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promethia_tenkFeeling in the mood for a bit of recreational RTD hatred, I took the evening to watch what's been aired so far of Torchwood: Miracle Day. Given the generally dismal state of the reactions I've read, I figured I was all set for a satisfying run of fuming, eyerolling, and exaggerated gestures of disbelief and annoyance, relieved only by mad bouts of Gwen adoration. Well, surprise, surprise:
I think I kinda love it? I'm still working out exactly why, but it's a bit like this: When Kill Bill came out, critics described it as a baroque meditation on the aesthetics of violence. And, oh, I do love anything baroque. Miracle Day is something like a baroque meditation on the aesthetics of Russel Davies' misanthropy. It's every narrative tic and cliche and failing and sentiment of his that I've ever hated, pushed to the point of . . . art. It's a bit magnificently appalling.
I'm going to bed now. Let's see if I regret admitting this in the morning . . .
I think I kinda love it? I'm still working out exactly why, but it's a bit like this: When Kill Bill came out, critics described it as a baroque meditation on the aesthetics of violence. And, oh, I do love anything baroque. Miracle Day is something like a baroque meditation on the aesthetics of Russel Davies' misanthropy. It's every narrative tic and cliche and failing and sentiment of his that I've ever hated, pushed to the point of . . . art. It's a bit magnificently appalling.
I'm going to bed now. Let's see if I regret admitting this in the morning . . .
