A couple of years back I had the absolute pleasure of meeting one of the best TV writers there's been: David Nobbs. He created The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, A Bit of a Do and Fairly Secret Army among others, and was a regular contributor to all of the satire boom sketch shows right through to The Two Ronnies. It was at a book reading, and he was incredibly interesting, talking through his career highs and lows and giving advice about how to write and what makes a joke work.
It is, of course, Perrin that he shall remain known for, and rightly so. He created an archetype of the mid-life crisis executive that we all on some level can sympathise with. Certainly even as a small kid watching it I felt that I understood Reggie's plight: the bullying, the tedium, the fantasies, the increasing inability to control himself, the desire for re-invention and violent change. My dad was a car mechanic, not an office worker, and the whole situation was alien to me, but for some reason this crazed, unhappy and very, very funny man struck a chord and I find that thirty years later I'm still obsessed with him. Reggie is my role model: I am a middle-aged office worker trapped in a routine and a lovely suburban existence, and part of my brain is desperate to leave my clothes on a beach and start again. My heart breaks whenever I hear him do his doomed, drunken speech 'Are We Getting Our Just Desserts?'. I went to just such a godawful and pointless conference today, and it brought it all flooding back to me:
'We are told that we need more growth: 6% per year. More chemicals to cure more pollution, caused by more chemicals. More car parks for more tourists who want to get away from more car parks. More food, to make us more fat, to make us use more slimming aids, to make us take pills, to make us ill, to make us take more pills, to make more profit. More boring speakers, making more boring speeches, at more boring conferences. But what has all this growth done for me? Well, I'll tell you. One day I'll die, and on my grave it will say: "Here lies Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. He didn't know the names of the trees and the flowers, but he knew the rhubarb crumble sales figures for Schleswig Holstein."'
Apparently Nobbs is working on a new version of Perrin with Simon Nye, to star Martin Clunes. I have mixed feelings about this. I want a new generation to discover Reggie, especially at the moment, when like the seventies, everything is crumbling around us. His story is timeless and shouldn't be put away in a box along with the Bay City Rollers and the three day week. However, the original series must surely be definitive? Leonard Rossiter is a thousand times more heartbreaking than your average tearjerker and has a harsh quality which Clunes does not possess. In my head I'm seeing him as less the sharp, birdlike Perrin of yore than a lumbering annoyed bear. Of course, Clunes may be brilliant, and I hope he is, as Perrin, and David Nobbs, deserve nothing less.
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Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Monday, 30 March 2009
Fuck off, The Wire
'It's so clever, it's so complex, it's so grown-up.'
It's for people who are too pretentious to watch actual telly. Let's not forget, Buffy was doing this shit - with laughs to boot - before DVD boxed sets even existed.
It's for people who are too pretentious to watch actual telly. Let's not forget, Buffy was doing this shit - with laughs to boot - before DVD boxed sets even existed.
Young Mums' Mansion, or The House of Mardy Tearaways
I watched (and was hugely moved by) the last series of this, much more than I was expecting to be. It came along as I was still mourning Dr Tanya's flight from The House of Tiny Tearaways, the most compulsive psychology programme on telly in the last decade, cunningly dressed up as a toddler training show. The basic premise of YMM is you get ten single mums and their kids, stick them in a big house and put each mum in charge in turn and watch them break down over the period of a month. The twist in the new series: half of the single mums are in fact single dads.
Simone is the first one in charge, she of tiny daughter, teenage son and a chip on her shoulder about men which will only increase during the episode. Her plan is to segregate the house, send the women out on lovely day trips while the single dads deal with child care and housework. Her plan is initially derided by the men, who feel justifiably victimised by her assumptions about them as lazy, feckless no-hopers. As the alpha female she was always going to come into conflict with the alpha male, ludicrous pocket ex-cage fighter Lee who can't stop himself slagging off women at every turn and bragging about the affairs which ended his marriage. Simone, with cruel accuracy, puts his complaints down to short man syndrome, which was the only moment in the episode when I felt for her. Well that, and the bit when she was being savaged by the other mums and dads at the end for her reign of shit.
