In the Woods by Tana French

I wish I could show you how an interrogation can have its own beauty, shining and cruel as that of a bullfight; how in defiance of the crudest topic or most moronic suspect it keeps inviolate its own taut, honed grace, its own irresistible and blood-stirring rhythms; how the great pairs of detectives knew each other's every thought as surely as ballet partners in a pas de deux. I never knew and never will know whether either Cassie or I was a great detective, though I suspect not, but I know this: we made a team worthy of bard-songs and history books. This was our last and greatest dance together, danced in a tiny interview room with darkness outside and rain falling soft and relentless on the roof, for no audience but the doomed and the dead.

-In the Woods

Readers of In the Woods will soon discover that Detective Rob Ryan never should have taken the Katy Devlin case. Katy, an aspiring ballerina from the town of Knocknaree in Ireland, is found dead at a local archeological dig. She was murdered, and rookie Murder detective Rob and his partner Cassie Maddox are the only ones around when the call comes in. There's a brief window of time when Rob could have taken his supervisor aside, explained the unusual circumstances, and passed the case on to someone else. He didn't.

And as much as we realize the potential fallout of this decision, it's easy to understand why Rob felt he had to take the case. For Detective Ryan, now working in Dublin, grew up in Knocknaree - and he didn't always go by Rob. Twenty years earlier, long before he ever could have imagined becoming a detective, he was called Adam. He spent many a happy day in Knocknaree, roaming the countryside with his two best mates, Jamie and Peter. And then one day, the merry trio went into the woods and didn't come back in time for tea. Their parents waited, and worried, and finally they called the police. Adam was eventually found, catatonic, with no memory of his time in the woods - and little memory of anything before it, for that matter. His shoes were filled with blood that didn't match his blood type. Jamie and Peter were never found. Adam was quickly sent to boarding school, where he acquired a posh new English accent and began to go by his middle name. He left Knocknaree behind and became a detective, working his way up to the Murder squad. "I have serious trouble with murdered children," he confesses, to no one's surprise.

"I'm fine with [the case]," Rob tells Cassie - "Just kick me if I get too moody." Of course, it's not quite so simple as that. After all, as more than one person reasons, what are the odds of two child killers haunting the tiny Knocknaree? I don't think I'm spoiling things if I note that Rob doesn't handle it nearly as well as he had hoped, and he has more and more trouble with his detective work. Cassie is left to worry and persevere with the third detective assigned to the case, the dogged yet seemingly naive Sam O'Neill.

I initially had little interest in reading In the Woods because - like Rob - I don't like cases in which children are killed. However, my aunt sent me the sequel, and it looked good enough that I felt I should go back and read the first book. I'm so glad I did. I found myself completely spellbound - it took a lot of effort to pull myself off the train each morning and not just ride to the end of the line and back again until I finished. I actually finished it Wednesday afternoon and would have written a lot sooner had I not gotten caught up in Hamlet.

So what made it so captivating? I think part of it, certainly, was the idea of the cold case being connected to the new one, which often makes for a good premise. And, of course, it always ups the ante when the detective has a personal stake in a case - especially when you become invested in that detective's well-being, as I was with the increasingly tortured Rob. Combine that with Tana French's excellent writing - occasionally a little too cutesy for me, but in general I found it quite good - and you can begin to see how I couldn't put it down.

French doesn't tie things up too neatly - which, while it can be frustrating, I appreciate for its realism. It is helpful that she appears to be envisioning Rob and Cassie's stories as a series - sequel The Likeness focuses on Cassie, but I've read that French has said she's not done with Rob. It's great news, as I feel there's a lot more of his story to tell. I've skimmed some reviews and found that quite a few find Rob unlikeable. I would be a bit kinder and add him to the list of damaged detectives. I don't mind a hero who makes mistakes - even big mistakes - if they make sense for the character. In this instance, at least, it certainly makes for a thoroughly engrossing story.

Up next: Reading The Likeness, of course!

Adaptation: The RSC's Hamlet

I have of late - but wherefore

I know not lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of
exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my
disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to
me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy,
the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why,
it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man!
How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties,
in form and moving how express and admirable,
in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man
delights not me - no, nor woman neither, though by
your smiling you seem to say so.

-Hamlet, Act II, scene ii

Have there even been any more beautiful lines written on melancholy? And look at that poor, melancholy face above - that melancholy face and that awesome t-shirt*. Alas, poor Hamlet.

