Sunday, August 15, 2010

Hamlet, sort of

Hamlet. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about Hamlet, and what with Emilie Autumn and my renewed crush on Ten, hence also somewhat on David Tennant, I find myself contemplating the sweat prince (ah, obscure In the Bleak Midwinter references!) once more. Why Emilie Autumn? Well, because of Opheliac, song and album, which could with more justice be called Hamletiac, though I admit it doesn’t sound nearly as good.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire
Doubt thou the sun doth move
Doubt truth to be a liar
But never doubt I love”

she sings. Confessions of love from a mad prince are about right. I’ll need to rewatch it this weekend (right, TDEC, what you need at this critical and difficult juncture in your life is 500-year-old death and suffering, as re-enacted by Patrick Stewart and David Tennant. Just the thing, actually.) I wish I could watch Cambridge Spies:

Queen: "Never trust a man with a bad moustache. Homosexualists never have moustaches... Have you noticed? I think it's a signal... To other chaps... 'Look! No moustache! Come and get me!' Ponces and spies, Anthony. The people with the most to hide never have moustaches. So which are you, Anthony? Ponce or spy?"

Anthony Blunt: "Oh... A little of both... Aren't we all?"

There, just the thought of it makes me happy. And it would make for a perfect day-long escape into the world of lovely British drama. You know, I kind of resent my fetish for Tennant. Sam West is lovely, and kind of obscure, especially out here, and he loves poetry and cross-stitching and fencing and theatre. He wears hats. He’s lovely. But David Tennant? David Tennant is just some Scottish bloke. I would love to blame it all on my love of the Tenth Doctor, but I love him in a bunch of other things too, he wins me over every time, but I still resent it. I hate it when I get lured into a mainstream filmstar crush, and he’s as mainstream as you get in Britain. And for all my long-standing affection of all things Scottish, I don’t like his Scottish accent, and find it jarring; I find his real self jarring*. It’s the kind of thing I wish I could talk myself out of. Only then, when I’m not looking, I will find myself watching Human Nature again and...

Notice how I used my Misery Cloud as an excuse to go on pointless tangent about David Tennant and Sam West and the general atrophying of my brain?

I am pathetic, yet happy.

*Oh, who am I kidding. He does bedtime stories. He kissed John Barrowman. Surely that wins him some reality points?

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