts has reminded me of the stuff I have written in it before and that has revealed a mixture of complete nonsense, minor profundities, TV episode reviews, autobiography and creative writing.  None of these things sit terribly well beside each other, but it seems that I have lost the knack even for such randomness as all that.

So, this blog is currently under review.  I aim to give it a purpose.  It might not be a very strict purpose, but at the very least, I shall try to post in it more often and with more relevance and interest to the casual reader (whoever you might be - my stats currently suggest that you are no-one, by which I mean no offence) and perhaps a greater connection to my more serious blogging effort - Shadow.

This questing for a sense of direction has become something of a theme in my life over the past week.  It seems that every year, around about this time, I suddenly find myself with itchy feet, longing to escape from my job, or my creative doldrums and get out and do something more meaningful, more productive, that sort of thing.  None of this was helped when a friend in work revealed that he was leaving to do just the sort of creative work he has always wanted to do, and he's likely to get paid quiet a bit for it as well.

Well, it was with such thoughts in my mind that I found myself sitting in church yesterday morning listening to a man talk about the work of The Samuel Trust (Sams), a Christian group who aim to work with the young people of disadvantaged areas in Aberdeen.  They were looking for new volunteers, having run so low on them that they had to put one of their clubs on hiatus.  The sermon that morning was about the end of Romans 9 and the whole of Romans 10, in which Paul speaks about the need for people to be told about the gospel and Dominic, our minister, tied this in with the work of Sams as an example of the kind of gospel work Paul would be calling people to now.  I can't remember the exact context, but at one point he spoke of us having 'itchy feet for the gospel' and the use of that term, which I had had in my mind so much over the past week really (and here I borrow the terminology of the esteemed Professor McGrath) - this phrase really resonated with me in that context.

So, long-ish story short, I met with the guy from Sams after the service and have agreed to go along on one of their trips for older kids to see how I find it and whether or not it's something I can do.  I've already worked out that I have the time for it every other Thursday and that I can do some flexible working to make sure I arrive on time.  I'm pretty sure the folks at work would agree to it all.  It all seems so convenient, in fact that I really do feel that it might be a calling.  I guess I'll know for sure when I do it.  It could turn out to be exactly the wrong thing for me to do, but that in itself would be helpful to know as otherwise I'll always be swithering.  Either way, then God has opened a door for me so that I might see beyond it and perhaps find that sense of direction which I seem to have been missing recently.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Clerihews

We interrupt our scheduled silence for some Clerihews.

J. Edgar Hoover
Liked drinking nail-varnish remover.
Whilst being so high,
He became the founder of the F.B.I.

and

David Lloyd George
Worked hard at the forge.
He made Ireland his mission
And left it in a state of Partition.

and how about

Sir Francis Drake,
Regarded a rake,
Had in mind
A more golden behind.

And I'm done.

Homelife, Home, Life...

So, I'm on holiday in Northern Ireland at the moment.  For those of you who might not be aware of such things, that's where I'm from originally... well sort of.  I'm actually English by birth, but my father's from 'Norn Iron' and we moved here when I was five.  I left for Aberdeen to go to university when I was eighteen and it seems I haven't looked back since, but the funny thing is, the longer I'm away the more interest the country has for me when I return.

It seems to me that when you grow up in a place it either becomes somewhere you're eternally attached to, causing terrible homesickness even when you go on holiday, or it becomes, in your mind at least, the least interesting place on the planet.  I was closed to the latter.  I didn't dislike Northern Ireland, exactly, I just assumed that everywhere else would be more interesting and when I moved to Scotland I was initially convinced that this was, indeed, the case.

Of course, I have learned now that this is nonsense and that there's as much to enjoy and find interest in in the Province as anywhere else and I find that I'm increasingly proud of my connection to it, even though to most people I sound English and even folk from Northern Ireland need some convincing to believe I lived thirteen years of my life there.

And there's another thought.  I'll probably always think of Northern Ireland as being the place I've lived the longest.  Naturally it was during my 'formative' years, so it's impact must be considerable.  But if you add up the years of my life so far, like so:

0 - 5 - Bromborough, Wirral, England.

5 - 18 - Donaghadee, County Down, Northern Ireland.