I've been finding it difficult to gather my thoughts on last night's Hamlet. By yesterday evening I had wound myself into quite a state of anticipation, which was coupled with my exhaustion at the end of an overlong day. As a result, when I remembered Hamlet today, I almost felt as though I had dreamt it. It would have been an excellent dream, as it was a most excellent adaptation.

I've actually been surprised to not see more press coverage. Most of what I've seen has focused on the nerdtastic casting element - David Tennant, formerly of Doctor Who, as Hamlet, and Patrick Stewart, aka Captain Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek, as the dastardly Claudius. Which is, admittedly, cool. But I guess I tend to overestimate Tennant's celebrity on this side of the pond, because I expected a bit more. The only recent mention of Tennant in The New York Times was a story on the new series of Doctor Who, wherein his former uniform of a suit and Chuck Taylors was described as "profoundly irritating." And here I was finding it dashing and quirky all this time.

Anyway, while watching this adaptation, I couldn't help but spend a fair amount of my time comparing it with the version I saw on Broadway last fall. I think the biggest difference - and this is almost too obvious to note, but I felt it significantly - was the lack of immediacy in watching on television versus in the theater. I loved Tennant's take on Hamlet. His craziness seemed more put-on than Law's, and yet he seemed more understated as well. While Law was all kinetic energy, Tennant - although absolutely dynamic, don't get me wrong - excelled in his quieter moments. This is a man who in his most iconic role was perhaps most consistently described as "manic,"** but he can also do a lot when doing very little . Indeed, I'd say I was taken by how often Hamlet was found lounging:

Words, words, words.

Tennant, tall and lanky, turns out to do amazing work sprawled across the floor. Also, barefoot. I know that probably sounds like rubbish, but I'm still overtired and these moments of repose - again, not without energy (witness the photo above) - have stood out in my mind. Make of that what you will, I suppose. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about a modern dress Hamlet***, incidentally, but I don't see how you can argue against that shirt, blue jeans, and bare feet. I mean, you could, but why be such a spoilsport?

Although it was really Tennant's show - and Hamlet is really why I love Hamlet, truly - he had an excellent supporting cast. Actually, I hesitate to even call Stewart supporting, as he has such a presence. He played an interesting dual role as both the Ghost and Claudius, and he was fearsome in both parts. One clearly got the sense that Hamlet not only felt he had to seek revenge because of the injustice of his father's murder, but also because he was terrified of what the Ghost would do if his nerve failed him. It made me really think about what Hamlet's relationship was like with his parents prior to his father's death.

I enjoyed the rest of the cast as well, though, as I've noticed in other adaptations, I found it difficult to connect to Ophelia and thought Polonius got to steal quite a few scenes - and I picked the moment when he said "tragical-comical-historical-pastoral" as the exact moment where I figured it was fine for Hamlet to kill him. Oh yes, I am quite cruel.

In short, I enjoyed seeing this performance, no doubt. I'm still left wishing, though, that I could have seen it in the theater, where I think it would have been tremendous. On the other hand, one benefit of seeing Hamlet on television is that one can be so much closer to the performers, in a sense - the "To be or not to be" soliloquy was shot almost entirely in closeup. And Tennant has a marvelously expressive face - Stewart, too. You still lack that certain charge that comes with being in the room, though.

The Guardian called Tennant "the greatest Hamlet of his generation." I would find it difficult to think of another actor - an actor known to me, at least - whom I could think of to rival him. Law I loved, absolutely, but I think Tennant has him beat, if I had to choose. Well played.

Also, if you missed last night's presentation, you're in luck: it's streaming now at pbs.org. If your computer is as resistant to long videos as mine is, you can also check your local listings. Hamlet is being rebroadcast in the NYC area on Sunday at 12:30 on Channel 13.

All images from the amazingly comprehensive david-tennant.com.

*As Entertainment Weekly noted, " Hamlet is literally wearing a costume of masculine strength. Amazing!"

** A Google search of "David Tennant" and "manic" turns up over 80,000 results. I'm just saying.

***Technically the Broadway Hamlet was modern dress as well, I suppose, but it seemed less obviously so.

Coming Up: David Tennant in Hamlet

It seems like only yesterday that I saw Hamlet on Broadway. I was so excited to see what I viewed as a very accomplished production, yet I knew there was another worthy adaptation waiting in the wings, one that I might like even more. And finally, the long-awaited day is here! David Tennant's Hamlet airs tomorrow night on PBS at 8 o'clock as part of their Great Performances series. I am beyond psyched. I mean, Tennant. Hamlet. I consider it basically an early birthday present from the universe.*

I recommend watching the clip below if you have an interest whatsoever. I've viewed it a dozen times, easy. (I told you, beyond psyched.)

