Things to look forward to (or at least check out) in 2025

In many ways, cultural-consumption-wise, 2025 promises to be the same procedure as last year. That is, there will be continuations of series and franchises I enjoy, but I've yet to see something new slated for 2025 where I think "wow, I've got to watch this". As for books, I'm as likely to make a discovery in my own bookshelves as among the latest book arrivals (though I wouldn't mind a new Sarah Waters novel, for instance). 

YouTube nerds often talk about their "latest obsession". It's been a while since I've had a new obsession, and I'm not a hundred per cent sure I want one. If I find one – whether in the world of TV, film or books – it will probably be by chance rather than through purposeful searching. The items on this list, however, I will at least check out and probably enjoy.

Downton Abbey 3:  No need to go into detail: I've already blogged about the upcoming Downton film at some length. Am I surprised that Downton is coming back a third time at the cinema? Yep. Would I rather have seen a new story as compelling as Downton, which already has a satisfying ending, unfold? Maybe. Am I complaining? No, siree, as long as they don't mess up Thomas's love life. According to IMDB, Dominic West is returning as Guy Dexter, so it looks hopeful.

The Gilded Age season three: As far as I know, The Gilded Age will return next year, though I've yet to see a trailer for it. When it's out, it will be time for me to make the usual hit-and-miss predictions. As of now, I've no idea where this series might be heading, other than that a romance between Marian and Larry is definitely on the cards. Let's hope that they both acquire a little more personality in the process. Also, I want more servant plotlines.

Andor OK. So. I know that Andor is good. I'm grateful to it for adding a little cred to the Star Wars brand at a time when fans are disgruntled with it and apt to blame Disney for absolutely everything (though Disney seldom gets any credit when something Star Wars-related that the fans do like is released). And of course I'll watch it and admire the deft dialogue and storytelling, as well as the complex characters. 

To be frank, though, I'm not exactly excited for it. I find the premise that it's all right for the rebels to behave like swine if it's for the greater good of toppling the Evil Empire hard to swallow. Meanwhile, we have Skeleton Crew, which is much more light-hearted fare but which I confess is more my cup of tea (so far) than the somewhat disturbing politics of Andor. The galaxy far, far away is not yet on its last legs – I hope.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps and Thunderbolts* (yes, the asterisk is part of the title): Talking about struggling franchises, Marvel has had some tough years, but found favour with its fanbase this year with Deadpool and Wolverine. After an epic amount of homework – the X-men films and the previous two Deadpool films – I also watched it and really liked it. What's more, I've heard novices that have not done any homework to speak of praise it, which is, as Palps would say, a surprise to be sure but a welcome one. I may yet blog about how the film got away with a multiverse story where other films have failed (the answer is, basically: nothing clever, just two very charismatic leads).

What about this year, then? The upcoming TV projects seem all right, but not wildly thrilling. I had some hopes for the animated Spider-Man series, but judging from the trailer it seems awfully down with the kids (or rather teenagers). On the film front, Thunderbolts* seems promising, as the Thunderbolts team contains some interesting and/or funny antiheroes from previous films. But Fantastic Four is the studio's biggest swing, as it will introduce us comic-book ignoramuses to a new quartet of heroes in a completely new setting.

Now, of course I know that in the comic world, the Fantastic Four have been around since the year dot. There have been other film adaptations of their adventures as well, so they're not new from that perspective. But they're new in the MCU, and aren't tied to the previous complicated web of MCU stories. We are, in a sense, entering a new Enchanted Forest (I'm not one to forgo a Once Upon A Time reference). let's just hope it is enchanted. The casting is great: I'm particularly pleased to see that Joseph Quinn will be joining the MCU team. Others know him from Stranger Things (which I haven't seen); I know him as the actor who made the viewer sympathise with Arthur Havisham and Catherine the Great's useless son.

The Night Manager seasons two and three: I was somewhat sarcastic about the original The Night Manager series and, predictably enough, I think Tom Hiddleston would be better employed playing brainy, possibly redeemable villains rather than a strong, silent bore like Jonathan Pine. All the same, I'm curious. Where can the story possibly go after the first season? We didn't actually see Richard Roper get killed: will he escape his captors and return, out for blood? Will there be justice for Corky?

Why is the Moana/Vaiana sequel a box-office hit?

So, I watched Moana 2 (or Vaiana 2, as it's inexplicably called in Europe) at the cinema this week. And it was OK. It didn't irritate me as Ralph Breaks the Internet did and was mercifully free from the Wise Natives vs Civilisation rhetoric of Frozen 2. The story, although there wasn't a lot of it, followed naturally from what happened in the first film, and it didn't detract from it. It didn't, for instance, separate close friends or sisters because "they need to let go" or some such rubbish. According to one YouTube review, the animation for this project was outsourced as it was originally supposed to be a Disney Plus series, but I still thought said animation looked really good.

Having said all that, the film felt underwhelming – "mid" as the kids may or may not say. The origin as a Disney Plus series really shows. Ironically, I think I would have appreciated it much more as a series, as the characters would then have had to be fleshed out. As it is, although Moana (yeah, I'm calling her that, so sue me) and Maui are as charming as ever, the secondary characters don't have a lot to do. Moana brings a crew with her on her new adventure with different skill sets, but these skills don't really come into play that much. Why did she have to bring the reluctant old farmer again? 

Villain pickings are slim. The antagonistic-seeming Matangi who holds Maui captive is a fun addition, but she's painfully underused. Instead, the main villain is a thunder god named Nalo, who only shows up as an angry face in the clouds and as a disgruntled, not very menacing guy in a mid-credit scene. Nalo has cursed the peoples of the ocean by sinking a particular island, which somehow means they can't find one another. Why? Because he thought splitting people up would give him more power. Why would it do that? No idea. As thunder gods go, Nalo is singularly personality-less. In a series, they could have explained things a bit better with a mythological flashback, but as it is...

It's not the only time the storytelling is a let-down, either. Moana and Co. make a deal with her old foe the Kakamora to defeat a giant clam in return for their help. But the clam-defeating is a dismal failure, and were it not for one of the Kakamora's own warriors they would have been worse off than before. This is not how deal-based storylines work! Since the Kakamora have no debt to pay to Moana and her crew, as they failed to deliver on their part of the bargain, this plot thread is simply cut short.

I could go on whining about how Moana 2 feels it has to hit the very same storybeats as the first film, which slows the whole thing up – does Moana really need a new "How Far I'll Go"-style song, or wouldn't it maybe have been better if her big ballad had a new topic this time? – but it's time to come to the question I posed in the title, to which I have no answer. In spite of everything, I had a good time watching Moana 2 (and there were some enthusiastic kids in the cinema audience). But I've no idea why it's such a smash hit.

It seems I'm as lousy at predictions in show business as in any other kind of business. Were I a studio boss, I would have no idea where to invest money in order to get a good return. It could be that cinemagoers aren't that fussed about creativity and originality, which is fair enough – I myself can feel that film snobs go on about these virtues a little too much. But in that case, why does entertaining and lightweight fare like Dungeons and Dragons: Honor among Thieves and Red One bomb at the cinema? In both cases, you can argue "yeah, they seem fun but not unmissable: I'll wait until they hit the streaming services". But you can make exactly the same argument about Moana 2.

Maybe Disney's Bob Iger is right, and nostalgia is such a strong factor with filmgoers that they're prepared to show up at the cinema for a mid product as long as it's tied to a franchise they know and love. That would explain why Dreamwork's Kung Fu Panda 4 did well in cinemas, in spite of being an even more tired sequel than Moana 2. Apparently, it's much harder getting people so excited about a new potential franchise they're willing to leave their TV sofa in favour of the cinema. A film that's simply entertaining but little else isn't enough.

In the long run, as I've discussed before, this poses a problem. Disney and other studios can't rest on their laurels and churn out sequels forever. I suppose I should take my responsibility as a consumer and go to the cinema more often, if a film sounds promising enough, instead of lazily waiting for the streaming release. But for now, I'll snuggle down in my TV sofa and just be glad I'm not a studio boss.

The mysterious appeal of Netflix Christmas films

I have a shameful confession. Not only have I watched both the A Christmas Prince trilogy and The Princess Switch trilogy on Netflix; since they came out, I've also had the time and the inclination to rewatch them. The appeal of the soupy Netflix Christmas film is hard to explain. Never mind high-brow stuff: there's plenty of light-hearted TV and film fare which is of way higher quality than this. 

And yet, there's something deeply satisfying with a Christmas romance with just the right amount of hokeyness thrown in. I enjoy picking the tropes apart – sleigh rides, snow fights, handing out Christmas presents to orphans – while admiring the efforts of the leading lady (it's more or less down to her) to carry the whole show on her back. Rose McIver (Tinkerbell in Once Upon A Time – I knew there was a reason I liked her) and Vanessa Hutchens are both seasoned pros, and they have to be. 

I guess this is what people mean by enjoying something "ironically", though I suspect in my case there's some unironic enjoyment thrown in as well. Watching Netflix Christmas films is a little like watching old Barbara Cartland adaptations, except the casting's more wobbly – you don't get Oliver Reed purring "I can see you are going to be very interesting". True, you can find the odd trouper (Alice Krige is the Queen in the A Christmas Prince films), and the kid actors tend to be solid too, but as for some of the supporting cast, you're amazed that there was no better talent on offer. Surely, good character actors can always be had for a decent pay check. Nevertheless, the prince-themed trilogies somehow manage to get the mixture of groan-worthy clichés and slick execution just right.

