Yesterday Lynn Harris wrote about a show that I can’t wait to see.
“[Torchwood] is set and shot in a dim, damp Cardiff teeming
not with horny choirgirls — the way I remember Cardiff from a high-school trip
to a music festival — but with the next best thing: extraterrestrial beings who
slip through a rift in space and time that happens to run through the city.
Otherworldly beings walking among us, underground Scooby
gangs, sophisticated humor, imminent apocalypse: yes, Torchwood is Buffy with aliens, Angel
with gadgets, The X-Files with
funny accents.
What sets Torchwood
apart — aside from the team's super-tricked-out underground hideout; this is
not Willow at her Mac, people — is the sex. There is
girl-on-girl-possessed-by-alien-who-feeds-on-human-orgasm action. Sex (with the
same alien) ends with the man actually dissolving to dust.
