Dry spell

A month without alcohol?  Can't be that hard, can it?

In a fit of reckless inspiration after speaking to a friend who had successfully completed 'dry July', I suggested that our own household embark upon 'sober October'.  We decided not to be too uptight about it: we had a special night out coming up and wanted to enjoy the pre-show meal with a glass of wine, and another friend who was also a connoisseur of pinot noir was staying the following weekend - we weren't about to make him feel awkward by sanctimoniously abstaining.

It was more about interrupting the routine of pouring a well-earned glass of crisp sauvignon when we got home from a hard day and a long commute - every evening.
The fact that October has so far been deliciously summery, just made for sitting out on our deck after work with glass of wine in hand to enjoy the last hour of sunshine, has caused me to condemn this as the 'stupidest idea' I've ever had.  But we've passed the half-way mark, and are somewhat relieved to find that we've broken a habit - not cured an addiction.  The beginning of next month marks our silver wedding anniversary, and we'll certainly celebrate that in traditional style - not just falling, but gleefully dive-bombing off the wagon again.
In the meantime, to make it really hurt, here's an essay praising the many virtues of 'the water of life'.

Sweet drams are made of these

The first time I tasted whisky I felt as if my chest was starting to glow from within, like ET’s ‘‘heart light’’. Initially a slightly alarming experience, in the time this warm radiance took to spread to my extremities I had become a convert.

Carbisdale Castle - scene of my eternal dram-nation. 

Living about 50 kilometres north of Inverness, in the depths of the Scottish highlands, is probably the best place to be introduced to whisky. My wife Rose and I were working in a remote youth hostel, which also happened to be a castle, overlooking the beautiful Kyle of Sutherland. Sneaking across this large estuary, via the ‘‘strictly no trespassing’’ railway bridge, the hostel staff were often drawn like thirsty moths to the lights of our local – the Invershin Hotel bar.

I had come to social drinking relatively late and was somewhat naive, so I almost got banned from that establishment, if not Scotland itself, when I tried to order a brandy and dry. There was only one liquor consumed around those parts and after workmates took me aside to have a quiet word, I hastily amended my request to a glass of everyone’s ‘‘usual’’ – Glenmorangie single malt whisky.

This was distilled a few kilometres south, and had a fierce following among the local population. After just one taste I remain to this day a fan of this smooth, somewhat spicy ambrosia.

It was winter’s final days when I became initiated, and for me this dark, smoke-infused time of year is linked to a warming nip of single malt. Enjoying a good whisky with friends in front of a roaring fire makes the gloomy, cold months something to look forward to.

By a process that the Scots admit originated elsewhere, but was perfected in Scotland, the pure, natural elements barley, peat and water are magically transformed by malting, fermentation and distillation, then matured into uisge beatha – the ‘‘water of life’’ to us non- Gaelic speakers.

Glenmorangie was only the beginning. I visited distilleries and sampled single malts all over Scotland and beyond – I even shared a dram while gazing up at Everest from the base camp in the Himalayas. Please note, this was Scotch and not the local Nepalese whisky (Ye Olde Earl), which admittedly does chase the cold away – and probably several years of your life, too. Enjoying a single malt isn’t just about the taste, marvellous as it is. The nose – the aroma of the whisky – is almost half the experience for me.

As my other faculties have started to falter my sense of smell remains acute; which is to be expected when you steer a nose the size of mine around. Smell is incredibly evocative; whiskies distilled on the Isle of Islay have an undeniable seaside frisson about their flavours and aromas, unfailingly reminding me of a driftwood bonfire on the beach. Glenmorangie, on the other hand, always evokes for me the peatiness, heather and bracken of the Kyle of Sutherland.

Whisky has accompanied many gloriously happy times in my life, but I’ve also learned the hard way that it commands respect. The penalty for treating this esteemed and venerable elixir with over-familiarity can be at least a day of your life wasted: curled up and braced for an impact which has long occurred, groaning and flinching from any light and sound under a crumpled duvet.

It might be thought that a return to New Zealand might quell the passion for this most Scottish of drinks, but the case seems to be quite the opposite.

