Critic Cal

I was ten when O.J. Simpson's former wife Nicole and her friend Ron were found stabbed to death outside her LA home. It was the talk of the playground, handled with all the sensitivity and nuance that ten year olds typically bring to matters of mortality and justice. He definitely did it; he definitely didn't do it; he's best mates with my brother and he'll do it to you too if you don't give me your Kit Kat; say his name five times in a mirror and he'll come after you in your dreams in the guise of a chubby-cheeked children's toy carrying a machete... [1] I knew nothing about sport. As far as I was concerned, O.J. was just some guy on a baseball card. And I knew still less about race. Racism was black kids and white kids not wanting to play together, just like sexism was girls and boys refusing to sit next to each other. So the case made little coherent impact on me at the time. And even though I hope I've started to get the hang of a few things in r...

A friend of mine – male, and with some years on me – observed my gradual feminist 'awakening' respectfully but doubtfully. He – I'm going to call him Alan, because that's not his name – Alan would hear me out but struggled to see what all the fuss was about. Systemic sexism?! Many of his best friends were women, and they seemed to be doing alright. They could vote, drive and go to work, just like his male friends. And in their free time, they still got to do all those women-y things they enjoyed so much, like keeping house, looking after their families, dieting, shopping, removing excess body hair and ringing each other up to share anti-ageing tips. Best of both worlds! Then one day something clicked. Or seemed to. Alan met another feminist at a party and got chatting about the sensitive subject of internalised misogyny – when women subconsciously accept the superiority of men and demean one another and themselves accordingly. Symptoms may include body-hating , slu...

"Now, we can do this the hard way or ... well actually, there's just the hard way." ( S1E1 )  "Didn't anyone warn you about playing with pointy sticks? It's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye." ( S3E2 )  "You know very well, you eat this late ... you're gonna get heartburn. Get it? Heartburn?" ( S4E6 )  "That's all I get? One lame-ass vamp with no appreciation for my painstakingly thought-out puns." ( S4E6 )   "Didn't your mom teach you? Don't play with your food." ( S1E6 )  “If I was at full slayer power, I’d be punning right about now.” ( S3E12 ) Buffy ! I finished watching the 7-season teen-TV spectacular late last autumn, having 'discovered' it at a somewhat advanced age, with the help of my sister, against the anxious life-long advice of our parents (as I've mentioned  elsewhere ). What's not to love? Go Buffy! Go women! Go non-patriarchal models of masculini...

There was a time before YouTube – remember? – when people relied on the television for humorous video snippets. And if you wanted to watch one again (and again and again and again) you'd better hope that somebody had set the VCR. Well, my family were utterly entranced by a dog called Domino that said "I want one". He starred in a 1988 episode of the BBC's 'That's Life' and my dad has been doing impressions of him ever since. (In fact, I'm pretty sure we  didn't  catch it on tape – which means we probably only saw the actual footage once; it was dad we had on repeat). Unsurprisingly, by now   it can  be found on  YouTube , comfortably at home alongside a selection of tortuous  wannabes  – talking dogs just aren't what they once were. It's an odd experience watching it for real for the first time in all these years. Like most memories, it's evolved in the retelling; for something so embedded in our family culture it seems strangely ...

Mr W. and myself have been unanimous, this week, in our delight at the long-awaited start of the season. We have not, however, been quite so unanimous as to the which of the said season. He seems to think it is the Premier League lays rightful claim to our delight; I'm pretty sure it is the Great British Bake Off . However, my attempts to reason with him have fallen on deaf ears. "I honestly don't understand what's gotten everybody so ridiculously hyped," he marvels disdainfully. "It's not even real." Well, he's right about the hype. My Facebook newsfeed is testament to that. And it doesn't seem to be peculiar to my online peers: 9.3 million tuned in for the opener; 2 million more than the equivalent figures for last year. The Telegraph even provided a live text update  of the first episode, football match-style, for people (I guess?) who were unavoidably away from their TV screens between the hours of 8 and 9 last Wednesday evening b...

Just when mum and dad thought they could safely stop worrying about my little sister leading me astray, said rebellious sibling gets me into Buffy -- a program most decidedly  not featured in the authorised version of the Radio Times when we were growing up. I guess I've long-since graduated from the target demographic. Still, I can easily see why it got so successful. It has everything a high-school horror comedy romance drama series should: the jocks, the geeks, the cheerleaders, the teachers who are out to get you (slash eat you) ... undead overlords, seductive arthropods ... friendship, unrequited love, parental run-ins, the older (but only by a couple-a hundred years, though) guy ... peer pressure, bullying, internet demons ( not the 'background process' type) ... the general, over-arching challenges of trying to balance a social life around schoolwork around slaying ... Sure is a tough gig being the Chosen One: [Buffy defeats vampire/demon/human-animal hybr...

On the subject of unsubtle Christological allusions in contemporary culture: Sherlock . No prizes for guessing where I'm going here... At the end of Season 2, Sherlock dies -- under dramatic, self-sacrificial circumstances. John Watson sees the whole thing, and is devastated. There can be no doubt: in order to save his friends from Moriarty's malevolent scheming, Sherlock throws himself off the roof of St Bart's, where John is (almost) the first on the scene of his lifeless corpse, and even checks his (absent) pulse before the hospital staff intervene and carry the body away. The episode ends with John and Mrs. Hudson standing sorrowfully by the grave, longing (but with no cause to hope) that it might not be so. Two years elapse before the start of Season 3, and John has returned to his old life. He no longer lives at 221B Baker Street, and has lost touch with Mrs. Hudson -- not through lack of affection, he just can't stand to be reminded. He has dealt with ...

The Rings Of Akhaten  -- episode 2 of the current Doctor Who series -- culminates with a sweat-dripping, hubris-bristling rendition, from the eponymous physician himself, of what is essentially an out-and-out New Atheist manifesto, all set to a stirring choral accompaniment and staged in front of a cosmic CGI backdrop: "Okay then. That's what I'll do. I'll tell you a story. Can you hear them? All these people who lived in terror of you and your judgment. All these people whose ancestors devoted themselves, sacrificed themselves to you. Can you hear them singing? Oh you like to think you're a god. But you're not a god. You're just a parasite. Eat now with jealousy and envy and longing for the lives of others. You feed on them. On the memory of love and loss and birth and death and joy and sorrow, so... so come on then. Take mine. Take my memories. But I hope you're got a big a big appetite. Because I've lived a long life. And I've seen a few t...

[NOTE: I just stumbled on  this article  by physicist and priest  John Polkinghorne  which explains everything I'm trying to say below, but better and with all the right credentials...So go away and read that, and if you are at a loose end afterwards rejoin me for my attempts to prove that I am perfectly amenable to a spot of popular culture after all, if somewhat determined to drag it through a theological hedge backwards.] Old  Cliff 's old classic seemed creepy enough to me [1]  before I discovered (that is, was forcibly encouraged to discover) ' Dollhouse ' -- Joss Whedon's playfully poignant (prematurely cancelled) existential sci-fi about programming people to spec. The premise is pretty stirringly dark: a shady operation hiring out good-looking persons ('actives') who have been imprinted with designed-to-order psyches for all manner of purposes, ranging from romantic liaisons (of varying degrees of depravity) and complex criminal dealings ...