It all starts to unravel for Simone when she couldn't get up in time to dress her daughter for the school run, and so cue the kind of sad piano music you get on Australian soaps when teenagers go to the beach to think things over. And she causes a scandal in the house by going back to bed and shirking her responsibilities as leader for the entire day. Isaac, her teenage son, is growing into a thoughtful and melancholy lad who wants to know who his father is. His well rehearsed plea is ignored by Simone, who decides to take advantage of his good nature by deciding that 'if I don't say anything he won't ask again'. And she's right, and all our tortured teen can do is cuddle her in case she is upset by his timid enquiry.
As with the Tiny Tearaways it's always much more painful for the adults, and the final reckoning is difficult to watch as all of the parents come together to slag Simone in the feedback section. Lee, hideous David Brent-style prick that he is, gives her the kind of feedback that shit managers give their staff, full of meaningless motivational buzzwords. It is for dad Oscar, the Obi Wan of the house, to try to make sense of Isaac's demands, and to confront Simone about her treatment of her son. But in a moment of brilliant emotional blackmail she throws it back at them that no-one has the right to talk to her impressionable son about the topic of his dad, and even Lee ends up looking guiltily at his feet.
I'm sure I'm going to end up shouting 'you fucking bitch', 'piss off', and 'dirty liar!' at the screen like I did last year. And I'll probably cry a bit too. But it's good telly, is Young Mums' Mansion, and makes you think for a minute about the plight of hard-pressed folk laughed off as pramface chavs by people with more money and education than sense or decency.
Simone is the first one in charge, she of tiny daughter, teenage son and a chip on her shoulder about men which will only increase during the episode. Her plan is to segregate the house, send the women out on lovely day trips while the single dads deal with child care and housework. Her plan is initially derided by the men, who feel justifiably victimised by her assumptions about them as lazy, feckless no-hopers. As the alpha female she was always going to come into conflict with the alpha male, ludicrous pocket ex-cage fighter Lee who can't stop himself slagging off women at every turn and bragging about the affairs which ended his marriage. Simone, with cruel accuracy, puts his complaints down to short man syndrome, which was the only moment in the episode when I felt for her. Well that, and the bit when she was being savaged by the other mums and dads at the end for her reign of shit.
It all starts to unravel for Simone when she couldn't get up in time to dress her daughter for the school run, and so cue the kind of sad piano music you get on Australian soaps when teenagers go to the beach to think things over. And she causes a scandal in the house by going back to bed and shirking her responsibilities as leader for the entire day. Isaac, her teenage son, is growing into a thoughtful and melancholy lad who wants to know who his father is. His well rehearsed plea is ignored by Simone, who decides to take advantage of his good nature by deciding that 'if I don't say anything he won't ask again'. And she's right, and all our tortured teen can do is cuddle her in case she is upset by his timid enquiry.
As with the Tiny Tearaways it's always much more painful for the adults, and the final reckoning is difficult to watch as all of the parents come together to slag Simone in the feedback section. Lee, hideous David Brent-style prick that he is, gives her the kind of feedback that shit managers give their staff, full of meaningless motivational buzzwords. It is for dad Oscar, the Obi Wan of the house, to try to make sense of Isaac's demands, and to confront Simone about her treatment of her son. But in a moment of brilliant emotional blackmail she throws it back at them that no-one has the right to talk to her impressionable son about the topic of his dad, and even Lee ends up looking guiltily at his feet.
I'm sure I'm going to end up shouting 'you fucking bitch', 'piss off', and 'dirty liar!' at the screen like I did last year. And I'll probably cry a bit too. But it's good telly, is Young Mums' Mansion, and makes you think for a minute about the plight of hard-pressed folk laughed off as pramface chavs by people with more money and education than sense or decency.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Aces High
Yesterday (UKTV History to me and you) have been repeating the House of Cards trilogy, and I've just finished watching the first installment. This was made and broadcast when I was at university and I didn't pay it much attention the first time round, though I remember it coinciding with Thatcher's unexpected demise and the Conservative leadership election, which must have been a dream for the schedulers.