Locally held whisky-tastings have been well supported by me and my friends over the years. These are curious but always enjoyable affairs, beginning with typically muted Kiwi reserve and six drams of whisky per attendee, and ending with a raucous din and empty glasses everywhere. As a non-partaker, Rose was often tasked with having to pick us up afterwards. Her reward was to become the one sober person at the party, then to endure what seemed to the rest of us to be uproariously witty banter all the way home.

The final tasting for the year would bloom into a fully-fledged Burns supper, complete with haggis, tatties and neaps (mashed potatoes and turnip) – a meal I honestly find is delicious. Less enjoyable was the traditional address to the haggis. My slight form would ensure I was always picked to represent the ‘‘poor, unfit, spindle-shanked foreigner’’ who ignorantly forsakes the ‘‘great chieftain of the pudding race’’ in this peculiar ritual. It hurt more that I was probably the only Scottish-born person there – but the traditional ‘‘participant’s dram’’ eased the pain a little.

There are many dusty quotes about whisky but I’ll end with a reflection from illustrator Ralph Steadman: ‘‘Single malt whisky is a drink to be respected, treasured, savoured and even kept for half a lifetime. It gathers momentum with every passing year. It fires dreams in the depths of despair and it gathers stories inside itself, as rich and dark as an ancient peat bog.’’

Anno Tom-ini

Feline groovy?  This could be the song for you...

As Louis Armstrong once intimated about Jazz, somehow you just know the difference between a song which is a classic, and a song which is merely old - when you hear it.

Glasgow-born Alastair (Al) Ian Stewart's Year of the Cat is part of the soundtrack of my immediate pre-teenage years (along with many far lesser songs of that time). Released in early 1976 (!) but slow to make an initial impression, it charted well in many countries towards the end of that year and into 1977. Wikipedia tells me that it reached #15 in New Zealand, but I seem to recall it being as prolific as a top ten hit.

At a time when school was barely touching on analysing poetry and literature, Stewart's lyrics created vivid images in my mostly empty head: 

"She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a watercolour in the rain"... immediately paints a clear picture in the mind.  Similarly the "blue tiled walls near the market stalls" which Stewart sings about in the next verse conjure an image of a North African/Moorish village more palpably than any number of travel brochures.

But mostly, I just liked cats, so this song stuck in my mind.

Many years later, I was coming to the end of my days as a student and my flatmate bought Al Stewart's compilation album Songs From The Radio, on vinyl. One of our many flat parties was winding down and Year of the Cat found its way onto the turntable.  Not a dance-able number, to be sure, but when the lengthy instrumental break reached the electric guitar section one of those rare, unplanned, but perfectly-synchronised moments occurred:  

A couple of friends suddenly balanced on one leg and held the other horizontally; to mime strumming those soulful chords with as much 'Rock Star posturing' and gurning as this precarious stance would allow.  A diverting enough sight, but when the guitar segued into the equally emotive sax solo the 'guitar legs' suddenly became saxophones; and  knees simultaneously rose to their mouths with dangling foot sticking out like the 'bell' of that instrument.  Despite losing balance, one of these accomplished virtuosos gamely continued to 'rock' that imaginary saxophone from his new position: rolling about on the floor with knee still determinedly held to his puffing face.  It was too much and by now I was also rolling about on the floor.

A tradition was born, and even now the impulse to accompany Mr Stewart in this fashion is nigh on irresistible. 

Now about that instrumental break: to call it famous is not hyperbole and it certainly elevates what would otherwise have simply been another folksy Al Stewart number to classic status.

Legendary sound Engineer Alan Parsons at Abbey Road studios and equally legendary guitarist Tim Renwick apparently instigated this: a progression of solos transitioning from cello and violin, to acoustic guitar then electric guitar (both played by Renwick) and finally saxophone which elongates the song well beyond the standard airplay length of the times.

