I’m fighting a cold that’s too small to complain about, but unignorable, and this is the first proper break I’ve had since like February last year, so it looks like 2020 is going to be a slow ramp-up rather than a storming out of the gates.
I had a dream last night where a direct train ticket to Hull cost £10, which is the public transport fantasy world I want to live in.
Laurie Penny on Twitter described watching Doctor Who as akin to supporting a football team, which is an analogy I get on with. Chibnall’s writing and showrunning style is similar to that of the TV version of His Dark Materials, so it may well be the ’20s telefantasy zeitgeist. As someone used to the quippy runny post-Whedon style, still in evidence in Good Omens and Gatiss/Moffat Dracula, it’s a significant shift, and one I’m struggling to make. Truly, at 28, I am become An Old.
On the new Dracula, it’s tons of fun. It feels like the writing is in the creators’ most comfortable spot, but you could more charitably say it’s a greatest hits. There’s a Doctor speech here, a big old romantic declaration there, and it’s only a few notches on the funny dial away from the League of Gentlemen. None of this is a bad thing. The camp verve and icky horror tickles my pleasure centres something rotten. I somewhat regret the Netflix of it all means that it’s on three consecutive nights, rather than allowing proper antici…. pation, but I’m very happy the next one’s on tonight.
I think I’ll start War and Peace today. Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 finally convinced me to pick up a copy, and it’s still sat on the shelf for a year. I’ll let you know how I’m getting on tomorrow.