That's not true of all Netflix Christmas films, though – far from it. I've watched a fair number of misfires over the years: a heroine with a suitably Christmas-film-friendly job (wedding-planner, caterer, candystore owner) and pretty, snowy surroundings aren't enough to compensate for the amateurishness of it all. The unfunny script, the awkward pauses, the non-existent chemistry between the leads: it's just painful to watch, and more than once I've simply given up. But I'm not put off the genre altogether. Being the new A Christmas Prince or The Princess Switch should, after all, not be that high a bar for a film.

I've been comparatively lucky this year. Meet Me Next Christmas, about a girl called Layla who has to get a ticket for a sold-out concert in order to reunite with a potential Mr Right, is actually cute and funny. True, there are some absurdities thrown in. At one time Layla (Christina Milian) selflessly abstains from a designer handbag she would have needed to barter for her ticket, so it can go to a father and son who want to give it to their wife/mother who's been ill. But if they can afford an exclusive designer handbag (which isn't even that pretty), they can find a better present for the convalescent mum. We're not talking about food rations here. However, it wouldn't be a real Netflix Christmas film without a good helping of cheese.

Meet Me Next Christmas may not be Love Actually, but it's several notches above Hot Frosty, one of the most marketed Christmas films this year (at least on streaming). Nevertheless, Hot Frosty is worth a watch if you want to see an absolutely bonkers premise (even for a Christmas film) carried out with some panache. It scores high on the "what did I just watch?" scale. So, get this: young widow Kathy, played by former Mean Girls actress Lacey Chabert, puts a scarf with vague magical properties around a snowman. The snowman comes alive. He looks like a handsome bloke, but is still sensitive to heat. Will he help Kathy find love and joy, perhaps by judicious matchmaking, before melting away as is the custom in bittersweet tales involving live snowmen? No, silly. The snowman is the love interest, so the film has to find a way to do a Pinocchio on him.

Chabert and the rest of the cast do their game best to keep this surreal love story on the road. But the mind does boggle. Also, I wondered if the live snowman (called Jack, not Frosty, which is something) really, truly is the male ideal nowadays. Is this what other women want? A man full of childlike wonder, who has to learn everything from scratch (though he is a fast learner)? Who may have emotional intelligence, but not much of the other kind? A guy who's sweet, ripped and clueless? I never thought I'd say this, but could we have Mr Darcy back, please?

If you want a nice, frothy romcom that does not insult your intelligence all of the time, Meet Me Next Christmas is your best bet. If you want a jaw-dropping festival of hokeyness to enjoy ironically, you could put Hot Frosty on (perhaps while wrapping your Christmas presents, so you feel you've done something sensible with your time). Or why not watch both? It's almost Christmas, after all.

Anticipation list follow-up: expectations met, mostly

Back in January, I did one of my almost-yearly "things to look forward to" posts (restricted to the area of pop-cultural consumption). As it's sadly a bit too early to start the 2025 lists, but I feel in the mood for a list post, what if I followed up on the projects I thought sounded at least vaguely promising? I mean, I know I've already blogged about some of them, but as a summing-up? No, I'm not dodging an in-depth analysis of the problems of making the multiverse work (in film/TV) at all...

I'll change the order around a bit, though; I'll start with the items I haven't discussed in blog posts yet and save the item that was the biggest disappointment to last.

Moonflower Murders: Thankfully, Swedish Television didn't let me down. They both aired the latest adaptation of an Anthony Horowitz crime novel and made it available on their streaming service, and I was well pleased with it. It had the same virtues as Magpie Murders: Lesley Manville's Sue Ryeland and Tim McMullan's Atticus Pünd make for a likeable sleuthing duo with their meetings on the border between fiction and reality (there's a multiversal incursion for you), and the way some of the actors played two roles in parallel plot threads was cleverly done. As with Magpie Murders, I felt less cheated by the way the two interlocking crime mysteries were laid out than when I read the novel. Moonflower Murders the novel ended with a firm goodbye to this particular fictional universe, but the TV adaptation (also done by Horowitz) leaves the door a little more open for a sequel. I would not say no.

The Bad Batch season three: Is it just me, or have the animated projects from the Star Wars and Marvel franchises been consistently great of late, while the live-action projects are a bit more hit and miss? It may very well be just me with my soft spot for animation. Be that as it may, this Clone Wars spin-off, which perhaps didn't seem that promising on paper, outdid expectations with an engaging, well-knit overarching story about a band of brothers and a sister trying to carve out an existence during the Imperial era of the Star Wars galaxy. Crosshair remained my favourite throughout, but as he kept himself on the path of redemption he hesitantly started on previous season, new entertaining if unsubtle villains were introduced. Doctor Hemlock (I warned you!) with his pleasing design, satisfactorily high level of competence and purring voice (American-accented, which makes a nice change in this context as Star Wars baddies are so often played by Brits) caused my villain-loving heart to flutter, and disgraced Vice Admiral Rampart was a hoot.

Inside Out 2: Yeah, as I've previously mentioned, this was pretty darn good. Even though I prefer the original, which is more rewatchable, the way Anxiety is portrayed in this film is almost too relatable. Roll on Inside Out 3 – next time, I want to see Riley fall in love.

Belgravia: The Next Chapter: OK, I can't pretend it wasn't a let-down that Julian Fellowes didn't pen this supposed sequel to Belgravia, which at the end of the day had very little to do with the original. I had other reservations as well, especially at the start of the series, but taken all in all it was a solid period drama that felt a little closer to being set in a recognisable past than many costume dramas of late (which are often knowingly anachronistic). It particularly seemed to find its stride in the final episode. Poor Oliver Trenchard was hard done by, though.

Doctor Who series fourteen/season one: As you may already be aware, this was a big let-down for me. When will I stop hoping for Doctor Who to return to its former glory? It's hard to let go of hope when the very same duo that were show-runners back in those glory days are still running and/or writing for the series. But by now, Doctor Who has become so heavily politicised that it has a harder time getting away with things that weren't such a big deal in the olden days. 

When the main thrust of Doctor Who stories was about something bigger (love, friendship, the wonders of the universe, the problems of near immortality, the strengths and weaknesses of mankind) or something smaller (oooh, look, Daleks and Cybermen are fighting!) than politics, I could shrug off the odd bout of clumsy messaging. Now, it seems, clumsy messaging is practically all the show does. I had hopes that the Steven Moffat-scripted Christmas special would be a suitably light-hearted palate cleanser, but the sneak peek we've been given does not look promising. "Evil must logo"? Really? Also, the main villain being a Big Bad Arms Manufacturer isn't only clichéd, it's not quite as obvious a choice of common enemy as it might once have been. Yes, of course there are all sorts of ethical implications when a company's products are expressly made to maim and kill people. But at the end of the day, what are we supposed to defend ourselves with if we are attacked? Bananas?

I've not yet reached the point where I will stop watching Doctor Who, and most likely I never will. But for now, it's no longer my favourite sci-fi franchise. For all its faults, Star Wars has eclipsed it. It gave me the most memorable Doctor to watch this year.

My problem with witches

My feelings about the latest Marvel TV series Agatha All Along are mixed. On the one hand, I think it's a solid-quality product and much better than one had any reason to expect. The story hangs together, the acting is strong, and the characterisation good enough for the viewer to go "awww" when a character dies (there's a surprisingly high body count). There's a particularly well-crafted, timey-wimey (sorry, Doctor Who slang) episode which manages to give one of the characters a satisfying send-off. Unlike some commentators, I found the series stuck the landing, too. The flashback in the final episode, showing how Agatha really lost her son, was perhaps a bit lengthy, but delivered the emotional gut-punch needed.

On the other hand, there's the witch thing.

Now, to be clear, I don't disapprove of all fictional witches, as my fondness for Once Upon A Time can attest. Many, perhaps most, witches in popular culture I'm perfectly fine with. But there are some I have a really hard time with, and I find the premise that witches should naturally be seen as a great symbol of girl power supremely irritating. 

To over-simplify, witches in popular culture I've come across mostly fall into one, maybe two, of the following categories:

Fairy-tale witch: Often lives in the forest and is a menace to children, above all. Mostly very, very bad – there are good female magic-wielders in fairy tales, but they tend to be called something else, like "wise women". Her own boss.

Malleus Maleficarum witch: I'm not sure if she's the brain-child of learned men of the 17th century who was then enthusiastically adopted by the populace, or if it's the other way around. Has clear diabolical ties and flies away at certain times to certain places to celebrate Witches' Sabbaths, where she gets up to all sorts. Forms covens, but – how shall I put this? – not for obviously feminist purposes. Evil (duh).

Fantasy witch: Can also be called Harry Potter witch after one of the many fantasy franchises where she resides. Here, "witch" basically just means "female practitioner of magic", and there's nothing suspicious about the magic's origins. The fantasy witch can be good or bad, depending on her own choices, whom she chooses to hang out with and whether she uses "dark magic" (not the same as downright black magic) or not. Only forms covens when the plot demands some extra magic boost, but it's not a way of life.

New Age witch: Wants to be close to nature. Vaguely pagan – likes to talk about earth and moon goddesses. Forms covens for sisterly, female-bonding purposes. Paints herself as the victim of centuries of persecution, a victim status largely unearned (more on that in a bit). Harmless.