18 - 27 - Aberdeen, Aberdeen City, Scotland.

it becomes very clear that whilst Northern Ireland still holds the top spot in terms of time spent there, I have now spent more than half my life in other places.  In a few years time, assuming I stay in Aberdeen all that time, and that seems likely at the moment, I will have lived there for the longest portion of my life.  That seems like a momentous thought, like I should notice when it happens immediately and that the whole balance of my life must shift, but I suspect that it will pass completely unnoticed.

And this brings me, tenuously, to a second topic.  Being at home has given me the opportunity to see my maternal grandmother again.  She has Alzheimer's and, seeing her as irregularly as I do, I find her in an increasingly worse state each time.  Before I left for university she was still fairly compus mentis, with just the occasional lapse in memory.  As the years have passed she's moved into a nursing home and has begun to forget who all the relatives visiting her are.

The last time I saw her she didn't seem to know I was her grandson, but saw me as someone she cared about a lot nonetheless.  She always smiled and laughed and talked about how lovely I was.  It was very moving in a strange way; sad and yet reassuring that she seemed so happy.

I visited her again yesterday - the first time in about a year and a half.  She didn't speak at all, just smiled and laughed and hummed along to the Viennese waltz from The Sound of Music playing on the big screen TV.  She could hardly stay awake.

I know that she wasn't unhappy, or distressed by her situation at all, and yet I had so much trouble reconciling the sleepy, blissfully unaware old woman with the bright, sometimes fearsome lady I remember visiting as a child in Birkenhead.  Back then she was looking after her own mother at home, a hunched over figure in a chair and a blanket with a basket of sweets from which I was often treated.  I don't remember her very well other than that, but I know that my grandmother must have worked very hard to look after her in her own home.

I remember flying back over to the Wirral with my mother sometime after we'd moved to Northern Ireland for the funeral, which I did not actually go to.  It didn't really mean much to me then.

I wonder now alot of things and they all make me feel sad.  When might I get called over here for my grandmother's funeral?  Will there come a time when I might see my own mother fall into such a decline?

I hope and pray that I do not, but there is some comfort from knowing that we all must face moments like this, one way or another.  It is likely that Jesus faced Joseph's death early-on in his life.  In this as in all things we can go to him for comfort.  He taught us that we need not worry about the future because our Father in heaven knows the things we truly need and will provide them for us.  We need to focus on what we're doing day by day and making the most of our lives.

I had aspirations of rounding this point off in some profound fashion, however I'm now being distracted by television - oh irony of ironies - and cannot think straight.  Go figure.

More Shadow

Well, it has been a surprisingly long and quite stressful week thanks, mainly to driving lessons, but now a new week has begun and, consequently, there is a new episode of Shadow for you to read.  In truth it's really this episode that starts the story off for real.  Episode I is more of an introduction, but it doesn't give you much idea what to expect from the series as a whole.  Episode II is much more honest and it introduces the character who I like most of all those I've ever written:  The Former Baron von Spektr.

As Shadow continues it will become clear that he is a very eccentric and enigmatic character, but despite his comic appearances he has a surprising amount of depth and history.  I don't know it all yet and I always enjoy discovering something new about him.  I suppose he's like my version of the Doctor from Doctor Who. In fact, since discovering classic Doctor Who I can now compare him with a somewhat more comical version of the First Doctor, although I was not familiar with that character when I created the Former Baron.

Anyway, visit Shadow, read it and tell me what you think.  I'd be really interested to know.  I'd also be interested in any advice people might have about getting the word out about it, although since I haven't even managed that with this blog, it seems unlikely that anyone will reply.

Or will you?

Drivin' and Larkin

Well I had another driving lesson last night and it did not go well.  I was in a new area, it was very dark and a little wet and I was quite tired and so it is probably not very surprising, when you consider how little confidence I have behind the wheel, that I panicked often with nearly disastrous consequences.  My instructor got annoyed with me and I got annoyed with him and in the end I snapped.  The result was kind of cathartic and in my remaining lessons booked with this company I hope things will improve, but I'm considering switching company anyway as I'm clearly a slow learner and it's getting too expensive.

The rest of the evening was better.  Eruntane and I had Haggis, Sneeps and Tatties (neeps being parsnips, as there were no neeps) and a little wine as it was Burns Night.  Neither of us are Scottish, although we've lived here for quite some time now, so I asked her to pick a poet to toast.  Apparently she'd had a bit of a bad day as well, since she picked Phillip Larkin.  I wonder if he'd enjoy being toasted, or whether the context would somehow confirm everything he ever believed about life and the human race...

