TGI-shxt it’s still Thursday..#NathanFillion teases #Firefly fans with group pic

(more…)

July 8, 2010. Tags: , , , , , , , , , . Celebrities, Entertainment, Fantasy, Film, Horror, Popular Culture, Sci Fi. Comments off.

Joss Whedon is a GLEEk…

Courtesy of FOX

The episode ‘Branch Wars’ of The Office that Joss directed is among my all time favorites. When ‘Lost’ is done I will be GLEEking out…Hope we get Dr Horrible Part Deux soon..and I want my Cabin in the Woods dammit! That’s the trouble with having a dedicated fan base Joss, we are so demanding :0)

May 15, 2010. Tags: , , , , , , , . Celebrities, Entertainment, Music, Popular Culture, Sci Fi. 2 comments.

PGA honors Joss Whedon with the Vanguard Award

See ThinkGeek.com for merchandise! http://www.thinkgeek.com/

I cannot wait to see ‘Cabin in the Woods’. Our previous posts on Joss, Dr Horrible, Cabin in the Woods, Firefly (and the dreaded, sometimes great, mostly crxpulent, Dollhouse) here.

I want to see what Joss created when he was let loose on classic horror!

Variety:

The Producers Guild of America has selected Joss Whedon as the recipient of its Vanguard Award, which recognizes achievements in new media and technology.The kudo will be presented at the 21st Annual PGA Awards ceremony on Jan. 24 at the Hollywood Palladium.

Whedon is a producer, writer, director, and creator for TV series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “Angel,” “Firefly,” and “Dollhouse” with film scripts including “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “Toy Story,” “Alien Resurrection” and “Titan A.E.” He’s penned the comic book series “Fray” and created and produced Internet series “Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along-Blog.”

“The Cabin in the Woods,” a feature he co-wrote with Drew Goddard, is currently in post-production and will be released in 2011 by MGM.

…”Joss Whedon has mastered the art of melding the newest technology with inspired storytelling, truly exemplifying the spirit of the Vanguard Award,” said David Friendly and Laurence Mark, co-chairs of the PGA Awards.

November 24, 2009. Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Celebrities, Entertainment, Fantasy, Film, graphic art, Horror, Popular Culture, Sci Fi, Supernatural, Suspense. Comments off.

Update: Lowest Ratings Evah for Dollhouse: Review: Dollhouse 2.2 Instinct – A Breastfeeding Too Far…

Updates moved to end of post

M’kay. Last night Echo was imprinted as a nursing mom and breastfed the infant. Yeah, Topher gave her a glandular imprint this time and when he tried to wipe it she went off the rails, to quote the show ‘her body was stronger than her mind’. Gee Joss thanks for that prototypical BS about nursing women! As a mom who nursed her baby boy I was horrified and floored by turns. The end thought Joss left us with is, glands control nursing women over their intellect. So much for Joss as writer of strong women HA!

November made an appearance and Miracle Laurie came off more as a robot than she ever did when imprinted as November. Eliza Dushku’s performance was flat and atonal even with the ‘glandular problems’ Joss gave her.

A real disappointment. I flipped over to Medium, and DVRd SG*U. I caught the end of the Dollhouse episode on FOX ON DEMAND this morning and frankly was glad I went with Medium. Sofia Vassilieva, who plays Ariel gave an outstanding (and emotional!) performance in last night’s episode, Who’s That Girl, in which her body was inhabited by a spirit. She managed to EMOTE what the other person was feeling, something Dushku has not done to date…

Even in the final scenes when Dushku’s character is holding a large knife and the baby and the father is trying to tell her she is not the mother, she has a completely ‘flat affect’, no signs of ‘hormones’, more like catatonia. I mean you”re an  actress, you got a Hail Mary season 2, you can ‘inhabit’ other lifetimes each week, but you have no emotions? Is it Eliza or is it Joss’ direction? Either way it is flat and boring as hexx.

Amy Acker was not in this episode and word is she is off the show after another episode or two. She is the finest actress on the show so that is a big let down as well.

One more time – they should have kept TSCC, Summer Glau emotes more as a Terminator than Dushku does as a mother having her infant torn from her arms.Even in using an awful stereotype about nursing women Joss either didnt give Eliza anything REAL to work with or she is not a good enough actress to ‘feel’ the things they are imprinting on her, take your pick.

When November believed she loved Tahmoh Penikett she WAS that imprint. She was in the throes of love and desperate to make it work. Their scenes together last season were great. Where is any of that depth in Dushku? So far the most ‘real’ I have seen  her is when she inevitably makes the Scooby Doo face of confusion in each episode as she is brought back to the Dollhouse to fix her glitch.