Of these categories, I have zero problems with the fairy-tale and fantasy witches, except I'd say bad habits such as snacking on children or cursing babies make them questionable as feminist icons. But as villainesses or redeemable anti-heroines they work very well. New Age witches I think are annoying, but I recognise they probably mean well. Malleus Maleficarum witches, however, I find downright disturbing, and if the witches in a story don't take steps to definitely distance themselves from the seriously occult I'm apt to tut-tut.

The problem with the witch lore in Agatha All Along is that it borrows freely from all four categories above. All right, to be fair, there's not much of the black-magic stuff, but there certainly seems to be a bit more hardcore things going on than, say, the everyday New Age witch would get up to. The witches in Agatha may not consort with demons (and we should be thankful for that), but occult imagery does not faze them, and the focus on covens gives out some creepy-cult vibes.

I'm willing to give Marvel witches the benefit of the doubt and categorise them as a mixture of fantasy and New Age witches. Marvel witch magic appears to be in itself morally neutral, and can be used for bad (Agatha) or good (the other witches) depending on who wields it. Ugh, do they have to spell it "magick", though?

Something that really gets my goat (no pun intended) is the way popular culture appropriates the horror of the Witch Trials. I've lost count of how many times it has been implied, in different fantasy franchises, that there actually were witches in Salem. Sure enough that's a theme in Agatha as well. 

Now, this may seem priggish, especially as I'm usually quite nonchalant about historical wrongdoings, but I can't help feeling this is a bit disrespectful to the innocent women (and men too, in surprising numbers, but mostly women) who were killed in olden times because they were accused of witchcraft. What was so horrifying about the Salem Witch Trials was that there were no witches. In real life, witches do not exist. In a fictional world were witches do exist, the most terrifying aspect of historical witch hunts – that they could strike down anyone, no matter how blameless – is lost, and we're left with a yet another lame persecuted-minority metaphor.

I mean, what's the better defence when accused of witchcraft? "There is no such thing as witches, and you're out of your mind", or "Look, I may have cursed, you know, the odd cow. But no demonic hanky-panky, I swear"? I rest my case. 

Lilia, one of Agatha's coven members and generally a good egg, gets irritated about "misconceptions" about witches. But it's hard to know what the "misconceptions" are when so many witch tropes turn out to be true. Not long before, Lilia herself doesn't want to exit a death-trap of a house through an oven as a friend of hers was killed that way. Cute. But if the Hansel and Gretel witch existed in this universe, did she eat children? And why would it be so out of the way for the good people of the MCU to believe that witches have extra nipples?

I did enjoy Agatha All Along, and for someone without my occult-wary hang-ups it's probably even more fun. But spare me the whole "feminist coven" rhetoric. A good witch is a witch who works alone.  

Neo-Victorian or just set in Victorian times?

Once again, a thorough analysis of why Dungeons and Dragons – Honor Among Thieves is so entertaining proves too challenging (look, just take it from me, it's a fun film). So once again I resort to books, more specifically two historical novels I've recently finished, both coincidentally set in Victorian England.

Or not so coincidentally, perhaps. It's no secret I'm a sucker for this time period as a fictional setting. As some sort of hook on which to hang my reflections, I'll try to look at whether these two novels are "neo-Victorian" or not.

I only became aware of the term neo-Victorian fairly recently, after having unknowingly been a fan of it for years. Definitions I've randomly come across while googling are "contemporary fiction that employs Victorian settings and/or styles to self-reflexively invoke the Victorian era for the present" and "creative narrative works set in the Victorian period, but written, interpreted or reproduced by more contemporary artists". So, a few of my favourite things, in other words. 

If I understand the term correctly, though, it doesn't merely refer to contemporary fictional works set in the Victorian era. It implies a fascination for and engagement with "real" Victorian fiction. James Benmore's Dodger trilogy and Fingersmith by Sarah Waters are clearly neo-Victorian. I've also heard novels like The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield being described as neo-Victorian, in spite of not being set in the period, simply because of their Victorian vibe.

So can a historical novel be set in Victorian England and yet not be neo-Victorian? I'd say yes – and I'd also claim that The Other Side of Mrs Wood by Lucy Barker is a pretty good example. It's set in 1870s London and features a famous medium, Mrs Wood, who is afraid her act is getting stale and as a means to staying relevant takes on a young, pretty protegée. Eventually, though, the girl turns out to be a rival rather than a help.

I liked the novel for its fascinating dive into the world of mediums and its new approach to why anyone half-decent would attempt such work knowing she's a fraud. Mrs Wood is well aware that she doesn't really commune with spirits, but she sees her job as consoling the grief-stricken – a sort of bereavement counselling – with some harmless tricks thrown in to keep the punters happy (and the cash flowing). She firmly draws the line at "full-spirit manifestations" which she considers too exploitative. The new girl has no such scruples. It's a point of view, though more than a little doubtful – can it ever be OK to pretend you're talking to a dear friend's dead twin brother in order to comfort him? And what if you're found out?

On the down side, I thought the book took a little too much time on each storybeat and was too generous with detailed descriptions when I just wanted it to get on with the story. Personally, I'd also have liked some genuine spookiness. The mediums in Mrs Wood never get anywhere close to having a real ghostly encounter. I prefer medium stories with a hint of the supernatural, a "what-if-there's-something-in-it-after-all" element. But that's just me.

The reason I wouldn't call the The Other Side of Mrs Wood neo-Victorian is that there are no references to the classic Victorian novel, and it mainly appears to be set in the 1870s because that's when people were crazy about mediums. The Secrets of Hartwood Hall by Katie Lumsden is another matter. The author sets out her stall right away in her bio: "Katie Lumsden read Jane Eyre at the age of thirteen and never looked back." Neo-Victorianism is afoot.

The novel delivers on its promise: there are clear echoes of Jane Eyre and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall in the plot. The characters themselves are fond of (to them) contemporary literature and read novels by Dickens and others, often when it's thematically relevant. But of course it's not the same story as Jane Eyre. Its heroine, Margaret Lennox, may be a governess, but she has other ideas of what constitutes happiness than Jane.

Lumsden, like Barker, pulls off getting the reader engaged in her protagonist. Margaret is likeable (most of the time) and her affection for Louis, the boy she's teaching, is especially touching. I found Hartwood Hall a very pleasant read and downright page-turning as it neared its climax. The conclusion, though, was a little disappointing, with the "neo" in neo-Victorian coming to the forefront. You could see contemporary preoccupations shining through even earlier. The villains of the tale are Oppressive Husbands and Margaret's love interest is a gentle gardener, younger than her and socially beneath her, an anti-Rochester if you will. He's sweet and all, but I caught myself thinking rebelliously: "Does he have to be such a beta male"?

The novel's twists, while not being exactly what I thought they would be, felt less like "wow, what a rug pull" and more like "OK, so we're doing this". What with the implied praise of "found family" (not that the term is used outright) at the end, I found the modern pieties a little trying, even if they're by no means objectionable in themselves. No matter. I had a good time, and I'll look out for Lumsden's (hopefully also neo-Victorian) next novel.

Pretentious TV entertainment

It's a sad truth (all right, I don't find it that sad) that it's easier to trash something than to gush over it. And so, once more following the path of least resistance, I forgo the chance to praise the unexpected enjoyability of the film Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves in favour of sinking my teeth into the Netflix mini-series The Perfect Couple.

Reviews of this whodunnit story, set in and around the idyllic coastal residence of an ultra-rich family, have good-naturedly described it as entertaining trash. If I remember correctly, one review even called it the modern equivalent of Lace. For my part, I didn't think it can hold a candle to the giddy slice of escapism that is Lace. Lace and Lace II knew what they were and didn't give themselves airs. 

The Perfect Couple, in contrast, is tiresomely pretentious. If it's just supposed to be light entertainment, why is the pace so languid? Why are there so many extreme close-ups? Why is the background music whoo-whoo-ing in the background in an abstract, non-hummable way? It feels like the series wants to be Big Little Lies very badly. I'm not saying Big Little Lies was a masterpiece, but it offered something unexpected which gave it some substance: far from always being at each other's throats, the yummy mummies did offer one another real friendship. The Perfect Couple is devoid of any such nuance. The wealthy suspects are horrible, the investigating police charmingly down-to-earth, the "normal" girl about to marry one of the sons of the super-rich family Sees Through The Façade etc. These aren't even entertaining clichés (though I liked the cops), and they're served up in a po-faced manner which makes you suspect that the series has ideas above its station.

I'm usually indulgent towards pronouncements like "TV series are the new novels". They're not: novels are the new novels. But it does television no harm to try to emulate the dramatic storytelling and vivid characterisation of, say, a Victorian page-turner. Except, the rising status of TV in the last few decades comes at a cost. The same artsy types who've made novel-reading an endurance sport have muscled in and suddenly want to tell us what is "quality" television and what is not. Anything too upbeat or watchable is sneered at, when entertainment (and perhaps some light instruction) was once TV's prime function. 

In that way, you really could say that TV series are "the new novel". Novels were once written mainly for entertainment too, then they became Something Fancier. Now TV has become Something Fancier, and along with the TV equivalent of Victorian ripping yarns have come the less welcome TV equivalent of those high-brow novels all the critics praise to the skies, but few of us ordinary mortals have actually read, because frankly they sound awful. That's exactly why the critics love them, I suspect. If they were too appealing, then there wouldn't be much cachet in having read them – or, in the case of TV series, having seen them.