PBS.org: Hamlet preview

*Now, if I were to be greedy, I would ask that someone think to film John Simm's Hamlet as well....

The Private Patient by P.D. James

On November the twenty-first, the day of her forty-seventh birthday, and three weeks and two days before she was murdered, Rhoda Gradwyn went to Harley Street to keep a first appointment with her plastic surgeon, and there in a consulting room designed, so it appeared, to inspire confidence and allay apprehension, made the decision which would lead inexorably to her death.

-The Private Patient

That's one helluva opening line, don't you think? If you're a mystery fan, I can't imagine how you could read a line like that and not want to delve in.

Of course, it's the first line of a P.D. James novel, so one is inclined to assume a certain level of whodunit excellence from the start. The Private Patient is James's 14th novel featuring Adam Dalgliesh - her first was published in 1962, this most recent one in 2008, when James was 88. That is hardcore.

Dalgliesh goes into this case knowing it may be his last before the dissolution of his unit. It's a doozy. Rhoda Gradwyn checks into a private country clinic to have surgery on a facial scar, the remnant of a traumatic childhood injury. The surgery goes well, but she's found dead the next morning - strangled, and it looks like an inside job. Gradwyn was an investigative journalist, and her stories had made a fair amount of people unhappy over the years. Dalgliesh and his team must uncover who Gradwyn could have angered so strongly as to provoke her murder. They discover that the workers at the clinic have a number of secrets, naturally. And then another body shows up...

I've lost track of how many Dalgliesh novels I've read over the years. I do know I've read them out of sequence, which doesn't affect one's understanding of the mystery in the slightest, but probably left me less invested in the personal lives of Dalgliesh and his team than readers more committed to this series would be. I do find Dalgliesh to be an interesting detective, mostly because he seems to be so together. Kurt Wallander has his sleepless nights, Harry Hole his lost weekends. Dalgliesh, on the other hand, is engaged to a professor and is a published poet. It makes Dalgliesh distinctive in the world of literary detectives, and I wonder if it actually makes him slightly less relatable. I can understand why a detective in a murder inquiry, after spending a day soaking up the worst humanity has to offer, might need to come home to a beer or six. To be able to channel that into poetry is, I would imagine, an unusual gift among detectives, and it's not particularly easy to relate to. I think James is an excellent writer, and Dalgliesh certainly an admirable detective, but I definitely read James's stories more for the plot than for my investment in the character.

Up next: Another mystery, In the Woods by Tana French. Hopefully I like it, because I already have the sequel sitting on my shelf.

Poem: "Digging"

Pavilion Garden VI at the University of Virginia

"Digging" by Seamus Heaney is one of my favorite poems. I read Heaney's Poems, 1965-1975 right before I graduated from college and, as soon as I finished, I started again from the beginning. "Digging" reminds me of a spring day, sitting in the most beautiful of the university gardens, looking up now and again at the 15th century spire nearby*. Oh, happy days; oh happy, happy days, to paraphrase Keats.

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

*The photo above is my own, and I'm glad I had the forethought to take it, as photos of the gardens are surprisingly scarce online. The spire was a gift from Oxford, incidentally, originally part of a chapel there.

Poem: "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse

April is National Poetry Month and, aside from reading the Keats bio, I think I've been rather remiss in not celebrating it. So, a bit belatedly, I thought I'd try to post a few poems over the rest of the month. First up: hope you're not sick of Keats. (I'm not. Obviously.) I just love the rhythm of this poem - the fourth line hits you every time.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci*

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.

And because listening to poetry is so lovely, also this: Ben Whishaw reading "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." (YouTube)

*There are two versions - I prefer this one, written in 1819, when Keats was 24. Amazing.

The Club of Queer Trades by G.K. Chesterton

That I should have come at last upon so singular a body [as the Club of Queer Trades] was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word.