We are looking forward to Joss’ Cabin in the Woods, let’s hope we get Joss back to something worthwhile when Dollhouse gets dumped. Every week he seems to take us down another stereotype about women and he gives us no signs he himself does not believe they are true. I have been trying to see something more than women as interchangeable appliances for every customer’s need in Joss’ writing but it just is not there. We will post the ratings when they are up.

dollhouse-cast

Update 1: Dollhouse ratings fall off a cliff to previously uncharted depths for FOX last night. once more with feeling: you frakked up Reilly! FOX should’ve brought TSCC back….

THRFeed:

“Dollhouse” (2.1 million viewers, 0.8 preliminary adults 18-49 rating) punched through it’s previous rock bottom Friday night to discover a Fox ratings netherworld. The show dropped 20% from last week’s premiere, which was already an all-time-low for the show. I’m betting the debut of Syfy’s “Stargate: Universe” zapped some viewers (cable ratings aren’t available yet), but even so — this is too low for a Fox show.

CBS won the night again even with ‘soft ratings’ hey it’s a Friday!

Meanwhile CBS didn’t have a great night either, with its trio of crime dramas falling from their somewhat-soft premieres. “Ghost Whisperer” (7.6 million, 1.7), “Medium” (7.7 million, 1.8) and “Numbers” (7.7 million, 1.6). CBS nonetheless won the night.

CW lost some views:

Week 2 of “Smallville” (2.4 million, 0.9) dropped 18%. (Update: Smallville beat Brothers on the network!)

Update 2: MTV Movie blog pans last night’s episode also:

(…)Man, this might have been one of the most needless episodes of “Dollhouse” to date. It did very, very little to propel the forward momentum of the series seen in last year’s finales and hinted at in this year’s premiere. Sure, we get the reminder at the end that Echo is growing cognizant of her situation, but we have to wait until the final minutes for this reveal. It felt like the bad old days of the first season, where those opening episodes struggled to find their footing. This was an extraordinary step back, in my opinion…

…”Instinct” was a complete waste of time given the progress the show has made since last year’s final episodes. I truly hope this was a one-time fluke in quality, because when “Dollhouse” is this stale, I have a hard time feeling bad about its ratings decline and inevitable cancellation….

October 3, 2009. Tags: , , , , , , . Celebrities, Entertainment, Fantasy, Horror, Mystery, Popular Culture, Sci Fi, Supernatural, Suspense. 5 comments.

Haunted Short Stories – 21 – ‘The Damned Thing’ by Ambrose G. Bierce

Courtesy of Madhouse Manor the page of Debra Doyle & James D. MacDonald

CHAPTER I

ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS EAT WHAT IS ON THE TABLE

By the light of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a rough table a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light on it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the rooms, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent, motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead.

The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation. From the bland darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness — the long nameless note of a distant coyote; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces — obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity — farmers and woodsmen.

The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco; his foot-gear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead man’s effects — in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.

When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.

The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.

“We have waited for you,” said the coroner. “It is necessary to have done with this business to-night.”

The young man smiled. “I am sorry to have kept you,” he said. “I went away, not to evade your summons, but to post to my newspaper an account of what I suppose I am called back to relate.”

The coroner smiled.

“The account that you posted to your newspaper,” he said, “differs, probably, from that which you will give here under oath.”

“That,” replied the other, rather hotly and with a visible flush, “is as you please. I used manifold paper and have a copy of what I sent. It was not written as news, for it is incredible, but as fiction. It may go as part of my testimony under oath.”

“But you say it is incredible.”

“That is nothing to you, sir, if I also swear that it is true.”

The coroner was silent for a time, his eyes upon the floor.

The men about the sides of the cabin talked in whispers, but seldom withdrew their gaze from the face of the corpse. Presently the coroner lifted his eyes and said: “We will resume the inquest.”

The men removed their hats. The witness was sworn.

Story Continues after the break:

(more…)

October 21, 2010. Tags: , , , , , , . American Literature, English Literature, Entertainment, Fantasy, Fiction, Horror, Mystery, Popular Culture, Supernatural, Suspense. Comments off.