What's this got to do with The Perfect Couple, you may ask? It may be a bit pretentious, but it's hardly trying to be a TV version of Ulysses. Well, my (largely unsubstantiated) theory is that some conceptions of "quality" television have trickled down to what could be called "middle-brow" programmes, and have had a detrimental effect on them. Pacy storytelling? Way too cheap. Witty dialogue? Good heavens, no, this isn't an ordinary cop show. Sexual tension? Problematic. Romance? Well and truly dead, darling.

You can still find pacy stories, snappy lines and romance on the telly, but you increasingly have to move to the cheerfully low-brow spectrum of TV in order to get your fix. So be it, then. Maybe it's about time I rewatched Lace?     

Novels that passed the travel test

I tend to underestimate how much time and effort goes into travel, though it's definitely worth it in the end. It's not only the time spent travelling: the week before you go is full of preparations, and the week after you return full of tasks you've put off while you were away, plus you have to readjust to everyday life. All of which is a roundabout excuse for me not having blogged for nearly a month.

Not feeling very analytical, I've decided to simply do a book version of the handy "films I saw in-flight" blogs one and two I resorted to in 2018. My travels didn't take me very far this time, so there were no in-flight films, but I did get some reading done. These novels passed the travel test of providing entertainment on airports, planes, trains, hotel rooms and even one or two buses – though some with more distinction than others.

Oxford Blood by Antonia Fraser I got this classic whodunnit from the Eighties for my birthday as 1) it takes place in the atmospheric surroundings of Oxford colleges 2) it's written by Fraser, a popular historian and thus a tried-and-tested author. As it turns out, it's more concerned with the English upper-crust than academic Oxford, but I didn't mind this, as I'm always up for stately-home-based intrigues. 

Fraser writes elegantly if a little distantly; I never felt I got under the skin of her glamorous TV journalist sleuth Jemima Shore. However, the remoteness had its advantages. Fraser keeping her distance to her heroine meant that Jemima didn't come across as too annoyingly opinionated, which could otherwise easily have been the case. It is sometimes hard to know the level of irony in the narrative's statements, though, or how much Jemima really cares for people close to her.

The Last Word by Elly Griffiths Griffiths is an example of an author who can sometimes make her opinions a little too plain through her characters – always allowing for the possibility that the opinions in question might just be the character's and not the author's. Having said that, I've found all the Griffiths novels I've read to be absolute page turners. I gobbled up this one, which features a likeable group of amateur sleuths last seen in the equally good The Post-Script Murders and, to a lesser extent, Detective Harbinder Kaur. 

Kaur has been the police presence in all the novels I've read so far by Griffiths, and I find her a little too chippy, though her very crankiness does make her less of a box-ticking exercise (she's a Sikh and a lesbian). As other characters apart from Kaur were also quite chippy in her latest outing Bleeding Heart Yard, I enjoyed that novel the least of the ones in the Kaur series. Therefore, I was happy with the amateur sleuth trio once again taking centre stage. Old-age pensioner Edwin, Amazonian Ukrainian carer and entrepreneur Natalka and her ex-monk boyfriend Benedict tend to be less judgemental than Kaur, if also a little more gullible. I also very much enjoy the theme of writers and writing which runs through most of the Kaur mysteries; this one takes place partly at a suitably creepy writers' retreat.

Last Tango in Aberystwyth by Malcolm Pryce I bought this one locally because I was in Wales and had dim recollections of quite liking the first instalment in the series. Of the novels I read, this was the one that didn't quite live up to my expectations, though it saw me through a two-hour train journey and an equally long flight quite nicely. 

As a pastiche of quip-filled PI yarns à la Raymond Chandler, set in an outlandish alternative-reality version of Wales where loose women wear stovepipe hats and gangster druids are in a turf war with Meals-on-Wheels matrons, Last Tango sounds like a comic read in the same inventive vein as Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next novels. But though there were many neat conceits in Last Tango and a few quips, it wasn't as funny as I'd thought it would be. Sometimes I didn't know if it was going for all-out seriousness or merely parodying philosophical passages in Chandler and others, but I believe it was mostly the former. The novel had a slightly melancholy air in spite of the absurdities going on which, if you're a true Chandler fan, you may see as a plus. I was expecting more high-jinks, though.

Jazzy Paris and not so jazzy married life

Sometimes, when you don't get a hundred percent into a novel, it's only fair to proclaim: "It's not you, it's me". Why on earth would someone without a solid interest in the home life of Ernest Hemingway (in this case me) read a book on Hemingway's first wife?

My excuse is a weak one: I was drawn to the title. I found Paula McLain's novel The Paris Wife, published as far back as 2011, in a well-stocked bookstore, remembered vaguely that it was well thought of, and bought it. The blurb promised that the setting would be "glamorous Jazz Age Paris", and that sounded exciting. It would also, I reasoned, be a way to learn a little more about an author I haven't read, though I really should have done. Although there's no language barrier to speak of, I'm scandalously ignorant about American classics. It will be remedied at some point, at least in Hemingway's case (and when it happens I'll be able to get at least one Nobel Prize-winner blog post out of it).

Is it a disadvantage to be pig-ignorant about Hemingway when you read this novel? At first I thought so, and felt slightly guilty for attempting it. It's not that I don't get why it was favourably received. McLain fights the corner of her protagonist, Hadley Richardson, very commendably and is good at showing, not telling. 

We're shown, not told, that Hadley is no victim but quite tough. She survives a bleak upbringing with some self-worth still intact; she can knock back liquor with the best (and worst) of them; she enjoys the bullfights her husband's obsessed with and isn't the least bit squeamish; she's physically strong and can even cross the Alps wearing the wrong kind of shoes. We're shown, not told, of Hemingway's faults, which aren't very endearing (but then he's very young at this time): he's spectacularly ungrateful to his benefactors and feels easily threatened, as when he scowls over a less-macho friend's fleeting success at amateur bull-fighting. Lastly, we're shown, not told, how the ménages-à-trois Hadley and Hemingway are surrounded with – which aren't very happy if scrutinised, especially not for the women – warp Hemingway's perception of what he can get away with while still hanging on to the wife he loves.

So why didn't I get fully into the first half and a bit of this novel? I think it was because it sometimes felt like a corrective narrative of something, and I didn't know anything about the story it was correcting. Also, though we do get to meet well-known Jazz-Age Paris dwellers, the focus – as I should have predicted – was on Hadley's and her Ernest's married life. It's convincingly described, but sometimes made me think about Goofy's novel about a man "who went around looking ordinary all day". Not because Hadley herself seems ordinary compared to her famous husband – another pitfall avoided by McLain – but because their domestic life feels rather mundane a large part of the time. This is, of course, less of a problem if you go into the story with a keen interest in all things Hemingway.

Once we finally get to the love triangle foreshadowed at the beginning of the novel, however, my pig-ignorance turned out to be a boon. Although Hadley warns the reader in the prologue: "This isn't a detective story – not hardly", I enjoyed trying to predict which Paris siren would be the one to make a serious play for Hemingway and threaten what appears to be a rock-solid marriage. If you already know a lot about Hemingway's life, then this part of the story doesn't become a mystery, which would have taken a lot of the fun out of it for me.

If you're a Hemingway fan, I think you'd like this novel in its entirety, not least because it throws some light on a wife who actually seems to have been the perfect match for him. If, like me, you know next to nothing about him, it's still a good read. Just don't expect too much razzle dazzle out of Paris.

What's new, Mickey Mouse? (As it turns out, not a lot)

After the announcements of the last weeks, from San Diego Comic-Con and Disney's very own D23 event, it's not an exaggeration to say that Disney is playing it safe. Extremely safe. Leaving aside the re-introduction of Robert Downey Jnr into the MCU – this time as high-profile villain Dr Doom (it could work) – we have a perfect avalanche of films in some way based on previous hits coming up from Disney and Pixar. We are getting prequels, sequels, and worst of all, live-action remakes of animated classics. Like many a commentator, I've been shaking my head and muttering about the death of creativity and the lack of original content.

Except –  maybe some of us, including me, are being just a little bit hypocritical? The other week, I saw a youtuber scoffing about the supposed "sequel fatigue" and pointing out how well sequels overall were doing at the box office. As he was talking about DreamWork's upcoming Shrek 5, I couldn't relate a hundred per cent (I have little interest in Shrek 5 unless Shrek and Fiona are made to face the consequences of callous pet-killing). Nevertheless, the youtuber was on to something. Because as much as I may groan over upcoming titles like Frozen III and Toy Story 5, I'm still going to watch them, aren't I?

Disney has had a rough couple of years, so I can see why they want to refill their coffers with safe bets. They may be well aware that people aren't over-enthusiastic about their upcoming animated projects. But we, the potential audience, don't have to be over-enthusiastic. We only have to be interested enough to buy a cinema ticket. I would guess – it's only a guess, mind – that this is what Disney's banking on. We can complain all we want about unoriginality, as long as we pay up.

There are some flaws in the reasoning, however. One is that Disney has created its own worst rival in Disney Plus. If people are only lukewarm about a film project, but nevertheless want to see it, they could simply wait until the film is available for streaming. Let's face it, if they're mouseheads (I don't know if it's a word, but I'm coining it) like me, they probably have Disney Plus anyway. All they need to do is wait. The studio has been lengthening the time it takes for their movies to reach Disney Plus, which is probably wise from a cinema point of view, but could hurt their streaming service in the long run. It's a bit of a bind.

Another purely commercial reason to keep experimenting with new stuff, instead of merely relying on tried-and-true franchises, is that both Disney and Pixar need to establish new franchises which they can milk in the future. Inside Out 2 has been a huge hit for Pixar, not least because it's seriously good (I'll come back to that). But there wouldn't be an Inside Out 2 if Pixar hadn't taken a chance on the first Inside Out many years back instead of simply churning out Toy Story sequels.

