I stopped watching Torchwood at the end of the first season, after my toes couldn't take the curling any more. Their stupid, kid's TV set base, their sudden showy bouts of alien sex for no reason, the archly constructed set of characters, and more than anything, the terrible stories – especially the fucking cyberwoman in her fucking cyberbra – took away so much from the newly revived and wonderful Doctor Who that it was better to pretend it wasn't there than engage with it and have it undermine the fun of my favourite TV show. Instead I discovered the joys of The Sarah Jane Adventures, which instead of attempting to make Buffy in Holby was a really great homage to old Doctor Who - quirky, shambolic and occasionally bloody scary, with the odd classic story to warm the cockles.
So, I didn't watch series two of Torchwood or their recent BBC1 mini-series Children of Earth. But it was only when people started to say the magic word Quatermass that I began to get interested in CoE. BBC3 have just repeated the five episodes, and I thought I'd give it a go. And I have to take my hat off to them, never have I seen a programme so improved. The story was brilliant – paedophile junkie aliens demand a tenth of the kids from the planet to incubate chemicals that feel good as the Barry White alien creature gasps orgasmically, and the government weasles its way from spin to Nazism over the curse of the tale (even with the wonderful Peter Capaldi doing a Goebbles and killing his own kids). All the moral dilemma stuff was pushed way beyond the usual TV or movie plots, with Jack topping and tailing the story by handing over a trial run of the kids in the sixties, and then blowing his own grandson up to stop them. The morality was quite revolting and brilliantly explored.
And along the way they've ditched the things that have held this series back. With boring Tosh and sleazy Owen already dispatched, this time it was the turn of Ianto, the man who put the wood into Torchwood, to cop it, and not before time. And they've blown their base up too. In fact, the series ends with the terrific Gwen Cooper beig the only surviving member of Torchwood left on Earth, after Jack understandably jets off for a bit of R&R among the stars.
Jack, of course, remains the weak link. A totally charming character when sweeping Rose Tyler off her feet in 1940s London, renegade Time Agent Jack Harkness has outstayed his welcome on an epic scale - across six series of two TV shows this character has roamed, getting progressively less interesting and sympathetic as each year passes. His costume is as irritating as Colin Baker's terrible outfit, and there's a heartbreaking moment in CoE when Jack has lost his clothes and is finally in civvies, and then stupid fucking Ianto goes and buys him another set of RAF surplus, which was the final nail in the Welshman's coffin for me. Throw the baby out with the bathwater, please!
Russell T. Davies has taken a stupid amount of stick from wanky 'fans' (ie, people who hate Doctor Who but know all about it) who don't seem to appreciate what he's done in bringing back a totally moribund format and making it viable and more popular than ever before. For me, Torchwood has been his big misfire, and The Sarah Jane Adventures his secret triumph. But CoE finally showed what this odd adult sci-fi show could be - not a slash porn version of Doctor Who but a show that takes the legacy of British sci-fi legends John Wyndham and Nigel Kneale and brings it up to date, as he had done in The Second Coming, which was probably the closest thing to CoE he has written thus far.
I didn't want to like it, but there we go, we can't always get what we want. Yes, it's still saddled with the ham, but at least the dead wood had gone, and it thoroughly deserved to be the massive ratings hit it was. I do hope they make some more in this vein, and wave goodbye to the gimmicks which had sat on the series and slowly killed it before our eyes.
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Sunday, 23 August 2009
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Staring into the middle distance
The only sport I enjoy watching on TV is athletics - always have done, whether it's gripping 10,000 metre duels or mind-boggling feats of the jumpers and vaulters. This week has been a real treat. The World Championships in Berlin have been great and the BBC coverage is, as usual, terrific. Partcularly interesting coverage of 18 year old South African 800 metre runner and gold medalist Caster Semenya. The BBC have reported it as an ongoing story throughout these championships, as have all of the news channels that never touch athletics as a story. The difference is, the BBC coverage has been very thorough, fair and analytical - surprisingly so for sports coverage which isn't always the most subtle of beasts.