Stewart began working on the song itself almost a decade before it's release, inspired by seeing Tony Hancock on stage in the mid-sixties, and the flash of insight he experienced of the comedian's great inner unhappiness. Hancock's subsequent suicide was among the factors causing Stewart to rewrite the lyrics to those we are familiar with, and rename the song after a sign of the Vietnamese zodiac. Year of the Cat is taken at face value as the story of a random romantic encounter during a visit to a foreign town by most, but some try hard to ascribe hidden meanings pertaining to drug use, while others get hung up on the Casablanca references.  Personally I think the best approach is suggested by this on-line comment: 

"This song is magic. I just wish people would stop trying to analyse it and simply feel it..."

A very accomplished 'fan-made' video to accompany this song.
Of course, most of us have our own Year of the Cat imagery,
so you might prefer just to play the track.

Uphill battle

In a change of pace, I'm getting away from the screen and trying to run up a mountain in a freezing, rain-drenched southerly.

The view from the top of Mt Bruce - on a very different day.

Pukaha/Mount Bruce is a wildlife sanctuary north of Masterton which is especially renowned for providing bed and board for Manukura, the famous white (not albino) Kiwi.  Last weekend however, saw this worthy enterprise hosting the inaugural Pukaha Wild Challenge - a fund raising event comprising of a steep 10km hill run and/or a 21km cycle race.

I've been running at every opportunity over the past few weeks, enjoying the warming spring weather and the chance to get as physically distant from the office as I can in my lunch break.  However, as much as I love my bike I was under no illusions about taking part in a cycle race.  The NASA level technology producing road bikes which weigh slightly less than a toenail clipping would leave my own sturdy pack-horse far behind.
The preceding week was wonderfully warm and sunny, as have the days since the event, but race day itself had an icy southerly of Old Testament proportions visited upon it.  Another very good reason just to do the run - most of the course was beneath the sheltering canopy of thick native bush, apart from the very exposed Mt Bruce summit.

Running cold - trying to keep warm at the start point.

The usual excitement and trepidation at the starting line was mixed with an unusual eagerness to get started, as the cold and wet was starting to take its toll on exposed hands and legs.  I found myself at the front so was able to start reasonably well, comfortably resigned as the inevitable cluster seriously fit and experienced racers broke ahead and rapidly disappeared.

As usual, the initial pace I settled into was too quick, which I discovered as soon as I hit the first incline and had to hurriedly 'shift down'.  Not for the first time I quickly began to wonder why 'the stick who walks' does hill runs.  My spidery stride can cover ground quickly on level terrain, but inclines immediately squeeze my lengthy gait, and any possible advantage it brings, into exactly the same constrained, grueling trot as anyone half my height - and age.  It got worse as we soon left the walking track and turned straight uphill, the slopes now treacherous with thick mud and slippery tree roots.  At this point I was tilting myself forward, bent over to literally 'fall up' the hill, horrified that my breakfast already felt as if it was considering a sudden ascent of its own.  Now came the standard 'internal ridicule voice', chiding me for ever thinking I was anywhere near fit enough for this - but least I was no longer even aware of the cold and rain....

The real athletes break ahead - I'm the lagging white socks at the extreme left.

Miraculously there were more level sections and even the occasional dip in this endless climb, and it was here that I took heart again.  I've been told that fitness has a lot to do with recovery time, and I could feel myself 'power back up' a little during these brief respites from the uphill slog.  Also having long arms helped me clamber the steepest parts: frantically grabbing for trees and rocks to haul myself up with somehow enabled me to more-or-less retain my position in the field.  Judging from this photograph, taken several months ago, the view from the summit is quite something, but our visibility was down to few metres.

On clear day... which this definitely wasn't.

Yes, the cold really bit hard up there, but the incline finally ceased and soon we were plunging back into the bushline for the downhill stretch.  And stretch is appropriate as here was my chance to really open out and cover ground quickly.  When that ground is steep, slippery with mud and treacherously studded with rocks and tree roots, caution would be advisable - but there was no time. I  flung myself back down that hill as fast as I could scramble and remember grabbing and spinning 360 degrees around a tree  at one point to try and control my plummet.
On an inclement day the light under a thick bush canopy is surprisingly dim - so the obstacles we ran over weren't even properly visible most of the time. Just before breaking out of the bush and onto level farmland I managed to kick a concealed tree root at full speed, but stayed on my feet and eventually finished knowing I was really going to feel it when I stopped.  (fortunately, my big toe was only colourfully bruised by this blunder).