So I'm still a little worried about where the Mouse is heading long-term, even if they manage to consolidate their finances in the immediate future. A successful company always has to ask itself "what's next?" in order to stay in business. Even the most popular franchise reaches its sell-by date (I think Toy Story's already there, to be frank), and if Disney spends too little time developing new projects, they may find themselves in trouble again in a few years' time.

All the same, just because something is a sequel or a prequel doesn't mean it's bad. Look at Inside Out 2, a perfect delight of a film which managed to explain something I'd wondered since the first trailer: why Anxiety is its own emotion separate from Fear. I still think Inside Out 2 dodges the question of what puberty is really about; for all its faults, Turning Red was more honest about this. But hey, Riley is only thirteen in Inside Out 2. Maybe we'll get Love or Desire in Inside Out 3, which will surely be coming along at some point. And if overly cute Envy in Inside Out 2 grows up along with Riley to be less aspirational ("I want her hair") and more destructive ("I'll destroy her for being better than me"), then I'll not complain.

At the end of the day, for the audience, the big divide isn't between old franchises and new projects, but between high-quality and lower-quality films. Even easy-to-please customers like me cut up rough if we sense that we're being taken for granted. If the upcoming Disney and Pixar sequels and prequels seem tired and stale, they'll most likely underperform at the box office. If on the other hand the studios keep putting the effort into them that went into Inside Out 2, the Mouse should be fine. For now.

Is The Acolyte unfair to the Jedi?

OK. Star Wars time. Sort of.

The latest Disney + show in the Star Wars franchise, The Acolyte, has sparked a lot of controversy. For my part, I was lukewarm towards it. That in itself is not a good sign, given that I'm usually very easy to please when it comes to Star Wars content (I loved The Bad Batch earlier this year, for instance, but then that was genuinely good, wasn't it?). If I were to rank the live action Star Wars Disney + shows, The Acolyte would come in last, though it's a tough call – The Book of Boba Fett only just wins out because it has a Cad Bane cameo and some Mando. 

But that doesn't mean I hate The Acolyte. It had some muddled storytelling, and the characterisation was somewhat lacking; the series failed to make us care about the new characters it introduced, which is a pity, as we could do with some new blood in Star Wars stories. However, there were some good acting performances including a fetching villain. Though the writing didn't blow me away, I didn't find it groanworthy either. Also, for those who like lightsabre battles, the ones in The Acolyte were nicely choreographed. 

The Force witches (or "Thread" witches, I suppose, as it's what they call the Force) were irritating, though. Can someone tell me why witches and covens are such a thing nowadays in popular entertainment? I would have thought female magic wielders who want to be girl bosses would do well to stay away from covens, which tend to be about surrendering your power to someone else (or, in this case, to "the power of maaany").

But I digress. The main reason so many Star Wars fans took against this series, some before it even aired, was that they got the impression that it would tarnish the Jedi. Defenders of the series haven't helped its cause by highlighting the way it shows "the weaknesses of the Jedi" as one of its good points. For myself, I'm not fond of the Jedi, but I understand if long-term Star Wars fans don't care to see their childhood heroes trashed, and I acknowledge that there are unfair ways to criticise these famous lightsabre-wielding light-side users.

So, bearing in mind that I'm a bit of a Jedi sceptic, did I think The Acolyte was too hard on them? Well, yes and no. To start with, I wouldn't say that Jedi-bashing plays such a large part in the story as all that. 

The series takes place about 100 years before the Star Wars prequels and tells the tale of two sisters, twins (kinda-it's complicated) Osha and Mae. Hidden away on a faraway planet, they're about to be taken up in the coven of the aforementioned space witches when a group of Jedi enter the scene. Mae wants to become a witch, Osha wants to become a Jedi. Complications and conflicts ensue, which the two girls see different parts of, and it ends with the whole coven dead and their hideout burnt down. Osha, who blames Mae, is taken in by the Jedi. Mae, left behind and believed dead, blames the Jedi.

Sixteen years later, Mae resurfaces, trained by a mysterious (though not very) dark-side Force user, and starts to take out the Jedi she encountered all those years ago. Osha – who never managed to become a Jedi and has left the order – is first accused, but it quickly becomes clear (thankfully) that she's not the culprit, and she's roped in by her old master Sol to track down her long-lost sister and bring her to task. The identity of Mae's master is revealed soon enough, but the question remains what really happened sixteen years ago.

When we finally get the whole story, I for one could very well understand why the Jedi acted the way they did. Certainly, some of the group behaved badly, but you could argue that their more questionable decisions were motivated by non-Jedi-like emotions such as selfishness, fear and blind attachments. There's nothing in the telling of the Jedi vs witches conflict that directly contradicts the Jedi creed – in fact, it could be used as a cautionary tale on how dangerous it is for Jedi to give in to their emotions. Plus, the witches were certainly no blameless victims either. 

Where the series is unfair to the Jedi, in my view, is when it shows how the whole thing is covered up by cool and responsible-seeming members of the Order. Throughout the series, Jedi bigwig Vernestra seems surprisingly anxious about bad PR, as the Jedi Council is facing some opposition by the Senate, and is eager to gloss over as many past and present Jedi mistakes as she can. Now, my beef with the Jedi has to do with their forbidding personal attachments and generally being a bunch of self-righteous killjoys. But I have never seen them as shady or power hungry – isn't that more of a Sith thing? It was hard to believe in Jedi as responsibility-dodging politicos. Surely, owning up to your faults and taking the rap for it (which would probably be harsh and disproportionate) would be the true Jedi way?

Vernestra has a quarrel with a senator at the end of the series where the senator starts to address my own problems with the Jedi. He points out that they claim to be able to control an ungovernable force – by which he doesn't mean the Force itself but their own emotions – and predicts that one day one of these repressed warriors will snap and will be hard to stop. I'm with him on that one: all that emotion-repressing surely can't be healthy, and one would have thought that the hate and fear of the Dark Side could more easily be overcome by positive emotions such as love and friendship rather than sterile serenity. But as for the Jedi being a dangerous "cult", you could say the same about those annoying witches.

The perfect beach read (or very nearly)

After being so harsh on Doctor Who last time, I'm in the mood to "say something nice", as Missy would put it. Perhaps confirming that an acclaimed romance author is, indeed, very good (in my view, that is) would be a good idea, even if it doesn't make for a startlingly original post?

Finding the ideal summer holiday read is always tricky. A summer or so ago, I read and very much enjoyed Emily Henry's Book Lovers. Nevertheless, I didn't immediately follow it up with Beach Read from the same author, which I bought upon finishing Book Lovers. If there was something I minded in Book Lovers, it was that quite a lot of time was spent on the heroine's coming to terms with the death of her mother, and the effect this had on the relationship between her and her sister. It was by no means badly done, but it's not the kind of storyline you expect to feature prominently in a feel-good romance. 

When Beach Read started with the heroine, January, remembering the day her mother got her cancer diagnosis, I thought "here we go again". The mum makes it, but when the book starts January's father has died of a stroke. At his funeral, his former mistress showed up and handed January the key to a beach house which her dad has left her. Now, several months later, January – a romance author with writer's block and a cash-flow problem – is forced to visit the beach house and clear it out for a sale while she tries to regain some inspiration.

It's not the most cheery start to a light-hearted read, but this summer I persevered through the first depressing pages, and the novel soon goes into the feel-good mode one is led to expect from the way it's marketed. January's neighbour turns out to be Gus, her old crush from college and a literary author who she always thought despised her writing. Soon the old enemies-to-friends, friends-to-lovers plot is on its way. I really enjoyed the central conceit that the two authors agree to switch genres – January will try to write something more literary, while Gus tries a romance – and the book-related plotting and discussions that ensue.

It made me reflect on how subjective appreciation of a novel's plot lines can be. I imagine an editor with romance as her speciality would encourage an author like Henry to concentrate on the romance, by no means stint on the length of sex scenes, and play down the bookish parts. An editor would also probably not have any problems with the dead dad storyline as it places January where she needs to be and provides a motive for her sudden doubts of romance and happy endings (her parents' marriage has always seemed like the ur-romance for her).

For my part I loved the bookish parts, found the sex scenes (there are only two of them, but they do go on for a while) tedious, and could have done without the dead dad plot altogether. Though, yes, the pay-off is touching (I'm glad I wasn't actually at the beach when I read it as I snivelled quite a lot), it is something of a foregone conclusion. So there you go. Much depends on personal preferences. What I can say is that Henry's prose style is enjoyable, funny and – unlike that of many authors of up-beat romances – it doesn't make you feel as if your brain is shrinking while you read it.

I found it interesting how January and Gus choose to interpret what a "literary novel" and a "romance" is. It mostly seems to be a question of subject matter for them, and a pessimistic vs optimistic outlook. To me, the difference between a literary and popular work is mostly a question of the importance of language. Ideally, a good literary novel should have an excellent style and a strong plot and characters. However, for a literary author, literary style tends to come before plot (if character is neglected as well, I for one will give up). It should be more difficult for Gus than for January to churn out text, as every sentence has to sing. 

January's "literary" novel sounds interesting and like something I would like to read, but it's more what I'd call middle-brow than high-brow. As for Gus, in not changing the setting of his novel, I'd argue that he misses the brief completely. The setting for a romance is important, and a potentially suicidal cult is... well... not it. Surprisingly, though, the scenes where Gus and January research the cult plot line are fascinating.