Haunted Short Stories – 4 – ‘Thurnley Abbey’ by Perceval Landon (1908)

Courtesy of Gaslight Etexts

'Thurnley Abbey' by Perceval Landon originally published in Raw Edges, William Heinemann, 1908, reprinted in Haunting and Horror, pp. 95-109

Three years ago I was on my way out to the East, and as an extra day in London was of some importance, I took the Friday evening mail-train to Brindisi instead of the usual Thursday morning Marseilles express. Many people shrink from the long forty-eight-hour train journey through Europe, and the subsequent rush across the Mediterranean on the nineteen-knot Isis or Osiris; but there is really very little discomfort on either the train or the mail-boat, and unless there is actually nothing for me to do, I always like to save the extra day and a half in London before I say goodbye to her for one of my longer tramps. This time–it was early, I remember, in the shipping season, probably about the beginning of September–there were few passengers, and I had a compartment in the P. & O. Indian express to myself all the way from Calais. All Sunday I watched the blue waves dimpling the Adriatic, and the pale rosemary along the cuttings; the plain white towns, with their flat roofs and their bold “duomos,” and the grey-green gnarled olive orchards of Apulia. The journey was just like any other. We ate in the dining-car as often and as long as we decently could. We slept after luncheon; we dawdled the afternoon away with yellow-backed novels; sometimes we exchanged platitudes in the smoking-room, and it was there that I met Alastair Colvin.

Colvin was a man of middle height, with a resolute, well-cut jaw; his hair was turning grey; his moustache was sun-whitened, otherwise he was clean-shaven–obviously a gentleman, and obviously also a pre-occupied man. He had no great wit. When spoken to, he made the usual remarks in the right way, and I dare say he refrained from banalities only because he spoke less than the rest of us; most of the time he buried himself in the Wagon-lit Company’s time-table, but seemed unable to concentrate his attention on any one page of it. He found that I had been over the Siberian railway, and for a quarter of an hour he discussed it with me. Then he lost interest in it, and rose to go to his compartment. But he came back again very soon, and seemed glad to pick up the conversation again.

Of course this did not seem to me to be of any importance. Most travellers by train become a trifle infirm of purpose after thirty-six hours’ rattling. But Colvin’s restless way I noticed in somewhat marked contrast with the man’s personal importance and dignity; especially ill suited was it to his finely made large hand with strong, broad, regular nails and its few lines. As I looked at his hand I noticed a long, deep, and recent scar of ragged shape. However, it is absurd to pretend that I thought anything was unusual. I went off at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon to sleep away the hour or two that had still to be got through before we arrived at Brindisi.

Once there, we few passengers transhipped our hand baggage, verified our berths–there were only a score of us in all–and then, after an aimless ramble of half an hour in Brindisi, we returned to dinner at the Httel International, not wholly surprised that the town had been the death of Virgil. If I remember rightly, there is a gaily painted hall at the International–I do not wish to advertise anything, but there is no other place in Brindisi at which to await the coming of the mails–and after dinner I was looking with awe at a trellis overgrown with blue vines, when Colvin moved across the room to my table. He picked up Il Secolo, but almost immediately gave up the pretence of reading it. He turned squarely to me and said:

“Would you do me a favour?”

One doesn’t do favours to stray acquaintances on Continental expresses without knowing something more of them than I knew of Colvin. But I smiled in a noncommittal way, and asked him what he wanted. I wasn’t wrong in part of my estimate of him; he said bluntly:

“Will you let me sleep in your cabin on the Osiris?” And he coloured a little as he said it.

Now, there is nothing more tiresome than having to put up with a stable-companion at sea, and I asked him rather pointedly:

“Surely there is room for all of us?” I thought that perhaps he had been partnered off with some mangy Levantine, and wanted to escape from him at all hazards.

Colvin, still somewhat confused, said: “Yes; I am in a cabin by myself. But you would do me the greatest favour if you would allow me to share yours.”

This was all very well, but, besides the fact that I always sleep better when alone, there had been some recent thefts on board English liners, and I hesitated, frank and honest and self-conscious as Colvin was. Just then the mail-train came in with a clatter and a rush of escaping steam, and I asked him to see me again about it on the boat when we started. He answered me curtly–I suppose he saw the mistrust in my manner–“I am a member of White’s. I smiled to myself as he said it, but I remembered in a moment that the man–if he were really what he claimed to be, and I make no doubt that he was–must have been sorely put to it before he urged the fact as a guarantee of his respectability to a total stranger at a Brindisi hotel.

That evening, as we cleared the red and green harbour-lights of Brindisi, Colvin explained. This is his story in his own words.