The BBC athletics panel have been quite brilliant, showing a measured and sympathetic side that pundits don't usually demonstrate. Denise Lewis has been a revelation, furious and compassionate in equal measure against the taxi-driving mentality of most sports coverage and officialdom and for the athlete whose reputation was unnecesarily thrown into dispute hour before she ran rather than out of competition when it would have been much easier for a teenager to deal with. 'In this case we have a girl who has possibly been born with a hormone imbalance, and it's not unheard of that girls of her age have have conflicting hormones. But this society is so lead by what is visually and aesthetically acceptable - stereotypes.' And Colin Jackson wanted to know, 'who's going to apologise to her for all of the rumour and speculation? I hope she just has the heart and desire to stay in this sport which has treated her so badly when she's been so successful.' This story has been a miserable episode in athletics mismanagement, but at least good people are covering this story amid the general media hysteria.
The BBC athletics panel have been quite brilliant, showing a measured and sympathetic side that pundits don't usually demonstrate. Denise Lewis has been a revelation, furious and compassionate in equal measure against the taxi-driving mentality of most sports coverage and officialdom and for the athlete whose reputation was unnecesarily thrown into dispute hour before she ran rather than out of competition when it would have been much easier for a teenager to deal with. 'In this case we have a girl who has possibly been born with a hormone imbalance, and it's not unheard of that girls of her age have have conflicting hormones. But this society is so lead by what is visually and aesthetically acceptable - stereotypes.' And Colin Jackson wanted to know, 'who's going to apologise to her for all of the rumour and speculation? I hope she just has the heart and desire to stay in this sport which has treated her so badly when she's been so successful.' This story has been a miserable episode in athletics mismanagement, but at least good people are covering this story amid the general media hysteria.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Maximum Power!
Last weekend I was cat-sitting for my middle brother and discovered he had three series of Blake's 7 hidden on his bookshelf. I had seen series 1 and 2 in the last five years, but hadn't seen series 3 since it was last repeated in the eighties, so I gave that a go. And I have to say, I still bloody loved it.
I wasn't so much of a fan of the original line-up. Flicky Jenna, boring Gan and vain thesp Blake were better off dead in my book. And one big criticism of series 3 by fans is that it had lost its sense of quest: Blake was always trying to ferment revolution in the first two, and Avon had gone Blake crazy by the 4th, but in the third our anti-heroes seemed happy to potter about playing board games and get tricked into handing the Liberator over to the federation every other story. The thing is, I always thought the quest was a bit boring. I prefered them when they were just arsing about being sneered at by Avon (Paul Darrow doing a similar trick to his peer Tom Baker of delivering his lines quickly and in a monotone so that you always felt you were watching someone a bit other-worldly).
The big treat this season was the arrival of Someone Who Could Really Act. Josette Simon's many glittering post-Blake credits attest to her versatility, but I'm glad the BBC got to her first. Dayna, introduced in the first story of the season, hiding out with her medallion-man dad on a rough old planet covered in horse-riding barbarians, is a deadly weapons expert. Well, she was in this and about two other of the stories this season when they remembered it. But no matter what she was given, Josette was as dignifed as it was possible to be when playing a harp in a dream sequence, arguing with Servalan about who looks best in an assymetric toga or snogging both Avon and Tarrant. Both Dayna and Josette's talents were squandered, but even so it was great having her being sarky and stunningly beautiful on the Liberator – especially when intelligent, strong black women characters were virtually unknown on British telly.
But the next story introduces us to Tarrant, Somone With A Silly Voice. That was Stephen Pacey's big problem, really. Introduced as an alpha-male Blake-a-like, seemingly a Federation trooper till revealed as a naughty bandit, Tarrant spoke like someone taking the piss out of macho men on television. But, unlike Dayna, he gets loads to do. He's always teleporting down and shooting stuff, or arguing with Avon. But he never does anything remotely interesting. Even when, in the penultimate episode of this season, he turns up in a wig as his own brother engaged in a duel to the death with an android, you end up caring more about the brother than you do about Tarrant.
Cally gets tons to do. Like Tarrant, haunted Jan Leeming-lookalike and telepath Cally gets to play her own sibling in a particularly dull story, and then gets possessed in a totally bonkers episode where she ends up dolled up like Florence and the Machine and gets the rest of the crew to do magic tricks and sing. And she also snogs Avon, who is doing rather well out of the ladies this series considering he looks like Blackadder II. Cally also seems to teleport down everywhere despite the fact she's rubbish while trained warrior Dayna is left behind to push buttons and invent bombs she hides in her own mouth (bizarrely).
