Doctor Horrible’s Sing Along Blog is a musical, the story of an evil scientist, with a freeze ray, who yearns to join the horse-led Evil League of Evil, who aches to right the wrongs of our status quo (which is certainly not quo), and who desperately, earnestly loves the local Laundromat lady with a bumbling, mumbling, nerdish passion.
And just you wait until Doctor Horrible bursts into song about his freeze ray and forlorn romance—it will charm you, disarm you, and alarm you to the fact that you’re witnessing something honest and brave: sheer, unadulterated genius of the purest kind, I swear it.
Doctor Horrible—tragically flawed, played by Neil Patrick Harris—is a hopeless romantic, a man of altruistic intention; you’re going to root for Dr. Horrible (who has a PhD is horribleness) with your mind, soul, and body. His unfortunate disposition is right on par with that of Sophocles’ Oedipus.
Nemesis to Doctor Horrible: Captain Hammer (Nathan Fillion). He’s a t-shirt wearing meathead. A narcissistic superhero turned antagonist. A bigger fuckface dipshit than Steinbeck’s Curley. I hate him.
Then there is Penny. Flying Christ in the sky, I love Penny more than Twinkies. And I love Twinkies, I’ll tell you one goddamned thing, Constant Blogger. Penny, played by the ephemerally gorgeous Felicia Day (for whom I harbor an undying and creepy stalker-love—really, would do anything under the wide blue sky to see her naked), is innocent and genuine to a fault, à la Shakespeare’s Cordelia.
Yes, you read all that just right, thank you.
Sophocles, Steinbeck, Shakespeare…Whedon.
I compared ‘em, and if you don’t like it, suck me: I’m an English teacher.
Like I said, boys and girls: genius of the purest kind.
Whoa.
Okay, wait.
Back it up.
Hold the phone.
Throw her into reverse, Mac.
Does this actually sound like some sort of ridiculous lark to you?
Something not worth forty minutes of your ever-so-valuable time?
Stop it, douche.
Cease your pretentious nay-saying, you pontificating cheese dick, and pull that bulbous head out of your ass (which, I assure you, does not excrete flower-smelling shit) and grab a listen before you judge.
Does the word genius make you uncomfortable when associated with a goofy evil scientist played by one ex-Doogie Houser M.D.? Are you pondering the conundrum of how a forty minute internet video with the words sing along in the title could be—gasp!—genius?
Well, let me tell you a little thing or two about genius, Constant Blogger. When I say genius, I don’t mean highfalutin garbage—the kind of trite story that the critics finger their goatees at and say, “Hrm, indeed, quite dignified yet astute.” No, no. You can stow thoughts of that sort of douche-baggery this very living instant. Sure, I sit here and compare the characters of Sing Along to those of great “literature,” but those great stories weren’t highfalutin either, weren’t trying to be something they couldn’t be—in other words, those stories, written by Sophocles and Steinbeck and Shakespeare, were written for the peasantry (us), the down-to-earth mundanes, and they were written for fun.
And that’s what I mean when I say genius: fun. Something honest and heartfelt and relatable and all-too-rare nowadays (what with reality TV and other such bullshit clogging our modern story forums). I’m talking about something that transcends the everyday bounds of an everyday story and delivers something you don’t expect from humble origins.
Watching this—God, I’m not even sure what to call it…a pseudo movie, a blog?—made me feel jealousy, indignant outrage, gleeful levity, and the sort of sadness that makes your guts feel as though some bastard twirled your intestines up on a giant fork like spaghetti. The full spectrum of human emotion, all in forty minutes.
Trust me, Constant Blogger, you’ve got to check this because if you don’t, you’re going to miss out, and all the kids at school will make fun of you.
Okay.
Enough.
I’m done humping your ear with my opinions.
High time you click play and experience this delightful story for yourself.