Follow the orange arrows - but mind the tree roots!

My wonderful support crew and I managed to see Manukura, and a fascinating, if nippy, tree gecko before the grey, wet drive home for a hot shower.
I had managed to finish in 16th place, with a time of 1 hour fifteen minutes, but am under no illusions - far better athletes than me would have been conserving their energy for the cycle ride ahead.
I would like to try for a place in the top ten next year, though (you've gotta have a dream!) and am currently  looking for a partner to tackle the cycle section...

Manukura - 'Poster Girl' of Pukaha/Mt Bruce

Fear factor

Phasmatodea is now one year old !

Thank you to everyone who's looked in on my self-indulgent scribblings over the past 12 months.

For this first anniversary I'm going to combine two objectives.  The first is to continue my oblique look at this current, and brilliant, series of Doctor Who.  Listen is an episode which promises old-school frights, which started me thinking about televisual and cinematic fear in a broader sense.  The delicious thrill of being scared is what not only started my life-long interest in the ongoing adventures of the Doctor but led to the creation of this blog, where I can write about films and TV which have sought to deliver chills and thrills across the the years.
So my second objective is a brief run through some screen screams which have actually managed to frighten me, which i promise you isn't an easy thing to do.  I'm not at all brave, just a very seasoned horror viewer.  In doing this; I'm harkening back to the creation of this blog and recalling it's mission statement to share and explore these magical productions (many introduced to me by my Mum!)

To return to Listen; it didn't frighten me.  Based heavily upon invoking common nightmares as this episode was, I fall out of the target audience because I just don't have them.  Nightmares, I mean (beyond the recurring 'realising I'm naked in public' one which we surely all have - but I doubt that would make a good Doctor Who episode even in Steven Moffat's hands).  I don't know why my dreaming is nightmare-free - but there you go.
Where the episode achieves greatness is in linking to last year's already sublime Day of the Doctor, and managing to strengthen both stories in the process.  Bravo! Only four episodes in and already this series knocks several others into a cocked hat.

Now, onto the frights.  Rather than just giving a top ten, I managed to rationalise my own personal screen screams into five distinct categories - see if any of these examples chime with your own terrors.

1. The Unseen Terror

This was actually Listen's creepiest moment - the unknown shape under the bedspread which also recalls The Legend of Hell House and the Jonathon Miller adaptation of M R James' Oh Whistle and I'll come to you, my Lad ('Monty' James will figure again soon).  What you don't see is so much more terrifying then any prosthetic, CGI or costume effect.

An invisible object meets an invisible force -
the 'Monster from the Id' breaches the electrical barrier.

As a child I cowered from the unseen presence of the 'Monster from the Id' in Forbidden Planet.  Its huge invisible mass, buckling the spacecraft stairs and leaving evolution-defying prints in the dusty landscape of Altair 4, was fear fodder of the first degree.
In a more supernatural vein, the psychic attack on a cornered Peter Wyngarde in Night of the Eagle, when we hear a demonic siege against a classroom door, but don't actually see anything but his panic, is terrifying.

Now he believes.  Peter Wyngarde in Night of the Eagle.

Night of the Demon (again based on an MR James story) plays a similar trick but shows it's hand with the fiery demon which was inserted against the Directors wishes. (this creature has since become so iconic that the cinematic horror world would be a poorer place without it, however).

It's in the trees... it's coming!

Bringing us up-to-date, the Paranormal Activity series again uses this unseen menace strategy - I've only seen the first, but to my surprise was very impressed.

2. The Transformation

A staple of horror fiction from various Lycanthropes to Robert Louis Stevenson's classic The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde.  Of all the Hyde adaptations the most effective for me have been Jack Palance's disturbingly satyr-like make-up in the  Dan Curtis TV movie and cuddly old James Nesbitt in the magnificent Moffat/Gatiss-written TV update Jekyll.  But this particular Mr Hyde more properly belongs in the next category.