Vila. Now there was a man after my own heart. Coward, joker, dreamer and utter failure, Vila didn't get to do much ths series other than moan at Orac and Zen, drink green liquid and - oh yes - become leader of the world in one of the best ever stories, City at the Edge of the World. That was the things about series 3 - there wasn't much point, but some of the stories were fantastic. It's tremendously good fun. Well, apart from Volcano, which makes absolutely no sense and has an overuse of terrible stock footage, and Moloch, which has such a spectacularly bad ending that you almost feel dirty for having watched it.
But Avon and Servalan really dominate the season. Avon is rather passive, considering the weakness of the Federation at the start of the season following the intergalactic war, so Servalan does all of the chasing. And she crops up in almost every story, slinking about in her ugly dead baby crocodile spaceship and trying to get her hands on the Liberator. And you can see why - it's bloody cool. Zen is up there with K9 for me as most lamented childhood loss. Considering she's so powerful, Servalan shows she's a very hands-on kinda manager. She's always hiding behind the next door or chained to the wall round the corner. But you get some sense of her importance in the brilliant Rumours of Death, set in a stately home on earth she's had reconstructed, where hoards of guards are protecting her from the rebels. Avon is understandably annoyed that the one woman he ever loved - Anna Grant - turned out to be the Federation's best agent. Still, they get to snog, and he also snogs Servalan twice, turning him into the unlikeliest sex object in the universe. Amazing what a bit of black leather will do.
The finale, Terminal, is bloody brilliant. Very subdued and atmospheric. Avon off on a mysterious mission, thinks he's found Blake, oops, no, it's Servalan again, natch. The Liberator takes a bath in some corrosive fungi which basically covers the whole ship with snot and kills it. And when Servalan finally gets her manicured nails on it the whole thing immediately blows up around her. What an ending! And what a fun series. I haven't even got round to the giant brain or the fetuses. This was made at the same time as Tom Baker was having a high old time with his Mrs, Lalla Ward, on the budget and strike-hit fag end of his residency in the Tardis, and it shows - there's the same degree of shambolic production values and plotting-by-numbers going on by both Douglas Adams at Doctor Who and Chris Boucher at Blake's 7. But in the end, both of them turned out some glorious stuff, hugely entertaining successes and failures that lit up my childhood and made me the nerdy telly addict I am today. Thank god my brother had the boxed set. Now I want season 4!
I wasn't so much of a fan of the original line-up. Flicky Jenna, boring Gan and vain thesp Blake were better off dead in my book. And one big criticism of series 3 by fans is that it had lost its sense of quest: Blake was always trying to ferment revolution in the first two, and Avon had gone Blake crazy by the 4th, but in the third our anti-heroes seemed happy to potter about playing board games and get tricked into handing the Liberator over to the federation every other story. The thing is, I always thought the quest was a bit boring. I prefered them when they were just arsing about being sneered at by Avon (Paul Darrow doing a similar trick to his peer Tom Baker of delivering his lines quickly and in a monotone so that you always felt you were watching someone a bit other-worldly).
The big treat this season was the arrival of Someone Who Could Really Act. Josette Simon's many glittering post-Blake credits attest to her versatility, but I'm glad the BBC got to her first. Dayna, introduced in the first story of the season, hiding out with her medallion-man dad on a rough old planet covered in horse-riding barbarians, is a deadly weapons expert. Well, she was in this and about two other of the stories this season when they remembered it. But no matter what she was given, Josette was as dignifed as it was possible to be when playing a harp in a dream sequence, arguing with Servalan about who looks best in an assymetric toga or snogging both Avon and Tarrant. Both Dayna and Josette's talents were squandered, but even so it was great having her being sarky and stunningly beautiful on the Liberator – especially when intelligent, strong black women characters were virtually unknown on British telly.
But the next story introduces us to Tarrant, Somone With A Silly Voice. That was Stephen Pacey's big problem, really. Introduced as an alpha-male Blake-a-like, seemingly a Federation trooper till revealed as a naughty bandit, Tarrant spoke like someone taking the piss out of macho men on television. But, unlike Dayna, he gets loads to do. He's always teleporting down and shooting stuff, or arguing with Avon. But he never does anything remotely interesting. Even when, in the penultimate episode of this season, he turns up in a wig as his own brother engaged in a duel to the death with an android, you end up caring more about the brother than you do about Tarrant.