So, yes, as you've gathered, I'm really into the "book plot". It was the same in Book Lovers where the heroine – with the help of her love interest – ended up having to edit a novel where the hard-as-nails protagonist clearly seemed based on herself (a plot line that could have been give more space in my view). I've started Henry's Happy Place now and am liking it, though I miss the bookishness. But hey, that's just me.

The bumpy ride of New New Doctor Who

I'm late with my blogging, partly because last week (the week before my summer vacation) was intense, partly because this is not an easy topic. So let's get it over with.

The latest series of Doctor Who, now airing on Disney Plus, has been labelled "season one", so as not to scare off new viewers. We are, then, officially, in a new Doctor Who era. I'll call it New New Who for now, in honour of New New York which featured in episodes like "New Earth" and "Deadlock" back in the good old days of Russell T Davies's first stint as show runner.

Up until now, I've agreed with the commonly held opinion that Davies aka RTD was the show's best show runner, while Steven Moffat was the best script writer. These high expectations make my disappointment in RTD's return all the greater. If Chibnall had still been in charge, I would probably be kinder to the season. There were still episodes I enjoyed, and flashes of the old magic showed even in the episodes I didn't particularly like. But this is RTD. Under his captaincy, Who should be better than just OK.

Who's to blame, then, for the decline of Doctor Who? Disney? Is it likely that I'd say that? No, I've got another scapegoat in mind. I've made it clear more than once, the first time after the overall underwhelming 60th Anniversary Specials, that my enjoyment of Doctor Who would depend on in what degree Davies steered clear of his own irritating brand of political and social commentary. And... well... he didn't.

It started merely as an annoyance. The first episode "Space Babies" (or second if you count the Christmas special "The Church on Ruby Road" which I still think is great) had some political commentary smuggled in, but it was puzzling rather than anything else. The issue with "Space Babies" was rather its over-childish plot, where nappies and a "bogey man" literally made out of bogeys played important parts. Not a good jumping-on point for the uninitiated, in spite of all the crammed-in exposition.

Then came "The Devil's Chord", which, again, wasn't overtly political, but seemed rather too pleased with itself for starring the drag artist Jinkx Monsoon as the villain Maestro. I thought the concept and look of Maestro weren't bad, and I didn't mind the pronoun quibbling this time around as it fitted the story – when Maestro wearily explained "I'm 'them'" to a suitably non-plussed gent of the 1920's, it had echoes of "I am legion". But you must have pace when serving up an OTT villain, and this episode lingered far too long on Monsoon's scenery-chewing. The pace was off throughout, and in spite of the Beatles playing a part, we didn't get to hear a single Beatles song. 

The third episode was "Boom", penned by the great Steven Moffat himself. Surely now things would start to look up? Well, yes and no. There was much witty quick-fire dialogue, but we also got sanctimonious shots fired at the military, the church, AI and, of course, every Who writer's favourite target, Big Bad Capitalism. 

This is one of two episodes where the commentary crossed the line for me from merely irritating to downright offensive, when the Doctor spluttered to one of the "anglican marines": "Faith! The magic word that keeps you never having to think for yourself." Firstly, no, that's not what faith is. Secondly, how does a Doctor Who writer have the gall to put this on paper, when Who writers are the most notorious bunch of group-thinkers you can find? Script-writers with the wrong opinions are put in the dog house, and steps are taken to actively scare away viewers with the wrong opinions. "Thinking for yourself" is not encouraged.

I was as good as done with Who at this point, and then "73 Yards" came along, which I thought was an  excellent supernatural chiller. I'm not without notes, and the impact could lessen with time. I assumed, for instance, that the Welsh populist politican Roger ap Gwilliam who becomes "the most dangerous Prime Minister in history" (and this in a field which includes Harry Saxon aka the Master) either was or was possessed by the spirit of "Mad Jack", let out when the Doctor tramples on a fairy circle, and was thus a supernatural threat. But when Ruby finally manages to undo the whole fairy-circle-trampling timeline, Gwilliam is still a factor, so what gives? If he turns out to be just an ordinary bloke who wants to nuke the world for some reason, then I'll be mad myself. Nevertheless, this episode had plenty of atmosphere and is probably my favourite of the season.

So my hopes were raised again, and then "Dot and Bubble" came along, an amazingly unsubtle "social media bad" episode – the consciously unlikeable protagonist Lindy can't even walk without her bubble of media content around her where arrows tell her where to go. But this wasn't even the worst of it. People have gushed over the episode as a "masterclass of messaging" for tackling racism. Lindy and her all-white pals turn down the Doctor's help at the end, because he isn't "one of them" – that is, it's heavily implied, because he's black. What commentators have overlooked is that this supposedly brave bit of denunciation of prejudice is heavily prejudiced itself. The episode's lesson seems to be that rich, social-media-obsessed youngsters are horrible, that if AI turned sentient it would rise up against them, and that they deserve to die. 

Oh, but it's all right to savagely attack "rich kids", isn't it, especially if they're white? They're so privileged, they can take it. I'm sure that kind of thinking never led to anything bad.

The last three episodes of the season I liked. I had my issues with "Rogue", such as the fact that the writers clearly hadn't done any research about the Regency whatsoever except watch Bridgerton (which is more a fantasy drama than a historical one). But Rogue was a charming character, a bit of a Captain Jack clone, but I like Captain Jack. His romance with this Doctor was believable enough to me; I'm  ready to roll with the concept that romantic/sexual preferences can change with each Time Lord regeneration, and besides, judging by the Master (which perhaps one shouldn't), Time Lords are up for just about anything.

Many reviews I've seen were disappointed by the finale, but this was good old RTD Who for me – complete with the problems of RTD Who or indeed any Doctor Who in the form of an all-to-easily-defeated Big Bad and giant plot holes. I don't mind. Give me powerful confrontations; emotional beats that work; what others may call gobbledegook but what I call Whovian poetry, such as the harbinger character rattling off the members of the Pantheon of Discord with all their promising villainous attributes; and finally new mysteries which may not have a satisfying payoff but are fun while they last, and I'll not complain.

All I ask is that I'm spared political posturing which aims neither to convince the doubtful, nor bolster those who think as the writers do, but only to provoke those who don't share Davies's supposedly enlightened outlook. It's not so much agenda pushing as agenda shoving, not so much messaging (as no reasoned argument is made) as a parading of views. Doctor Who is supposed to have a broader appeal than, say, Davies's It's a Sin, and it's a problem when viewers are more or less told they're not good enough to watch a show they may have grown up with.

"I don't care what you think", the Doctor says in "Dot and Bubble", "And you can say whatever you want. You can think absolutely anything. I will do anything, if you just allow me to save your lives." Oh, Doctor. If only that were true.

This is a good Ronja adaptation – erm, right, true fans?

My relationship to Ronja the Robber's Daughter by Astrid Lindgren is an odd one for a Swede. I grew up in a massively Lindgren-friendly household and still treasure her stories about among others Pippi Longstocking, Madicken and the Bullerby children (Lasse is my favourite Lindgren character). However, my mum wasn't a big fan of Lindgren's two last books, The Brothers Lionheart and Ronja the Robber's Daughter, and nothing I learnt about them as a child made me want to seek them out myself. Eventually, I did watch the classic film adaptations, but they didn't hook me.

Recently, with new adaptations in the works which I was interested to see, I thought I'd finally acquaint myself with both these books by way of listening to Lindgren's own old recordings of them for Swedish Radio. Though they're not, in my entirely biased opinion, on a par with the Lindgren favourites I grew up with, I'm glad I've cured my ignorance, at least to some degree. I'd argue that The Brothers Lionheart is the better written of the two, and yet Ronja is the one I can most easily picture children getting into.

For one thing, Ronja is unambiguous. Most of Lindgren's fantastical tales can be read in more than one way: you can either take the protagonists' adventures at face value, or interpret them as mere imaginings, albeit beautiful ones, which Lindgren's often sorely tried boys and girls use as coping mechanisms. I tend to stubbornly stick to the face-value reading, except in the rare cases when "real life" offers a happier ending than the fantastic adventures. Even so, it's hard to for instance read the last lines of the story "The Land of Twilight" without tearing up. 

Ronja the Robber's Daughter, on the other hand, is more straightforward, which I imagine children would find comforting. Ronja is the daughter of a robber whose home is in a magical forest. This is made crystal clear. She's not making it up. Also, her months of living in the woods with her best friend Birk must read as blissful wish-fulfilment for anyone who has ever dreamed of living close to nature (not me).

But it's one thing to acknowledge that children appreciate a story, and another to appreciate a story as a child. Which finally leads me to the Netflix TV series based on Ronja the Robber's Daughter (only half of which is available so far). For me, the jaded adult, this is the ideal adaptation. The book treated its child protagonists with respect, but the grown-ups were little more than caricatures, and the tiresome old tropes of sensible child vs foolish adult and sensible woman vs foolish man riled me as far back as in the old film. 

In the Netflix series, the adults are taken more seriously. Mattis, Ronja's father, is given a proper motive to resent a rival band of robbers and its chieftain Borka in particular. What's more, his relationship with Ronja's mother Lovis is a proper, loving one – she doesn't treat him like a silly child, which is a relief. We also get an added subplot about the nearby villagers who suffer from the robbers' exploits, and the bounty hunters (female, which makes sense in this universe) employed to put an end to the nuisance. I was at times more interested in them than in the central story, which is, I suppose, not entirely a good thing.