Michael Dobbs's books are famously terrible, but dramatist extraordinaire Andrew Davies turned them into something much darker, filthier and more twisted. Given that Davies is better known for his adaptations of great classics by Austen and Dickens, god only knows what he must have thought when he was asked to adapt this. The money must have been good. But also, he saw something in it that he could twist into an entirely different sort of story. So, Urquart becomes more Machiavellian and speaks to the camera, Mattie Storin gets engaged in a rather pervy affair with him ('call me Daddy' is SUCH a Davies line, that man is pure, glorious filth), and crucially, he kills Mattie at the end rather than having Urquart commit suicide, which must have been a decision Dobbs has thanked Davies for a thousand times, as it allowed him to toss off a couple of sequels.
It's funny watching dramas set in the late eighties/turn of the nineties that are made now: all of the period features are exaggerated. The 1990 London of House of Cards is a grey, cheerless city without a pair of red braces or an acid house party in sight. The nearest we get to any sign of age is that there are no women in high office, no-one uses a mobile phone and Mattie has a touch of grunge about her, with her unkempt hair and sturdy boots. Having said that, Courtney Love she ain't, and Suzannah Harker's sheer wholesomeness (she went on to play sensible Jane in Davies's adaptation of Pride and Prejudice) is part of what makes her dangerous liason with Ian Richardson all the more of an eye-opener.
Ian Richardson as Francis Urquart. The most delicious performance you could hope to see. He gets every tiny nuance and expression so spot-on that you never for a moment doubt that this psychopath will make it to number ten no matter who he has to kill to do it. Watching this old man seduce that young girl, only to fling her from the roof garden of the Houses of Parliament is pretty spectacular stuff for a BBC1 drama. And even the smaller roles, particularly Colin Jeavons's lizard-like whip Tim Stamper (another of Davies's creations) and Alphonsia Emmanuel's tragic Penny Guy are terrific.
This has really stood the test of time as a piece of TV drama - it's outrageous, camp, revolting and hilarious, and well worth another watch. The perverted brother of Yes Minister? You might very well think that, I could not possibly comment.
Michael Dobbs's books are famously terrible, but dramatist extraordinaire Andrew Davies turned them into something much darker, filthier and more twisted. Given that Davies is better known for his adaptations of great classics by Austen and Dickens, god only knows what he must have thought when he was asked to adapt this. The money must have been good. But also, he saw something in it that he could twist into an entirely different sort of story. So, Urquart becomes more Machiavellian and speaks to the camera, Mattie Storin gets engaged in a rather pervy affair with him ('call me Daddy' is SUCH a Davies line, that man is pure, glorious filth), and crucially, he kills Mattie at the end rather than having Urquart commit suicide, which must have been a decision Dobbs has thanked Davies for a thousand times, as it allowed him to toss off a couple of sequels.
It's funny watching dramas set in the late eighties/turn of the nineties that are made now: all of the period features are exaggerated. The 1990 London of House of Cards is a grey, cheerless city without a pair of red braces or an acid house party in sight. The nearest we get to any sign of age is that there are no women in high office, no-one uses a mobile phone and Mattie has a touch of grunge about her, with her unkempt hair and sturdy boots. Having said that, Courtney Love she ain't, and Suzannah Harker's sheer wholesomeness (she went on to play sensible Jane in Davies's adaptation of Pride and Prejudice) is part of what makes her dangerous liason with Ian Richardson all the more of an eye-opener.