-The Club of Queer Trades

The Club of Queer Trades is an excellent name for a book, is it not? It's a collection of linked short stories by G.K. Chesterton, all featuring the anti-deductive detective work of mystic ex-judge Basil Grant. Basil quit the court after a public incident generally regarded as a total meltdown. He now spends most of his time up in his garret, philosophizing. In the course of these stories, Basil's brought in on various cases involving the curious titular club at the behest of his brother Rupert - an actual detective, though one far more prone to leaping to erroneous conclusions. The brothers are accompanied on their adventures by the book's narrator, the society-loving Swinbourne. These are no Sherlock Holmes stories: Basil has no interest in the evidence that drives Doyle's famous detective. He's far more interested in the morality of the people he meets, and what they're capable of.

I'd never read any Chesterton before, although I've seen him named as one of England's best writers, as well as one of the funniest - mentioned in the same breath as Wodehouse, whom I love. Certainly the Drones Club might come to mind when one is reading the passage above. Although The Club of Queer Trades is cleverly written, I didn't find it to be as overtly funny as I had hoped. However, a little research informs me that it's not considered to be the peak of Chesterton's fiction writing and, as he was almost frighteningly prolific, I'm sure I'll try something else in the future. It was certainly an enjoyable read - one must admire the creativity it would require to construct both the mysteries and the trades themselves. I also must say that it was quite short (less than 150 pages in my edition*). After the behemoth that was Keats, that was a welcome change. However, the length also leaves me feeling as though I don't have much to comment on, particularly given that much of the joy in reading these stories comes from uncovering the quirky cases along with the characters. Thus, saying less is probably good policy anyway.

Up next: The Private Patient by P.D. James, one of my favorite mystery writers. Hooray!

*I couldn't find a decent picture of the cover, which is why I provided the picture of Mr. Chesterton, looking thoughtful.

Food in the The New York Times

The Dining section of The New York Times - including their new "superblog" - has been on fire recently. Some selections:

-Food critic Sam Sifton documents a week of his meals. Whew. He then addresses readers' questions - Round One, Round Two, and Round Three.

-Meanwhile, Michael Moss tackles questions on food safety - Round One and Round Two.

-I really loathe cilantro. This week, The Times informed me that it's not my fault.

-And to round things out, a recipe: Chickpea Tagine with Chicken and Apricots, from Mark Bittman. I just made it and it's absolutely delicious.

Keats by Andrew Motion

'The fire is at its last click,' [Keats writes], '- I am sitting with my back to it with one foot rather askew upon the rug and the other with the heel a little elevated from the carpet.' He then adds, 'Could I see the same thing done of any great Man long since dead it would be a great delight: as to know in what position Shakespeare sat when he began "To be or not to be" - such thing[s] become interesting from a distance of time or place.'

-Keats

As I mentioned in my review of Bright Star, I'm no lifelong fan of John Keats. Prior to this year, I think I could have only summoned up two pieces of information about him: 1) British 2) Odes. Far from exhaustive, I'm sure you'll agree.

Bright Star left me curious, though, and so I've spent over a month (off and on) in Keats's company, thanks to Andrew Motion's comprehensive biography. I'm now stuffed to the gills with Keats knowledge. I know the names of his family members and friends and I know the titles of his works - and snippets of some of them*. I know about his love of Shakespeare and his love of claret. I could give you a rough but pretty accurate account of his life and death. Most of this information will fade from my memory in due time, of course, but right now I'm enjoying my temporary expertise.

I feel confident that I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine.

Motion does an excellent job of presenting a huge amount of information and analysis in a pretty clear manner**, but unsurprisingly it's Keats's words that really stick with the reader. As I read, I jotted down page numbers on my bookmark, keeping track of particularly lively or interesting passages. We are fortunate that Keats wrote reams of letters, and Motion is skilled in using them to give a real sense of Keats as a person: passionate, flawed, and gifted. Motion mentions a story in which Keats "had recently come across a butcher's boy tormenting a kitten in the street, and had fought and beaten him." Not how I would have imagined him, and I like him the more for it.

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in a Letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it - make it as rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me - write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.

Bright Star focused on the relationship between Keats and Fanny Brawne, but since he only knew her in the last few years of his life, Fanny doesn't make a proper appearance until several hundred pages into Keats. Their tragic love story was one of the things that most motivated me to read this biography (in addition to my desire to end my appalling ignorance about Keats in general), so I did find some of the earlier chapters to be a bit drier. Keats more than makes up for it once he's met Fanny. He fights tooth and nail against being sucked up in love, having so often mocked the swooning couples around him. Look at the passage above again for a pretty good example of his feelings - loving her, yet resentful at the power love had over him. He'd struggle with it for the rest of his life.