Jack Palance as Doctor Jekyll - and Mr Hyde.

As  a child I was traumatised by the shock unmasking of the Auton Policeman on Doctor Who - a figure of reassurance suddenly changed into a faceless, murderous monster.  A few years later I was petrified by the 'shock reveal' in the last segment of the Richard Matheson-written anthology Dead of Night.  I took the opportunity to rewatch it last year and although I'm not going to give anything away here, it still rattled me even now.

After performing a black magic ritual, Joan Hackett
gets her precious Bobby back... or does she?

3. The 'Bogey man'

Or 'fear personified'. As I mentioned before, James Nesbitt's startling take on Mr Hyde is properly scary.  Dark contact lenses give him the constant look of a predator about to strike: pupils dilated to eleven, with heightened awareness and deadly malice.  But it's the constant sense of violence bubbling under the surface and about to erupt at any second without warning which really unsettles.

Believe it or not, late Comedian Mel Smith made a genuinely-frightening criminal boss in a 2006 episode of the series Hustle, where he seethed with the same latent but ever-tangible capacity to suddenly deliver severe harm.
The first Hammer Dracula plays a similar trick.  In this film, the Count had so far been an imposing but formally polite gent until Harker makes the mistake of exploring the castle alone. A weird animal shriek heralds his host's violent reappearance, eyes burning red and fangs bared in a snarling embodiment of demonic fury.  I can only imagine the effect it must have had on audiences in 1958  - it definitely makes you sit up and take notice even today.

4. Creeping dread

I suspect this is the most difficult one to pull off effectively, as it's all about creating an unsettling, and sometimes queasy atmosphere which gradually works on your nerves, rather than a 'Boo!' jump/shock moment. And given that there's no accompanying rush of adrenaline , is also perhaps the least fun.

The US remake of the Japanese horror film The Grudge is a good example, with its consistently, disturbingly 'off' tone. The scene where a petrified hospital security guard tracks the shambling progress of a ghoulish apparition as it passes beneath an overhead camera is unbearably unsettling  - all the more so when the figure moves slowly back into view to stare into the lense with its dead black eyes. Brrrrr...
Infamous ground-breaking British  show Ghostwatch achieves its chills by gradually ramping-up the tension with degrees of wrongness in an ordinary suburban home. The events at Foxhill Drive aren't easily forgotten, especially not by me as I was abandoned part way through by someone who claimed that she 'wasn't scared, just tired and had to go to bed.  Right now'.

Parky's in this - so it must surely be true...

5. Coming to life

Ending on a classic technique which rarely fails, whether with a deceased or completely inanimate subject.  The shop window mannequins jerking to life in Doctor Who worked their way so deeply into the collective subconscious that this very scenario was chosen to relaunch the programme in 2005.
It's this scene from the first story which gets me every time though - I know one of them is going to move, but can never tell which ...

Behind you, Dummy!

The dismembered and tidily string and brown paper-wrapped victim returning to life in Amicus's Asylum  just about had me bailing out for bed as a youngster.  Particularly the parceled head which thuds ominously down the steps to come to rest upright, breathing visibly through it's papery shroud.

Finally, if you're ever lucky enough to catch the original television version of Quatermass and the Pit, you'll see an accidental example of 're-animation shock'. Watch out for the first shot of the mummified, insectoid martians, inside their ship.  As the camera moves in on them one of the props suddenly drops loose from the webbing it's suspended in, and made the collective viewing nation jump out of their armchairs in 1958 Britain.

As Doctor Who has featured so abundantly here, I'll wrap up with a quote from the most recent, AND the very first episode of this programme, which perhaps even sums up why some of us like our viewing to be scary:
"Fear makes companions of us all..."

And now it's time for a song, to 'Rock these Horrors':

Questerians* of the Galaxy

By Grabthar's Hammer, never mind Marvel - 15 years ago another unlikely, squabbling team saved the galaxy with wit, astounding visual effects and a prolific science fiction actress on board.