Driving Business

So, the Shadow blog has had its first complete day of existence and, somewhat unsurprisingly, it has not become the No. 1 most read blog on the internet.

Don't worry, I'm not deluded.  I would, however, be genuinely interested in advice on getting the word out about the site.  There has to be a way to increase readership, other than just word of mouth and posting a link on Facebook, but I'm not really sure where to begin.  If I'm going to take this seriously, I need to consider my options.

In other 'news' I had a driving lesson today.  I think this was the seventh lesson, which makes fourteen hours so far.  I can't say that I enjoy them and I'm too stressed out by all that I have to keep remembering when I'm behind the wheel to really be able to enjoy the driving itself either.  Hopefully as I gain more confidence it'll all become clearer, but part of me (a part I have to kick into line everytime) just thinks it's stress I don't need.

Of course, I <i>do</i> need it.  Or at least it would be really very helpful.  Eruntane and I cannot spend the rest of our life relying on the kindness of strangers (and not just because that didn't work out too well for Blanche DuBois), or on the malevolent conveniences of FirstBus and trust me, I could write a whole other post about the things we have seen and/or heard on those diabolical conveyances!

No.  I have to learn to drive and I have to learn to do it well, but boy do I find myself marvelling at all those billions of people across the world who do it everyday without even breaking a sweat...  Seriously - how?

Argument

So, in an effort to keep my first post upon my return to this blog as something a little more 'pure' I've decided to leave all explanations to this post - a secondary post, but one which gets to the point a lot quicker.

Last night I watched Julie & Julia because my wife had just read the book and we'd just signed up to Love Film and a very sleepy friend had come over to visit and so this got put on. It was a good film, if admittedly of the 'girly' kind in terms of it's themes, but it was well put together and very well performed and I found something in its premise very challenging. Here were these two women, both with a connection to some kind of writing, trying to make something of it, putting so much effort into it that, in the case of Julie, it was actually destroying her marriage - which is obviously going a bit too far - but actually trying. And what have I been doing?

It was made somewhat more challenging by the fact that Julie Powell was taking charge of her writing career in the form of a blog, and here was this blog just sitting here, almost forgotten about, flooded with SPAM comments and links to sites I don't even want to imagine. (I'll have to work on deleting those, sorry).

So I guess the film was a bit of a call to arms. Now, as I said in my last post this is not about making grand promises or plans, despite the fact that I would probably work better under the same conditions as Julie, i.e. with a set deadline and target, but, to be honest, I can't really think of one right now. I'm too far out of my own stuff to be able to relate to any of that. What I can do, however, is try to blog more often. And I have another idea, one I might need to work on a bit to get going, or which I might succeed in starting up tonight - I'm not really sure. All I know is that this is probably worth doing - if I care enough about it, that is - so I'm going to give it a go.

Wish me luck.

EDIT:  The new project is 'go' - view it here.

Reintroduction

That last blog post was ironic. It was seeped in irony. Irony drips from its every typo and punctuation mark.

None of it was intentional.

You see Bebo came and went and with it (although in a somewhat more accelerated fashion) so did my blogging. I have barely blogged at all for 4 years and that includes my occasional journal updates on DeviantArt.

4 years is a very long time. Long enough for me to change job and change roles within that job. It's been long enough for me to stop writing almost completely and change the standards to which I want to write, even though I don't. It was long enough to get married, long enough to move into a flat which I actually own. Long enough to get a cat!

4 years is a long enough time to make me wonder if I'm still the same person who wrote this blog before, or if I've become something new. I wonder if that new thing is better, or worse, or if it's just a delusion born of a mind prone to pretentious delusions and self-deception.

4 years is very, very long time. I'm sorry I have not recorded much of it within the confines of this blog and sorrier still that I have fallen short on so many writing goals as to make a mockery of any attempt to call myself a writer. And yet, I do not regret any of those years. They are mine but, also they have been in the hands of one far greater than I and there have been many blessings to offset the disappointments I find within my own plans. I find myself in greater plans and in those greater plans, I think, I've found a little bit more of myself than I had before.

And so now I return here and wonder if I can start writing again.

No great promises. No grand commitment. No 12 step plan.

Let's just see what happens, shall we?