'Where is Keats now?' Shelley asked. 'I am anxiously expecting him in Italy where I shall take care to bestow every possible attention on him. I consider his a most valuable life & am deeply interested in his safety. I intend to be the physician both to his body & his soul, to keep the one warm & to teach the other Greek and Spanish. I am aware indeed in part that I am nourishing a rival who will far surpass me and this is an additional motive & will be an added pleasure.'

The problem with a biography, of course, is that by the time you've reached the end of the book you've often grown quite attached to its subject. Even knowing that Keats's death was inevitable - that even if he had lived a long and happy life, he still would have been long dead - I found the account of his final months in Rome to be so bleak. He was lucky to have a devoted friend - Joseph Severn, who was eventually buried beside him - but he was in agony for so long, and he was so far from all he knew and the one he loved best.

I was on the train the other day carrying Keats, and a woman remarked upon it. We had a brief conversation as she disembarked. "What a tragedy," she said. And it was. There's nothing to be done for it now, of course. We can't go back and buy his books so that he wouldn't be penniless, to alert him to the money he was entitled to that was tied up in Chancery, to tell his doctors that bleeding him is only counterproductive. We can only read his work, and love it, and perhaps be inspired by it. He thought his name would quickly fade from history. Perhaps we can take some small consolation in knowing that he would have been proud to learn that his poetry has endured over the course of so many years.

Up next: Something lighter was called for, clearly. I'm trying out G.K. Chesterton, The Club of Queer Trades.

*One of my new favorites is "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." I thought, of course, of The Beldam from Neil Gaiman's Coraline (the film, at least, as I still need to read the book). It's always exciting to make connections, thus I particularly liked the stanza that reads:

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

There was so much history in that story that I wasn't at all aware of - Gaiman's pale ghost children didn't come out of nowhere.

**There are a heckuva lot of people to keep track of, though. There's also a certain amount of assumed knowledge - I wouldn't have known of Thomas Chatterton if I hadn't looked him up after reading his name in Underground London. Chatterton comes up a lot in Keats, and he's never given an introduction. I suppose people who read dense biographies of poets generally have more background knowledge in poetry than I do.

Long Time, No See: Odds and Ends

I'm still chugging along with Keats - the end is in sight (nearly)! One of the hazards of taking on such a long book, though, is that I don't have much to write about, and I do enjoy updating this blog. Thus, links.

Fancy a literary t-shirt? The Jacket Copy blog at the Los Angeles Times has you covered (reposted from Go Fug Yourself).

J.K. Rowling doesn't rule out the possibility of another Harry Potter book in the future (from The Washington Post).

From the archives at Mental Floss, I recently dug out 4 Must-Read Books for Aspiring Writers. If they were to update it today, perhaps they would add The Secret Miracle: The Novelist's Handbook, a forthcoming book featuring interviews with Michael Chabon, Stephen King, and Amy Tan, among others (from McSweeney's).

Telegraph review of The Lost Battles, which looks like a must-read for those of us who are Italian Renaissance nerds (Team Michelangelo!).

Yesterday I saw The Ghost Writer, which I didn't feel like writing up - particularly as I haven't read the book by Robert Harris on which it was based - but I would recommend. It's the story of a writer (Ewan McGregor) hired to draft the memoirs of a former prime minister (Pierce Brosnan). Political intrigue ensues. And there's lots about the manuscript, so it is rather booky.

And, in non-book news, I am celebrating the return of BBC's Ashes to Ashes, which I am watching via a method that is off the record, on the QT, and strictly hush hush. Ashes to Ashes tells the story of DI Alex Drake (Keeley Hawes, above), who's shot in modern-day London and wakes up in 1980. It's the sequel to the 70s-based Life on Mars, featuring several of the same characters (and an increasing interest in the life and times of LoM's main character, Sam Tyler). Unfortunately, it is not on DVD yet, but keep an eye on BBCAmerica's sci-fi Saturday programming; you never know when it might turn back up. In the meantime, I will once again plug Life on Mars, which is available on DVD. (I'm convinced that, eventually, someone I know will watch it.)

There. Now the blog doesn't feel quite so abandoned - like I did a bit of weeding and maybe touched up the paint.