Ian Richardson as Francis Urquart. The most delicious performance you could hope to see. He gets every tiny nuance and expression so spot-on that you never for a moment doubt that this psychopath will make it to number ten no matter who he has to kill to do it. Watching this old man seduce that young girl, only to fling her from the roof garden of the Houses of Parliament is pretty spectacular stuff for a BBC1 drama. And even the smaller roles, particularly Colin Jeavons's lizard-like whip Tim Stamper (another of Davies's creations) and Alphonsia Emmanuel's tragic Penny Guy are terrific.
This has really stood the test of time as a piece of TV drama - it's outrageous, camp, revolting and hilarious, and well worth another watch. The perverted brother of Yes Minister? You might very well think that, I could not possibly comment.
News just in: Friends still sucks
Friends. That nineties American dream of tediously kooky white people drinking coffee and spewing a relentless barrage of smug one-liners just won't go away. As if constant repeats and threats of a film (surely more likely now that Sex and the City made the leap) aren't bad enough the cast keep trying to have careers outside of their sterile little bubble. Lisa Kudrow was the only one I liked, and she's secured an indie film afterlife for herself. The gawky one now wants to be in Lost, the stupid one had his own (thankfully doomed) spin-off for a while and the one with the hairdo spends her life on various high profile chat-shows and press junkets telling the media to leave her alone as she's a very private person.
But the really evil one was Ross. Ross. To be spat with all of the venom of Pauline from the League of Gentlemen. Ross. Not content to boil in the ooze of his own shitness he's now doing serious damage to the career of Simon Pegg, delightfully funny star of Spaced, and latterly two godawful films with David Schwimmer - Big Nothing, in which they co-starred, and the truly witless Run Fatboy Run, which Schwimmer directed. Someone needs to stop Ross before he brings down other British sitcom stars with his ham-fisted comedy ways.
One thing particularly struck me today as I watched the Corrie omnibus (bit of a leap, stay with me). Harish Patel, who gave an unwatchable and inexplicable performance in Run Fatboy Run as the supposedly comedy landlord is currently giving a sweet, funny turn as Umed in Corrie alongside the constantly insane Dev. Who's to blame for this discrepancy in Patel's performance? Ross. And proof, if it were needed, of the superiority of Corrie over Friends any day of the week.
But the really evil one was Ross. Ross. To be spat with all of the venom of Pauline from the League of Gentlemen. Ross. Not content to boil in the ooze of his own shitness he's now doing serious damage to the career of Simon Pegg, delightfully funny star of Spaced, and latterly two godawful films with David Schwimmer - Big Nothing, in which they co-starred, and the truly witless Run Fatboy Run, which Schwimmer directed. Someone needs to stop Ross before he brings down other British sitcom stars with his ham-fisted comedy ways.
One thing particularly struck me today as I watched the Corrie omnibus (bit of a leap, stay with me). Harish Patel, who gave an unwatchable and inexplicable performance in Run Fatboy Run as the supposedly comedy landlord is currently giving a sweet, funny turn as Umed in Corrie alongside the constantly insane Dev. Who's to blame for this discrepancy in Patel's performance? Ross. And proof, if it were needed, of the superiority of Corrie over Friends any day of the week.
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Being even more Human
So, there's just been the 'making of' documentary, Being Human: Unearthed, and now they're repeating the first three episodes, for 'tis BBC3's Being Human night.
I was worried when Being Human and Red Riding both finished earlier this month. What would replace them in my affections? Ten Years Younger with Myleene Klass and Moving Wallpaper? Not quite. But luckily for me, as it was made by cash-strapped BBC3, Being Human will be repeated every month for the rest of that channel's existence, and I'll keep stumbling across little gems like: 'A-positive: a bit Jacob's Creeky for my taste...' as I surf about looking for something that doesn't make me feel violent.
Being Human has a remarkably good cast. And I'm not just saying that cos I fancy Russell Tovey. After all, I'm more of a Gilbert kinda guy. I actually bumped into one of the actors, the woman who plays Nina, at a play recently. She was, in the words of a work friend, almost medically short. It must be the oddest thing for actors, getting involved in 'cult telly'. The obsessiveness of geeks (like me) and the cynicism of TV companies means that the acting is the least of their priorities: there's DVD commentaries, interactive online episodes, idents and behind the scenes documentaries to record before they even get to conventions in the Ramada in Hemel Hempstead and SFX interviews for the rest of their lives.