The question the Netflix Ronja highlights is: what makes a good adaptation? Should you try to tinker with the source material's weaker aspects so they work better, with the risk of losing focus? Or should you faithfully zoom in on what worked in the original and let neglected parts of the plot remain neglected? To be clear, I thought Ronja was very well cast in the Netflix adaptation, and Birk was good too, though as the parts were played by young teenagers, their relationship became a little more proto-romantic than the novel's surrogate-sibling love. But the adults do steal some of the limelight, which real Ronja appreciaters may feel is a shame.

For my part, I've enjoyed the Netflix series so far and am looking forward to the release of the rest of the episodes. True fans could possibly see things differently, though. An equivalent version of The Brothers Lionheart would be one where the grown-ups that were mere ciphers in the book – bad guys and heroic rebels alike – are properly fleshed out, but you momentarily lose track of what's happening to the brothers themselves. Mind you, I would love to see an adaptation like that.

Possible plot lines for the third Downton film (some more possible than others)

There's to be another Downton film/movie? What is this, the new Terminator franchise? Julian Fellowes has already written a convincing ending to the saga of the Crawley family and its servants – three times. Downton Abbey could have ended after the TV series finale, or the first film, or the second film. I'm not sure how Fellowes was persuaded to return to the world of Downton once more, but I bet the producers are happy.

And of course, as an avid fan, I'm not exactly complaining either; I'm always up for another spot of Downton. However, with so many plot lines already tied up in tidy bows, it will be a challenge for Fellowes to find new ways of bringing the story forward (ideally without ruining the happy endings already engineered in previous Downton content). But not impossible. Here are some storylines I wouldn't mind seeing in a new Downton movie.

Mary's marriage and old beaux: Mary's love life keeps being affected by out-of-universe events. When Dan Stevens opted out, Fellowes had to kill off Matthew Crawley, the love of her life. Now, her second marriage to Henry Talbot is endangered because of the commitments of much-sought-after Matthew Goode, who plays him. Goode's other acting projects meant that he was entirely absent from Downton movie number two, which meant that in-universe, the once loving couple appeared to be estranged (and Henry racing again? Why?). It was the one major disappointment with the second film, and now Fellowes has a chance to fix it.

How, though? Supposing Goode can't or won't appear in this film either, what then? We simply can't have another film with Mary sighing over an absent husband. If Henry Talbot isn't present, he must be got rid of – either through divorce or death.

While it would be rotten luck for poor Mary to lose two husbands to violent death, it would be less messy plot-wise than divorce. Whatever grim alternative Fellowes chooses, I hope the third film is set some years after the event, so that Mary is free to form a new attachment – or rediscover an old one. Surely this is the ideal opportunity to make Lady Mary and Charles Blake (do they have a ship name? Chary? Pig Rescuers?) happen?

Of course, the least harrowing thing for Mary would be if her second marriage did not have to end. If Goode can be coaxed back into the fold, the plot could instead be about him and Mary finding their way back to happiness. I wouldn't mind if an old beau of Mary's – Blake or, why not, Sir Richard Carlisle – gave Talbot a good talking to and pointed out just how much he has to lose by neglecting his wife.

Edith's Marigold secret: Fellowes has been wary of connecting the film plots to the series plots too much in the previous films, but maybe this time he'll consider us die-hard fans. The fact that Marigold is Edith's natural daughter and not just adopted is a secret just waiting to be discovered by a nosy journalist or some other credible threat. A lot of drama could be elicited by the family's and servants' combined efforts to shut the snoop up. I wouldn't mind seeing Edith showing some of her sister's steel and face the challenge bravely instead of just whining.

Peter Coyle's belated appearance: Remember Peter Coyle, Miss Baxter's old flame who persuaded her to steal for him? What if we could finally get to meet this fatal charmer? He would reappear in Miss Baxter's life, filling Molesley with self-doubt by being handsome and charismatic. Once the cad is ousted, however, Molesley will learn that Miss Baxter was never once tempted to return to Coyle and thinks Molesley is worth a hundred of him. That would be moving to see, though I doubt Molesley would be allowed to be caught up in a dramatic storyline rather than a comic one; Kevin Doyle is too good a comedian for Fellowes not to utilise him for high jinks.

The Bateses' future: Yes, you may well wonder: I'm actually, voluntarily, asking for another plot focusing on Mr and Mrs Bates. Even I have been a little embarrassed by the way the admittedly annoying Bates has been shoved into the background in the two films. Perhaps it's time for the couple to face a more grounded problem than various murder charges? 

Back in series two of Downton Abbey, Bates wanted to open a small hotel together with Anna, and she seemed all in favour of the idea. The way things turned out, though, they're still pretty much stuck at Downton. What if Bates finally wanted to move on, but Anna felt guilty for "abandoning" Mary? Mary could resolve the matter in the end by insisting that Anna go and live her own life, but it would make for some drama.

The Butler question: Look, Andy can't possibly become the household's new butler and handle Mr Mason's old farm. Being a farmer, even with an energetic spouse, is decidedly not a part-time job. The Crawleys need to find a new butler, and fast. This could be the "comic relief" part of the film, maybe involving Denker and Spratt (though I'm not sure how I would explain why Denker is still around). And if Mr Carson finally gets to do something right or say something wise in the course of this story unfolding, then so much the better.

Thomas plotting (for the greater good): Shock confession: I wouldn't have minded if Thomas were not in the film. He got his happy ending in Downton Abbey: A New Era, and I really don't want Fellowes to mess it up. But Robert James-Collier is slated to return, so here's how you could use him: Thomas is visiting his old servant friends (kind of) and gets involved in one of the ongoing storylines, such as Peter Coyle's return or the Marigold conundrum. The servants persuade him to help by doing what he (arguably) does best: scheming. Once Coyle or the Marigold snooper has been foiled, partly by Thomas's plans, he can go back to Guy Dexter (I don't think they'll be able to bag Dominic West for another Downton performance, so Guy will have to wait off-screen). That would work, right?

In all probability, none of these possible plots will make an appearance in the third film, except perhaps the fixing of Mary's marital problems. I haven't even found a way to incorporate Uncle Harold (who we know will return) into any of the storylines. But a girl can dream.         

Eurovision 2024: You're welcome to it, Switzerland

What do you mean, there's an elephant in the room? Where? Wait, there are two now?

Yeah, there's no denying Eurovision got a little tense this year. Although, in my entirely unbiased opinion, Sweden did an excellent job of hosting the competition – we threw anything but the kitchen sink at it: the Crown Princess, Abbatars, "Hooked on a Feeling" and self-deprecating numbers about our Eurovision obsession – the atmosphere was strained at times, and by the end even the ebullient Petra Mede seemed to be struggling to keep a smile on her face. Though the winning song wasn't my cup of tea, I'm actually relieved Sweden didn't win again. Yes, really. Switzerland, you're good to go. Good luck.

But this shouldn't mean that there isn't any blogging to be got out of it all, so I'll give it a try while carefully avoiding the elephants (sorry).

Black Sabbath of the year (what, again?): Ireland Back in 2021, I was shocked by the singer from Cyprus apparently taking villain fangirling too far. I guess it's debatable what is worse: the seductive hummability of Cyprus's song back then or this occult shriek-fest. At least Bambi Thug is honest about wanting to be a witch pretty badly. Still, in my book, this is worse. As far as I could make out, Bambi wants to curse their (I think?) ex, and is prepared to snog any demon in order to make it happen. There's a malevolence here that was missing from Cyprus's ditzy groupie in 2021 (plus it's still just possible that the latter was singing about a Mexican bandit). Let's hope that the pentagram was the right way up, because then it's actually supposed to ward off evil spirits.

Misunderstanding of the brief of the year: United Kingdom The UK's song was actually not bad at all, if you closed your eyes. But that number! Look, Eurovision is pretty gay, it's true. But it's gay in a glitzy, Pride Parade, feathers and sparkles kind of way. Not in a groping-guys-in-a-dirty-bathroom kind of way. No-one, gay or straight, wants grimy realism on Eurovision day. That said, zero points from televoters was harsh. It's important to remember that this doesn't mean that no-one voted for the UK, simply that the number didn't make the top ten in any of the voting countries (I'm not sure that's much of a consolation).

Fairy tale of the year: Norway Norway didn't do very well, but at least they made the finals, and as a fairy-tale nerd I'm fascinated by the tale they were singing about. What happened? Did the girl drink her brother's blood? Or did she sensibly decide to simply remain a wolf? I must look it up.

Big cats of the year: Luxemburg Take an upbeat, blissfully mainstream pop song, sung partly in French by a perky, dependable artist, then add gigantic leopards in the light show. What do you get? My favourite Eurovision entry in 2024. The competition may have been full of oddballs this years – the Finn from last year started some sort of trend which will probably be stone dead come 2025 – but this is what tigers like me like.

Intense Big Five artists of the year: France and Germany France's soupy love song was stronger than Germany's forgettable ballad, but both male singers gave it their all and managed to climb to a respectable fourth and twelfth place respectively (you may think twelfth place isn't much to write home about; trust me, for Germany, it is). I hope the traditional French ballad from France trend lasts forever, but of course it won't.

Earworms of the year: Italy and Austria When I found myself humming a song from this year's competition a few days later, it wasn't the ones from Luxemburg or Cyprus (good this year and not witchy) which I actually voted for but Italy's. "Da-da-da-da-da-da La Noia" may be the only line I know, but it certainly sticks in the brain. This, and Austria's "Dum-de-dum-de-dum-dum we will rave". Great artistry? Doubtful. Earworms? Definitely.

The Rebel Moon films are not all bad (but hardly the new Star Wars)

It's hard to defend films which don't get much love even from their director. Granted, I have only seen snippets from an interview with Zack Snyder, the director of Rebel Moon – Part One: A Child of Fire and Rebel Moon – Part Two: The Scargiver (which I'll call Rebel Moon 1 and Rebel Moon 2 for convenience). However, he seemed to be talking up his forthcoming R-rated versions of these films at the expense of the PG-13-rated ones now available on Netflix. I must say, these auteur directors can be enigmatic, even downright annoying. Surely, if you want the public to watch versions of your films with crushed skulls and the like, you try to make a decent fist of the versions without crushed skulls instead of half-arsing it and saying "don't worry, the R-rated ones will be better"? If you nail it the first time, people end up wanting more instead of giving up on Rebel Moon before it's even become a franchise.

Having read an article in a film magazine about the Rebel Moon films before their release, I was pretty excited about them. However, like proper Snyder fans (I'm ashamed to say these are the first films directed by him that I've seen), I was disappointed by what we got. So far, we have nothing that could rival the epicness of the Star Wars franchise even on a bad day. But though I feel no great wish to rewatch Rebel Moon 1 and 2, I will give the next film in the series a go (if there is a next one). There are things here I quite enjoy. And I'll say this for Rebel Moon: although it started as a idea for a Star Wars movie turned down by Lucasfilm, this universe doesn't feel like a Star Wars knock-off.

So, all right, there's an evil space empire, and the odd glowing sword pops up, though they aren't essential to the plot. But when is there not an evil empire? When's the last time we saw a good empire on the silver screen? (Napoleon? Sorry, I had to. Still haven't seen it, by the way.) One thing I really liked about these films was the aesthetics of the Rebel Moon universe. The planets and people visited by the protagonists in Rebel Moon 1 borrow traits from different places and historical eras on Earth: the Wild West, the Roman Empire, Ye Olde Japan etc. It's a bit odd, I suppose, considering this is outer space, but it's an idea that sets the Rebel Moon galaxy apart from the Star Wars one, where the look was more classic sci-fi and the planets often felt like they had one trait each (here's a desert – but it's a planet, here's a forest – but it's a planet, here's a big city – but it's a planet etc.).

The star ships look nothing like the Star Wars ones, but are more like clunky locomotives in space. Modes of teleportation are also different, and the advanced medical treatments one of the main villains undergoes are inventively squishy, a far cry from the a-scan-and-you're-fine treatments we mostly get in sci-fi. The music is properly grand and epic. So, plenty to like in the settings and soundtrack, then. That only leaves the problems with details such as story, script and characters.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: a peaceful agricultural village, where people live in harmony from the good of the land, is threatened by a superior force (in this case troops from the evil empire, called simply the Imperium). The superior force demands more from the village than it can give, or it will be destroyed. A deadline is given. The villagers are distraught. What to do? They're farmers, not soldiers. One hero (heroine in this case) manages to assemble a motley band of warriors to defend the village. However, that is not enough: the peaceful farmers, and their womenfolk, have to learn to fight for what is theirs and stand up against the oppressors...

Yeah, I know. I haven't even seen The Seven Samurai or The Magnificent Seven, and I have still seen this story so often I've become sick to death of it. A Bugs Life, episodes in Doctor Who and The Mandalorian... this plot seems to be everywhere. It's a mystery to me why Snyder couldn't find a better story to tell in this visually stunning universe he's imagined. What's more, the characters just aren't interesting, with the possible exception of the kick-ass heroine's mild-mannered boyfriend. Some of the acting is fine – Anthony Hopkins voice-acts an enigmatic robot with aplomb – but at other times it's decidedly wonky, and the actors aren't given much to work with. The tormented heroine Kora fights well but is otherwise not compelling, and not a strong enough character to build a franchise on. Her band of fighters are hardly more fleshed out than Asha's side-kicks in Wish, and though we get to hear their back stories they are more or less variations on the same theme (the Imperium attacking out of nowhere and doing their evil empire stuff).

As for the villains... Ed Skrein clearly has fun as the evil dictator's  man on the ground, with heavy irony named Atticus Noble. But he's too much of a parody to ever feel menacing. I kept wishing for the second in command, Cassius (!), who seems much more competent, to live up to his name, knife Atticus and take control. No such luck. I guess Atticus must be seen as the comic relief rather than a serious threat, but it diminishes the tension when the heroes are up against a buffoon. And that haircut.

This world's Palpatine is called Balisarius, on the other side of the Asterix spectrum to Galbatorix in Eragon. What his motivations are I honestly couldn't tell you: "unlimited power", I guess. The only character he's known to have a personal relationship with is Kora (she's his adopted daughter), and he screws her over. It doesn't make any sense why he's so keen to capture her after that, when surely, for propapaganda purposes, it would be much better to have her remain the empire's most wanted elsewhere, and he has no personal axe to grind. But, well... he's bad, and that's all there is to it. A pity he couldn't be entertainingly bad like Palps.

So no, I'll not be watching the R-rated versions of Rebel Moon 1 and Rebel Moon 2, even though Snyder promises to "deconstruct" the tropes he leans so heavily into in the PG-13 versions. But if there's a film about Kora's search for the lost princess (very Super Mario), I'll watch it: this universe is interesting enough to warrant a better story than what we've seen so far.

Scenes from a marriage, 1870

So, Belgravia: The Next Chapter turned out to be... not quite what I hoped for. Firstly, it wasn't written by Julian Fellowes. I was surprised by how much I ended up minding this. After all, Fellowes isn't the kind of a-zinger-a-minute script writer where you actively think: "Wow, this is so good". That other costume drama supremo, Andrew Davies, farmed out the script-writing of Mr Selfridge and Sanditon to no ill effect; there's clearly plenty of talented telly writers out there. What Fellowes has, though, is a knack of making his characters interesting and/or likeable. That's a talent this series would have benefited from.

Another disappointment was that the series didn't follow the adventures of the offspring of the main couple from the first Belgravia series, Charles Pope/Bellasis and Lady Maria Grey, which would have made it a proper "next generation" sequel. Instead, the connection to the original Belgravia is rather tenuous. Frederick, aka Lord Trenchard, is the bastard child that side character Oliver Trenchard from the first series decided to acknowledge as his own. We see the grown-up Frederick meet and marry the romantically minded Clara. However, he's so troubled by his upbringing and his "father's" disdain that he has a hard time accepting Clara's love, and much marital strife ensues.

I was sorry that Oliver Trenchard, one of the few links to the original series, was portrayed in such a bad light. Accepting his unfaithful wife's child was part of his redemption arc in the first Belgravia, and it detracts from his characterisation there to see him turn against Frederick from the moment he surprisingly gets a son of his own. For all that, I did manage to get into Belgravia: The Next Chapter after a bumpy start. But for seven of its eight episodes, the supposed connection to the first Belgravia was a hindrance rather than a help.

The series is in fact a competently crafted and well-acted (especially from the secondary characters) marital drama with a couple of amusing side intrigues. Some problems remain, though, the major one being that the two protagonists just aren't very engaging. Now, don't get me wrong, it's quite convincing that a naïve, impulsive girl and an emotionally stunted man would experience these kinds of romantic problems in 1870s Belgravia (perhaps even in modern Belgravia). But there's only so much of Frederick sitting around looking miserable in a repressed way, or Clara confiding in a society doctor who clearly has the hots for her, that this viewer can take.

The other problem, as I've hinted, is the branding. From a series called Belgravia: The Next Chapter, it's not unreasonable to expect the same kind of comfort viewing as from its parent series. For most of its run time, though, this drama isn't particularly comforting. I started thinking that I would have liked it more if it hadn't had any connection to Belgravia  whatsoever, and if I'd known roughly what kind of story I could expect from the start.

But – and here's the rub – episode eight was really strong, and tied back to the events of Belgravia in a way I would have been sorry to miss. Finally, after seven episodes of distraught flailing, the characters managed to get their act together in a supremely satisfying way.  

Also, the secondary characters add spice to the story throughout. I wasn't always convinced by Elaine Cassidy's Katherine in The Paradise – though she could act up a storm all right, especially in the second series, she just wasn't the spoilt heiress type  – but she absolutely slays as the loyal lady in waiting Davison. Sophie Winkleman and Miles Jupp manage to wring every drop of pathos they can out of the ducal couple with an epileptic heir (I know this is the late 19th century, but sometimes the characters in this series seem to know less about epilepsy than Marco Polo). There's a fun French marquise who's obviously up to no good and spinning intrigues seemingly just for the heck of it. Clara's envious sister has a solid character arc, and Frederick's brother James is such a pretty parson in distress you wonder how any thug could have the heart to blackmail him, especially when there are more worthwhile things they could be doing.

So in the end I was quite torn about this drama. I do think it would have benefited either from being shorter, or from giving more time to the side plots. What is the shared history (clearly not of the romantic kind) of Davison and the gimlet-eyed servant Fletcher? Why does the marquise meddle in Frederick's and Clara's marriage, something she does not have to do to further her financial goals? I wouldn't have minded spending more time with these characters and less with silly Clara and stuffed shirt Frederick.

All in all, though, the ending was strong enough to cancel out many of my gripes, and it was nice to see John Bellasis getting just a bit of a redemption (though not too much). It's just too bad it had to be at the expense of Oliver's.