(*fan of fictional science fiction series Galaxy Quest)

Marvel films continued their seemingly unassailable multi-squillion dollar grip on the box office this year with an adaptation of a title even most comic fans hadn't heard of. Astute use of a retro soundtrack and a wise-cracking raccoon has made Guardians of the Galaxy yet another hit for Stan Lee's Empire.
It was fun, but as memories of exactly what I saw, and in what order, fade, I found myself buying a recently-released Blu Ray of another film which once delivered that most rare of events - a genuine, laugh-out-loud great time at the movies.  "Oh, Galaxy Quest", said the assistant as I handed over my money, "we had a real rush on these when the Blu Ray came out!"
Obviously others were caught up in the same flood of nostalgia that I was, but this was a film I saw one-and-a-half decades ago. And to be honest, hasn't really been talked about since. What if my memory was not only deceiving me, but going back proved to be such a disappointing experience that my happy remembrance would be blown to tiny pieces by a blast of cold hard reality?
Well, if my definition of courage has become daring to put on a movie then I'm in a worse state than I thought.  "Never give up, never surrender" as the crew of the NSEA Protector would have it; so the play button was duly punched.

The NTE in the Protector's designation apparently stands for 'Not The Enterprise'

I'm delighted to report that Galaxy Quest's alchemical combination of spoof and homage is still gold. The funny parts are still hilarious and the performances still walk that perfect knife-edge between conviction and parody - resulting in a crew you'd far rather hang with than most of those uptight Star Fleet guys (even if Tim Allen and Co would inevitably get you killed). And the Production values, well they're somehow better than I remember.  And this scares me a little, as it suggests that the last gasp of traditional miniature and optical effects work in the late nineties puts our contemporary CGI-soaked cinema to shame. But let's not follow that flippant tangent, there is so much more to this film than how good it looks.

Dream Weaver: Sigourney finally gets a flattering film hairstyle.

The cast is both eminent and perfectly suited to their roles, from a beautifully blonde Sigourney Weaver, to the initially aloof Alan Rickman whose character(s) somehow emerge with some shreds of dignity surviving. Sam Rockwell was a welcome bonus - I'd completely forgotten he was in this, but my personal favourite is Tony Shaloub. A baffling performance which seems to be operating on a subtly-deranged, disconnected level all of its own - but it completely works. His delightfully un-phased murmur after the experiencing the nerve-shattering matter transporter which leaves the rest of the crew twitching, traumatised wrecks: "that was a hell of a thing..." sums him up perfectly.

But another of Galaxy Quest's achievements is that despite a large cast, every character has his or her moment to shine. One of Sigourney Weaver's involves an instance of the most obvious over-dubbing of the 'F-bomb' in film history, which has become rightfully legendary.

The conceit of the film is well known: the cast of a defunct science fiction television series unwittingly recruited by a beseiged alien race who believe the episodes to be true accounts and the actors capable of saving them. And this means that we get to enjoy Galaxy Quest's cast in what are essentially double roles: their on and off-screen personas which shift and merge in fun ways as the story progresses.

Alan Rickman, as Alexander Dane, as 'Dr Lazarus'.

No wonder the cast almost unanimously claim on the disc extras that this to be the most fun they've ever had on a film (even Alan Rickman in what must be a rare instance of giving an interview), and it has to be said that it shows in the final result.  Tim Allen self-deprecatingly claims that Galaxy Quest is his salvation - possibly the only thing he's done which people like him in.
The Star Trek allusions are multitudinous, multi-layered but never laboured and not essential to the enjoyment of the film.  I love the fact that in a commentary for his wonderful Star Trek revival, JJ Abrams calls Galaxy Quest "...one of the best Star Trek films ever made".  Trekkies themselves have rated Quest above some of the genuine Trek films in order of preference.

Why a film which amply succeeds on so many levels isn't better remembered and celebrated is something of a mystery, but certainly not due to any fault of it's own which I can detect. But perhaps it's appropriate: like the imaginary television programme it depicts, Galaxy Quest has a cult following, and that makes it even more fun.

I am Joe's Eye-stalk

We're going beyond the beyond of beyond,
 and getting under the enemy's skin...