+ = + = +

“When I was travelling in India some years ago, I made the acquaintance of a youngish man in the Woods and Forests. We camped out together for a week, and I found him a pleasant companion. John Broughton was a light-hearted soul when off duty, but a steady and capable man in any of the small emergencies that continually arise in that department. He was liked and trusted by the natives, and though a trifle over-pleased with himself when he escaped to civilisation at Simla or Calcutta, Broughton’s future was well assured in Government service, when a fair-sized estate was unexpectedly left to him, and he joyfully shook the dust of the Indian plains from his feet and returned to England. For five years he drifted about London. I saw him now and then. We dined together about every eighteen months, and I could trace pretty exactly the gradual sickening of Broughton with a merely idle life. He then set out on a couple of long voyages, returned as restless as before, and at last told me that he had decided to marry and settle down at his place, Thurnley Abbey, which had long been empty. He spoke about looking after the property and standing for his constituency in the usual way. Vivien Wilde, his fiancée, had, I suppose, begun to take him in hand. She was a pretty girl with a deal of fair hair and rather an exclusive manner; deeply religious in a narrow school, she was still kindly and high-spirited, and I thought that Broughton was in luck. He was quite happy and full of information about his future.

“Among other things, I asked him about Thurnley Abbey. He confessed that he hardly knew the place. The last tenant, a man called Clarke, had lived in one wing for fifteen years and seen no one. He had been a miser and a hermit. It was the rarest thing for a light to be seen at the Abbey after dark. Only the barest necessities of life were ordered, and the tenant himself received them at the side-door. His one half-caste manservant, after a month’s stay in the house, had abruptly left without warning, and had returned to the Southern States. One thing Broughton complained bitterly about: Clarke had wilfully spread the rumour among the villagers that the Abbey was haunted, and had even condescended to play childish tricks with spirit-lamps and salt in order to scare trespassers away at night. He had been detected in the act of this tomfoolery, but the story spread, and no one, said Broughton, would venture near the house except in broad daylight. The hauntedness of Thurnley Abbey was now, he said with a grin, part of the gospel of the countryside, but he and his young wife were going to change all that. Would I propose myself any time I liked? I, of course, said I would, and equally, of course, intended to do nothing of the sort without a definite invitation.

“The house was put in thorough repair, though not a stick of the old furniture and tapestry were removed. Floors and ceilings were relaid: the roof was made watertight again, and the dust of half a century was scoured out. He showed me some photographs of the place. It was called an Abbey, though as a matter of fact it had been only the infirmary of the long-vanished Abbey of Clouster some five miles away. The larger part of the building remained as it had been in pre-Reformation days, but a wing had been added in Jacobean times, and that part of the house had been kept in something like repair by Mr. Clarke. He had in both the ground and first floors set a heavy timber door, strongly barred with iron, in the passage between the earlier and the Jacobean parts of the house, and had entirely neglected the former. So there had been a good deal of work to be done.

“Broughton, whom I saw in London two or three times about this period, made a deal of fun over the positive refusal of the workmen to remain after sundown. Even after the electric light had been put into every room, nothing would induce them to remain, though, as Broughton observed, electric light was death on ghosts. The legend of the Abbey’s ghosts had gone far and wide, and the men would take no risks. They went home in batches of five and six, and even during the daylight hours there was an inordinate amount of talking between one and another, if either happened to be out of sight of his companion. On the whole, though nothing of any sort or kind had been conjured up even by their heated imaginations during their five months’ work upon the Abbey, the belief in the ghosts was rather strengthened than otherwise in Thurnley because of the men’s confessed nervousness, and local tradition declared itself in favour of the ghost of an immured nun.

“‘Good old nun!’ said Broughton.

“I asked him whether in general he believed in the possibility of ghosts, and, rather to my surprise, he said that he couldn’t say he entirely disbelieved in them. A man in India had told him one morning in camp that he believed that his mother was dead in England, as her vision had come to his tent the night before. He had not been alarmed, but had said nothing, and the figure vanished again. As a matter of fact, the next possible dak-walla brought on a telegram announcing the mother’s death. ‘There the thing was,’ said Broughton. But at Thurnley he was practical enough. He roundly cursed the idiotic selfishness of Clarke, whose silly antics had caused all the inconvenience. At the same time, he couldn’t refuse to sympathise to some extent with the ignorant workmen. ‘My own idea,’ said he, ‘is that if a ghost ever does come in one’s way, one ought to speak to it.’

“I agreed. Little as I knew of the ghost world and its conventions, I had always remembered that a spook was in honour bound to wait to be spoken to. It didn’t seem much to do, and I felt that the sound of one’s own voice would at any rate reassure oneself as to one’s wakefulness. But there are few ghosts outside Europe–few, that is, that a white man can see–and I had never been troubled with any. However, as I have said, I told Broughton that I agreed.

Story continues after the break:

(more…)

October 4, 2010. Tags: , , , , , , , , . American Literature, English Literature, Fantasy, Fiction, Horror, Mystery, Popular Culture, Supernatural, Suspense. Comments off.

« Previous Page

%d bloggers like this: