It goes without saying that I’ll have to fight Otter (and a few thousand other women) for Nathan Fillion. I find myself fulfilled and lacking of much wanting, says the man. Took the words out of my mouth, and the syntax out of M’s.
Next. Saw Immortel yesterday. Horus is one sexy god, Miss France can act, and New York in 2095 reminds me much of Tesaris. (Red Shift, people. How soon they forget.)
Lastly, I watched barkley’s gut-wrenching, heart-tearing Never Die Young video (again, again, again), and I remember a time when Dean Anderson displayed more emotions than a prison door. That’s why I reacted positively to Lost City, I understand now. Jack was in excess of two facial expressions. Water in the empathic desert of season seven. Sometimes I wonder–editing trick or what–if RDA even shoots his dialogue with his co-stars in all the ensemble scenes. Feels like he’s acting to a wall. It’d explain a lot.
The wailing climbs up a notch. John throws a look over his shoulder, loses his balance, falls half-way, right cheek in the sand. His left eye tracks Jool, who jumps from rock to rock like a mountain goat on speed. She’s waving her arms and pulling at her hair; she is–thank anyone, any snake–too hoarse to truly scream anymore.
John, improbably, raises himself on his knees. Belches. “Why? Why did you have to–to go and tell her that–that all she knows about peace-making aliens is wrong and her fancy diplomas are dren–crap–shit–” John looms over Daniel, but Daniel’s eyes are closed against the parterre of stars. “Hey!” He pokes the man’s shoulder. “You can’t sleep. Don’t leave me alone with her. She–she has a medical degree.” John grumbles but merciful gravity delivers him to Daniel’s side with minimal jostling. “Some superior being you are.” He lays an arm across his face. Doesn’t want to watch the stars either. “You wouldn’t have made it one round against my bad guy.”