Doctor Who is back after it's longest break since Paul McGann left San Francisco in 1996, and so far it's been rather good. Inevitably I'd like to write about the new series here, but I don't want to slavishly post a review of the latest episode every week, either.  A plethora of up-to-date, well-written reviews are a few key-strokes away on Google, so I'm going to try something a little bit different.
What I'm planning to do is occasionally dip into the new series with a more peripheral look at a particular episode. For example, I covered the first story by banging on about Peter Capaldi for paragraph after over-long paragraph (well, he's great, OK?).
This week's episode has been almost unanimously, and deservedly, declared an instant classic. It delivered exactly what its title: Into the Dalek promised: a miniaturised 'fantastic voyage' through the inner workings of the Doctor's greatest enemy.  So I'm going to look at the first time many fans took the same journey - within the pages of a very special book.

“BEYOND the BEYOND of BEYOND”, we intoned solemnly into the cassette recorder, bellowing every time we came across a word spelt unnecessarily in BOLD CAPITALS, “at the DARK endless edge of ETERNAL SPACE!”.  We were eleven years old, and my friend Adam and I broke off helpless with mirth at our own prepubescent wit.  We were reading from possibly the first ever Doctor Who coffee table book, the legendary 1976 tome Doctor Who and the Daleks Omnibus, and specifically the stunningly illustrated but erratically ‘bold/Caps locked/strip: ‘Invasion – the Enemy Within’.

We might have been mocking, but we loved that book.  Like the Doctor's recent foray, the wonderful cutaway diagram 'The Anatomy of a Dalek' allowed us to see inside a Dalek. We learned that the gun was called a ‘multi-range variable power destructor’ (only here and nowhere else as far as I know), although the organic creature itself appeared to be a large collander of effervescent pea soup. We speculated whether being shot in the pinky finger by a multi-range destructor might kill you.

At the back, every Dalek serial was listed with a tantalising brief description, the closest thing to any kind of programme guide we'd ever seen at this point (even if few of the story names were actually correct).  This ended with the then-latest dalek adventure called Genesis of the Daleks.  The Omnibus was very focused on this serial which we had never seen and a good part of the book consisted of an apparently abridged reprint of Terrance Dick’s Target novelisation - a meticulous on-line Fan has since calculated that almost 5% of the original prose has been removed.  (This was months before I even knew what a Target novelisation was – but I digress, there will be much more about these wonderful little books in an upcoming post).  Pages of the actual Genesis script and images from the story were reproduced, along with a gorgeously lurid illustrated portrait of Davros.

 This all made Genesis of the Daleks seem like the greatest story ever, even though it was clearly inaccurate.  We all knew that the Daleks evolved as a result of a neutronic war with the Thals, not genetically engineered by some wizened, wheelchair-bound slap-head – how could the programme get that so wrong?
The third Doctor story Planet of the Daleks got similar treatment in the second half of the book, which I loved even more as I was, and remain, a steadfast adherent to the gospel according to Jon. And then some glorious colour stills including  a thrilling scene from Genesis where the Daleks apparently corner the Doctor in a BBC carpark (I had no concept of publicity stills at this age).

Like the modern programme-makers, the publishers of the Omnibus were clearly enarmoured with the stack-platformed, long-eared (that’s what the diagram said the Dalek ‘lights’ were) big-screen Dalek versions, as they featured in most of the illustrations.  Oh, the illustrations! Here we finally come to the reason why this book is utterly essential in any fan’s library.  No Doctor Who artist (and there have been many talented professionals over the years), ever came near the verve, spectacle, and sheer insanity of the magnificent work done by the General Illustration Company for this book.
Colour and texture which in isolation might border on unsightly are blended into stunning visions by a masterclass application of composition and technique.

 The illustrations for the Genesis of the Daleks prose are the most bold and surreal, broadly rendered and sparingly coloured, with beautiful use of negative space.
But personally, the artwork accompanying the Planet of the Daleks section is where the book really soars for me.  These are all beautiful pieces boasting a richer palette and more precise rendering, but still masterfully slick and never laboured. My own favourite is the contents page for Planet, featuring the Thals grimly removing the remains of two partially submerged Daleks while the Doctor looks on.  The composition puts the villains at the front, giving the two Daleks a sense of menace despite their predicament, while desperate determination is clear in the Thal's expressions. The Doctor is three-quarter length at the top centre, directing proceedings with a calm authority which is pure Pertwee.

I only wish we could properly credit the criminally anonymous geniuses of the general Illustration Company, the real stars of the Dalek Omnibus. From the startling cover to the literally stellar depictions of Skaro’s solar system and the mighty Dalek Deep Space Cruiser – this was artwork which convinced you of the might, the evil and other-worldliness of the Daleks in a way the programme itself never could.

(With special thanks to my Aunt May. Ten dollars was the most money anyone had ever given me in my ten-year-old life, but at least I spent your generous gift on a book which is still a prized possession and inspiration all these years later.)

Light reading

A good story doesn't have to be embedded in a weighty tome,
sometimes it can be quite Light. 

To my shame, I haven't taken the time to read a good book in far too long.  Commuting with a sexy new little Macbook Pro means that time which might once have been spent snuggled within the pages of an engrossing book is now spent pecking ineptly away at a shiny metallic keyboard (for either business, or pleasure).
So when the striking cover of a young adult novel caught my eye recently, I thought: why not?  It seemed to be a little bit about maths and physics, set in Wellington and most importantly, short enough for me to get through before being distracted by other obligations.
Speed of Light is the latest young adult novel by the prolific Joy Cowley, a multi-award winning author of New Zealand fiction.  A passionate advocate of improving child literacy, Cowley claims to have struggled with reading when she was a child and learned valuable lessons through her own experiences:
"I believe that learning to read must be a pleasurable and meaningful exercise. If it isn't, then we teach children to read and to hate reading at the same time."

Before getting to Speed of Light itself, I'll just note that phenomenon some call 'syncronicity'.  I was dimly aware of Joy Cowley, but once starting this book I just happened to lay out an article about her at work, then read an interview with film Producer Dave Gibson who famously filmed Cowley's novel The Quiet One in 1985, and finally learned that she actually lives just down the road from our own home in the Wairarapa.
Such happenstance is appropriate for Speed of Light, a story about encountering and ultimately putting faith in influences beyond mere numbers, logic and financial and material gain. It's a surprisingly gritty tale about a dysfunctional, materialistic family who've somehow fallen out of touch with the fundamentals of life, and the efforts of the youngest child, Jeff, to find solace in the dependable, undeceptive world of numbers.

Tragic circumstances lead to his home life becoming steadily more unbearable; parents financially ruined and violently estranged, and his beloved big sister abandoning him for a doomed relationship with a married man. Eventually, Jeff's final comfort in the rational  and scientific is challenged by the dramatic manifestation of an elderly woman who might be delusional, or might very well be the supernatural agent of his deliverance she claims to be.

Cowley introduces each chapter with a short passage describing a particular scientific principle or definiton, whose relevance to the following section of the story becomes gradually clear.  For example, chapter ten is a turning point; when Jeff's plummeting situation has reached the point where it cannot get any worse, and is cannily prefaced by this description:
A falling object reaches terminal velocity when the sum of the drag force and buoyancy equals the downward force of gravity acting on the object.  Since the net force on the object is then zero, the object has zero accelleration.  Drag depends on the projected area and that is why objects with a large area relative to mass, such as parachutes, have a lower terminal velocity than objects with a small area relative to mass, such as bullets.

Brief observations on the properties of light, the nature of tides, prime numbers and many others are used to begin other chapters with equal deftness and acuity.
As we are often told, it is always darkest before the dawn, and Jeff's mystery 'guardian' opens his eyes to the importance of adhering to life as it should be, before age, cares and woes gradually dull its shining and simple truths.  Or is she simply a senile woman who has rediscovered, or even invented, a childish philosophy in her final, backward-looking days?

Despite being written for 'young adults' Speed of Light isn't an easy read in any sense of the word. It makes you work, and even despair at times, but I hope I'm not giving anything away to reveal that Jeff and his family's eventual re-emergence into the light makes all their beautifully-written tribulations worthwhile.