Somehow I didn’t mind all that much that the first two seasons of The Killing were slow-moving and, in their way, low on plot. I find Mirielle Enos fascinating and once he finally won me over, I became inexplicably charmed by Joel Kinnamon too. Plus, Michelle Forbes! She was incredible. As a bonus, Michelle was screen-married to Brent Sexton, who was awesome on Life and who deserved a meaty role, despite his total lack of what are sometimes called leading man looks.
Kelly was not so engaged, and so S3 has been quietly piling, like snow drifting up, in our DVR queue. Then, Thursday, she had to go to a work retreat. So I watched it. I watched four episodes. And Holy Carp.
Okay. First, the casting mancakes. Hugh Dillon will always be Joe Dick to me, and well-beloved at that. I heart him. So–Joe Dick as, well, a dickly prison warden. He is still a thoroughly charismatic gargoyle.
But wait! Buy now and instead of a set of steak knives you get Elias Koteas! (Of TMNT, and The Prophecy, that Elias Koteas. Many of the actors I love are undeserving, or at least hard done by in terms of the roles they get offered.) As this season’s love interest for Linden, if the foreshadowing hasn’t misled me.
And as a special extra bonus, they’ve thrown in the current reigning Olympic Gold Medalist in Scenery Chewing (Team USA), Gregg Henry. So far he’s kept his teeth off the desks at Seattle Homicide, but he’s eyeing those desk chairs hungrily.
What about women? Yes, it has some. They are far less recognizable to me, since most of them are teens. But I have been amazed by Bex Taylor Klaus, who plays the butch street kid Bullet.
And that’s the other thing: street kid. The Killing has a big ‘examining the family torn apart by homicide’ schtick going, and this year, having wrung Forbes and Sexton dry, they are doing a microscopic examination of a chosen family of street kids, some of whom are in the sex trade. This pairs well with the kind of angsty human drama the series tends to inflict on its crime victims. They’re young, vulnerable, constantly at risk and often their only–very frail–safety net is each other.
Finally, in The Killing, Seattle is played by my former stomping ground, Vancouver. The kid gang spends major time in a walkway I call The Cage, in old Strathcona. The Cage turns up on TV almost as often as Aaron Douglas–it’s that striking, visually. I used to walk through it every Tuesday on my way downtown. I know I have a photo of it, but I’m having trouble finding it, sorry.
So. Anyway. I inhaled those four episodes on Thursday and I’m hungry for more.
This week’s essay is on “Checkpoint,” which has one of my favorite Buffy monologues. She smacks down someone(s) who really deserve it. And, as usual, there’s a lively follow-up discussion in the credits. You’re all invited, every time.
Things of Monday, just to make you all tired: I wrote 1,329 words on the current novel yesterday. Then I walked Kelly to the Skytrain, hit two groceries, came home to unload, breakfasted, set up the camera to shoot birds, changed, and went to a 75-minute hatha yoga class–this last was possible only because it’s practically in my backyard, and therefore requires no commute. I ran two errands at two banks, came home, replied to 75 student posts for Writing the Fantastic, pondered the three questions I can’t quickly reply to, answered 25ish e-mails, made Tuesday-Wednesday lunches for K and I, simultaneously made chicken mole for several nights’ supper, committed personal hygiene, schemed with K about our 25th anniversary trip (changes to the plan are in the works!) made ten Scrabble moves, did one load each of laundry and dishes, lamented the cruel fate that allowed a Kleenex to slip into the washer via someone’s jeans. I also made the usual weekly tweets about the Buffy essay. Plus, now, this post.
Somewhere in there I had time to briefly contemplate how Return to Cranford has convinced me I was wrong so wrong about Tom Hiddleston being hideous and unlikable, but that’s fodder for a Telewitterings post.
Here at Chez Dua last weekend, we watched Parade’s End, a five-part mini-series based on the books by Ford Madox Ford. Look! The ‘Batch is blonde!
And we enjoyed it very much indeed, but on one of our snack breaks, I said “They’re arranging matches!” Because for those five hours what we were watching was paced exactly like the subsumed-drama British version of the imaginary movie described here by Eddie Izzard in this not-safe-for-work excerpt from Dress to Kill.
Two episodes in, World Without End seems to be Game of Thrones, with twice the rape, some okay medieval history, and none of the magic. That doesn’t mean it’s terrible: really, this is just a listing of ingredients.
The story is based on a Ken Follet book, World Without End, and it’s set in England during the reign of Edward the II. There are a few familiar faces within the cast, most notably Miranda Richardson. The story hums along: this is not one of those tales that morsels out plot in tiny teaspoons–we’ve seen three episodes, and already months have passed and there’s been a significant bodycount. And, in fact, one of the characters who’s already died was played by an actor who’s been horribly killed in every single thing we’ve seen them appear in.
I’m up to “Fear, Itself” this week on the Buffy Rewatch. Enjoy!
State of the Office:
This weekend I went off for what turned out to be a 7.5 km walk with Barb in Everett Crowley Park and environs while Kelly went to yoga. We then grabbed up a Modo Car and went OMG, everywhere. Lunch at Triluzza, the recycling depot, the paint store, Gourmet Warehouse for hominy, the drug store, the produce market, and some other errandy place I can’t remember.
On Sunday, we had made a reservation to go spoil ourselves at the Urban Tea Merchant. We had a thoroughly decadent tea (which didn’t photograph as well as I’d like but what can you do?) and then returned home in a state of caffeinated bliss and attacked the painting of the first two walls.