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I should have been ficcing today, but I wound up reading TV recaps at Television Without Pity. The CSI recaps were a hoot, and while I was there, I was reminded of the uber-awful Stephen King miniseries, Kingdom Hospital, which was based on a Danish TV series called Kingdom.
By all accounts, the Danish original was creepy and well-done, but King's remake was atrocious, and I'm saying this as a dyed-in-the-wool King fangirl who dutifully scurries out to by anything with his name on it. If he put out a breakfast cereal composed of LSD, chunks of concrete, and Paxil, I'd buy it by the boxful and eat it with a beatific smile even as my teeth shattered at the gumline and fell into my milk with a cheery plip. That being said, I couldn't make it past the second episode of the miniseries, and Lord knows I tried.
I can only surmise that King was still floating dreamily along the Oxycodone River when he wrote the screenplay because it was laborious and incoherent, and halfway through the first episode, I wanted to jam a pencil into my ear. Scenes went on forever with no end in sight, and the endless medibabble would have made a pre-med student cry. King forgot all about the tragedy of the Gates Falls Mill and the ghosts who inhabitated the hospital and fixated on the fathomless woe of his accident and the fact that, despite his billions of book sales and status as one of the most revered writers in modern memory, his Art Is Unappreciated By Fusty Old Farts Like Harold Bloom. Woe, o, woe!
Yeah, well...shut the fuck up, O, Exalted One. Really. I tuned in to hear about the Dark and Sinister Past of Kingdom Hospital, not a litany of your real-life injuries in excruciating, tedious detail. And while we're at it, please stop with the constant self-congratulation. I know you're cool. That's why I buy your books. Roll around nekkid in your bed of millions and lap up the adulation of your countless slavering minions and keep the unappreciated, suffering artist schtick to yourself.
Masturbating in public is indecent, you know.
By all accounts, the Danish original was creepy and well-done, but King's remake was atrocious, and I'm saying this as a dyed-in-the-wool King fangirl who dutifully scurries out to by anything with his name on it. If he put out a breakfast cereal composed of LSD, chunks of concrete, and Paxil, I'd buy it by the boxful and eat it with a beatific smile even as my teeth shattered at the gumline and fell into my milk with a cheery plip. That being said, I couldn't make it past the second episode of the miniseries, and Lord knows I tried.
I can only surmise that King was still floating dreamily along the Oxycodone River when he wrote the screenplay because it was laborious and incoherent, and halfway through the first episode, I wanted to jam a pencil into my ear. Scenes went on forever with no end in sight, and the endless medibabble would have made a pre-med student cry. King forgot all about the tragedy of the Gates Falls Mill and the ghosts who inhabitated the hospital and fixated on the fathomless woe of his accident and the fact that, despite his billions of book sales and status as one of the most revered writers in modern memory, his Art Is Unappreciated By Fusty Old Farts Like Harold Bloom. Woe, o, woe!
Yeah, well...shut the fuck up, O, Exalted One. Really. I tuned in to hear about the Dark and Sinister Past of Kingdom Hospital, not a litany of your real-life injuries in excruciating, tedious detail. And while we're at it, please stop with the constant self-congratulation. I know you're cool. That's why I buy your books. Roll around nekkid in your bed of millions and lap up the adulation of your countless slavering minions and keep the unappreciated, suffering artist schtick to yourself.
Masturbating in public is indecent, you know.
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