Cally gets tons to do. Like Tarrant, haunted Jan Leeming-lookalike and telepath Cally gets to play her own sibling in a particularly dull story, and then gets possessed in a totally bonkers episode where she ends up dolled up like Florence and the Machine and gets the rest of the crew to do magic tricks and sing. And she also snogs Avon, who is doing rather well out of the ladies this series considering he looks like Blackadder II. Cally also seems to teleport down everywhere despite the fact she's rubbish while trained warrior Dayna is left behind to push buttons and invent bombs she hides in her own mouth (bizarrely).
Vila. Now there was a man after my own heart. Coward, joker, dreamer and utter failure, Vila didn't get to do much ths series other than moan at Orac and Zen, drink green liquid and - oh yes - become leader of the world in one of the best ever stories, City at the Edge of the World. That was the things about series 3 - there wasn't much point, but some of the stories were fantastic. It's tremendously good fun. Well, apart from Volcano, which makes absolutely no sense and has an overuse of terrible stock footage, and Moloch, which has such a spectacularly bad ending that you almost feel dirty for having watched it.
But Avon and Servalan really dominate the season. Avon is rather passive, considering the weakness of the Federation at the start of the season following the intergalactic war, so Servalan does all of the chasing. And she crops up in almost every story, slinking about in her ugly dead baby crocodile spaceship and trying to get her hands on the Liberator. And you can see why - it's bloody cool. Zen is up there with K9 for me as most lamented childhood loss. Considering she's so powerful, Servalan shows she's a very hands-on kinda manager. She's always hiding behind the next door or chained to the wall round the corner. But you get some sense of her importance in the brilliant Rumours of Death, set in a stately home on earth she's had reconstructed, where hoards of guards are protecting her from the rebels. Avon is understandably annoyed that the one woman he ever loved - Anna Grant - turned out to be the Federation's best agent. Still, they get to snog, and he also snogs Servalan twice, turning him into the unlikeliest sex object in the universe. Amazing what a bit of black leather will do.
The finale, Terminal, is bloody brilliant. Very subdued and atmospheric. Avon off on a mysterious mission, thinks he's found Blake, oops, no, it's Servalan again, natch. The Liberator takes a bath in some corrosive fungi which basically covers the whole ship with snot and kills it. And when Servalan finally gets her manicured nails on it the whole thing immediately blows up around her. What an ending! And what a fun series. I haven't even got round to the giant brain or the fetuses. This was made at the same time as Tom Baker was having a high old time with his Mrs, Lalla Ward, on the budget and strike-hit fag end of his residency in the Tardis, and it shows - there's the same degree of shambolic production values and plotting-by-numbers going on by both Douglas Adams at Doctor Who and Chris Boucher at Blake's 7. But in the end, both of them turned out some glorious stuff, hugely entertaining successes and failures that lit up my childhood and made me the nerdy telly addict I am today. Thank god my brother had the boxed set. Now I want season 4!
Monday, 3 August 2009
Donatella like it is
Rupert Everett has decided to do the honourable public school gay thing, and pretend to be an expert about something. He's chosen Byron, mainly because it allows him to say 'fucking' a lot while wearing trackies on a gondola, much as his last subject, Sir Richard Burton, allowed him to do the same in bedouin tents.
Essentially, he's choosing subjects that allow him to talk about hedonistic sex ad nauseum. And the nausea does come, in this case while he's having a tenuously Byronic gonorrhea test. Still, he rolls out the experts: historians, fancy dress costumiers and Donatella Versace, who nods while Rupes drones on about Caroline Lamb and then asks whether Byron should have had therapy. Good point, Donzi.
This documentary is like a someone paraphrasing the vainglorious and innacurate Byron scholars in Stoppard's play Arcadia in the manner of Cher from Clueless. It would have been brilliant as a Kath and Kim-style comedy, but sadly he really meant all this stuff. Even the hideously patronising rent-a-camp ending in a bingo hall. Poor old Oscar is next, I fear.
Essentially, he's choosing subjects that allow him to talk about hedonistic sex ad nauseum. And the nausea does come, in this case while he's having a tenuously Byronic gonorrhea test. Still, he rolls out the experts: historians, fancy dress costumiers and Donatella Versace, who nods while Rupes drones on about Caroline Lamb and then asks whether Byron should have had therapy. Good point, Donzi.
This documentary is like a someone paraphrasing the vainglorious and innacurate Byron scholars in Stoppard's play Arcadia in the manner of Cher from Clueless. It would have been brilliant as a Kath and Kim-style comedy, but sadly he really meant all this stuff. Even the hideously patronising rent-a-camp ending in a bingo hall. Poor old Oscar is next, I fear.
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