I was worried when Being Human and Red Riding both finished earlier this month. What would replace them in my affections? Ten Years Younger with Myleene Klass and Moving Wallpaper? Not quite. But luckily for me, as it was made by cash-strapped BBC3, Being Human will be repeated every month for the rest of that channel's existence, and I'll keep stumbling across little gems like: 'A-positive: a bit Jacob's Creeky for my taste...' as I surf about looking for something that doesn't make me feel violent.
Being Human has a remarkably good cast. And I'm not just saying that cos I fancy Russell Tovey. After all, I'm more of a Gilbert kinda guy. I actually bumped into one of the actors, the woman who plays Nina, at a play recently. She was, in the words of a work friend, almost medically short. It must be the oddest thing for actors, getting involved in 'cult telly'. The obsessiveness of geeks (like me) and the cynicism of TV companies means that the acting is the least of their priorities: there's DVD commentaries, interactive online episodes, idents and behind the scenes documentaries to record before they even get to conventions in the Ramada in Hemel Hempstead and SFX interviews for the rest of their lives.
Primeval goes rogue
I happen to love Primeval. I know, I know, it's like admitting to a sexual fetish for John McCririck. Last year it rebooted itself by jumping through an anomaly into a completely different version of Earth, seemingly so that all the characters could just be a bit cooler. This year it's started merging Egyptology with dinosaurs, which has set off my StargateSense (basically inducing nausea and shaking).
Abby appears to have got the London Look from Rimmell, sleeping in more black eye shadow than Rameses himself, but let's hope Connor can shake off both his Pete Doherty wardrobe and the slight whiff that's followed him of being a young Neil Morrissey. Still, they've introduced a couple of newbies to sex it up: Sarah Page and Captain Becker: a pair of svelte, pouty and highly unlikely types. So far she's acted him off the screen. Here's hoping he improves or gets eaten by a gorgonopsid.
No doubt about it, this season looks way more ambitious than previous ones: more action and adventure, a bit of Indiana Jones and Unit from Dr Who thrown in, neither of which are bad things in my book. And this episode was much less reliant on Nick's moralising and pining for Claudia Brown than the last season, which it bloody well needed to be. We want an hour of dinosaurs eating children and stamping on Renault Clios, not Nick Cutter furrowing his brow and being tortured about plot twists from two seasons ago.
Of course, it needs lots more of mad, evil Helen, the Servalan du jour with her heaving bosom and prehistoric grooming regime, to assure my full engagement. Sure, it's not The Wire, but if it were I probably wouldn't be watching it...
Abby appears to have got the London Look from Rimmell, sleeping in more black eye shadow than Rameses himself, but let's hope Connor can shake off both his Pete Doherty wardrobe and the slight whiff that's followed him of being a young Neil Morrissey. Still, they've introduced a couple of newbies to sex it up: Sarah Page and Captain Becker: a pair of svelte, pouty and highly unlikely types. So far she's acted him off the screen. Here's hoping he improves or gets eaten by a gorgonopsid.
No doubt about it, this season looks way more ambitious than previous ones: more action and adventure, a bit of Indiana Jones and Unit from Dr Who thrown in, neither of which are bad things in my book. And this episode was much less reliant on Nick's moralising and pining for Claudia Brown than the last season, which it bloody well needed to be. We want an hour of dinosaurs eating children and stamping on Renault Clios, not Nick Cutter furrowing his brow and being tortured about plot twists from two seasons ago.
Of course, it needs lots more of mad, evil Helen, the Servalan du jour with her heaving bosom and prehistoric grooming regime, to assure my full engagement. Sure, it's not The Wire, but if it were I probably wouldn't be watching it...
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