Warning - nerd alert! nerd alert! About once an academic year, it seems, around exam and essay time in particular, I have a tendency to get really, really into iplayer. It is - I hope and presume - a standard human reflex, grabbing a tiny slice of escapism when the stress builds up. In my case this propensity manifests itself in the form of mild fiction addiction (although sadly it tends to be of the non-literary variety). It's a little bit distracting, but a little bit awesome too.
Take first year, for example. First year was definitely the year of Who's Line is it Anyway? (although I went through
plenty of mindless television in my early Loring Hall, ivory tower days). Anyway, there were ten long seasons and I had more than enough free time to immerse myself in nineties improv comedy shows. Why not?
In my second year, I spent a good few weeks drugged up on cough medicine and watching How I Met Your Mother at the kitchen table. It took me most of that time and a couple of google searches ("who iz the mom on how i met your mother, yeah?" Gee thanks answers.com) to realise that the eponymous mother was in fact missing from the show and hence the point of the title in the first place. Nonetheless, two words: Barney Stinson. What's not to love?
More recently my freeview riddled imagination (which subsists on Friends reruns and whatever Dave chooses to throw at it, on its days off) has fallen wildly in love with Being Human. This morning I actually watched the latest episode on iplayer, had a shower and then
started to watch the same episode again. What is my life coming to? Why can't I appreciate Moll Flanders and Eugène de Rastignac like I appreciate Nina and George? Why do I spend more time contemplating the nuances of a vampire-cum-ghost relationship than I spend considering the significance of film and cinema in relation to the Surrealist movement? If your response to any of the above is "get out more", which I do not doubt it is, let me just explain that this is the pitiful dilemna that my life boils down to right now: great characters of the 19th century book (useful) vs. great characters of the 21st century box (not so much).
Or fighting inner demons (the dark obsessions of Aschenbach in Thomas Mann's novella, Death in Venice), the grey areas of morality (the murder of the pawnbroker at the hands of Dostoevsky's impoverished Raskolnikov) and you know, a little bit of necrophilia (the repulsive Lester Ballard in Cormac McCarthy's Child of God) vs. fighting inner demons (a ghost, a vampire and a werewolf, what more can I say?), the grey areas of morality (if a werewolf kills a vampire, does he sacrifice his humanity in the process?) and, again, a touch of necrophilia (just about any sex scene in Being Human involving the vampire, John Mitchell). I hope for the sake of my degree and my 'street cred', that literature triumphs over television for the time being, I really do. It's just that right now I'd much rather spend my time googling the likes of Russell Tovey, thank you very much.
Take first year, for example. First year was definitely the year of Who's Line is it Anyway? (although I went through plenty of mindless television in my early Loring Hall, ivory tower days). Anyway, there were ten long seasons and I had more than enough free time to immerse myself in nineties improv comedy shows. Why not?
In my second year, I spent a good few weeks drugged up on cough medicine and watching How I Met Your Mother at the kitchen table. It took me most of that time and a couple of google searches ("who iz the mom on how i met your mother, yeah?" Gee thanks answers.com) to realise that the eponymous mother was in fact missing from the show and hence the point of the title in the first place. Nonetheless, two words: Barney Stinson. What's not to love?
More recently my freeview riddled imagination (which subsists on Friends reruns and whatever Dave chooses to throw at it, on its days off) has fallen wildly in love with Being Human. This morning I actually watched the latest episode on iplayer, had a shower and then started to watch the same episode again. What is my life coming to? Why can't I appreciate Moll Flanders and Eugène de Rastignac like I appreciate Nina and George? Why do I spend more time contemplating the nuances of a vampire-cum-ghost relationship than I spend considering the significance of film and cinema in relation to the Surrealist movement? If your response to any of the above is "get out more", which I do not doubt it is, let me just explain that this is the pitiful dilemna that my life boils down to right now: great characters of the 19th century book (useful) vs. great characters of the 21st century box (not so much). Or fighting inner demons (the dark obsessions of Aschenbach in Thomas Mann's novella, Death in Venice), the grey areas of morality (the murder of the pawnbroker at the hands of Dostoevsky's impoverished Raskolnikov) and you know, a little bit of necrophilia (the repulsive Lester Ballard in Cormac McCarthy's Child of God) vs. fighting inner demons (a ghost, a vampire and a werewolf, what more can I say?), the grey areas of morality (if a werewolf kills a vampire, does he sacrifice his humanity in the process?) and, again, a touch of necrophilia (just about any sex scene in Being Human involving the vampire, John Mitchell). I hope for the sake of my degree and my 'street cred', that literature triumphs over television for the time being, I really do. It's just that right now I'd much rather spend my time googling the likes of Russell Tovey, thank you very much.
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