TV REVIEW. SUNTRAP and WHEN POP RULED MY LIFE

A version of this review was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 30th May 2015.

http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle

SunTrap: Wednesday, BBC One

When Pop Ruled My Life: The Fans' Story: Friday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

Very occasionally a sitcom comes along that's so unremittingly poor, it seems inconceivable that it ever reached our screens at all. SunTrap is one such turkey.

Here's what we're lumbered with. Kayvan Novak stars as Woody, a smooth, wise-cracking undercover journalist who flees to a Spanish island after exposing an establishment scandal back home. There he shacks up with a roguish ex-colleague (Bradley Walsh), with whom he shares a supposedly sparkling odd couple relationship. Dismal escapades ensue.

Common sense dictates that SunTrap was written by humans, but it feels more like the result of an alien study into the earthling concept of humour. It's superficially bright and breezy, yet oddly robotic. The actors deliver self-consciously “funny” performances, as if desperately trying to compensate for the mediocre script. Every tortuous line sounds like an off-key cover version of an actual joke, e.g. “Something smelled fishy at the vets. But it was a vets, so it could've been fish.”

Even as a deliberately corny gag, that doesn't work. The whole sorry enterprise clunks and groans like a knackered laughing policeman, dying a death before your very eyes.

The executives who commissioned this? They have no business being anywhere near comedy. I'm not exaggerating for comic effect. This isn't ha-ha-hilarious comic hyperbole. These clueless execs - W1A is barely exaggerated - don't have a slack-jawed clue. Register your protest by never tuning into insulting crap like this. Bother them on Twitter. Irk them on Facebook. Don't let them off the hook. Fight the power.

This misbegotten drivel is obviously intended as a mainstream vehicle for the versatile Novak, hence why Woody is a master of disguise. But the sight of him flailing through his armoury of accents – Russian, Scottish, outrageous French – recalls one of those sad, later Peter Sellers films. Funny voices are no substitute for solid material.

Despite being a timid, uncertain actor when divested of his disguises, Novak deserves better. As does Jack Dee, who turned up in a thankless cameo. How was he roped into this? Presumably by accident and with immense regret.

It doesn't help that Woody, far from being a charming scamp, is a searing pain in the rump. Like SunTrap as a whole, he's undeservedly pleased with himself. Continually it mistakes “talking quickly” for witty repartee, while forgetting that silly, threadbare plots only work when supported by clever gags. Of the two main female characters, one is a monstrous battleaxe, the other a blandly glamorous moll. In terms of gender politics, it makes On the Buses look like His Girl Friday.

Even the scenery looks embarrassed. How much money was wasted on this shite? That BBC One have buried it in a graveyard slot speaks volumes.

Whenever TV turns its gaze towards avid fans and collectors of pop culture, they're usually treated as figures of fun to be sniggered at. Thankfully, When Pop Ruled My Life: The Fans' Story took a more affectionate tone.

A documentary hosted, without a hint of cynicism, by the music journalist Kate Mossman, it was an elegant and sometimes bitter-sweet celebration of the ongoing relationship between pop fans and their idols.

Original Beatlemaniacs, teenage One Direction fans, a former Boy George lookalike and a snowy-haired rocker with a shed full of Iron Maiden treasures, all were treated equally. Though separated by taste and generations, they were united in a common understanding of what it means to care so deeply about an artist.

Mossman, whose teenage diaries devoted to Queen drummer Roger Taylor formed a charming through-line, clearly empathised. She also spoke to objects of fandom such as Les McKeown of The Bay City Rollers, a former teen-scream idol whose gratitude towards his loyal fans felt hearteningly genuine.

Hero worship cuts both ways. Here, for once, was a tender tribute to that complex mutual dependency.

TV Review: RUNNING UP THAT HILL: THE KATE BUSH STORY

This article was originally published in The Courier on 23rd August 2014.

http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle

The Kate Bush Story: Running Up That Hill: Friday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

In keeping with her status as an elusive living legend, Kate Bush was satisfyingly absent from her own documentary tribute last night. Having largely shunned media attention for the last 20 years, during which she's released just two albums of original material, seeing her pop up on BBC Four to cheerfully pick over her life and career would've rather dented her mystique.

Instead, her only contributions to The Kate Bush Story: Running Up That Hill came via archive footage and, of course, examples of her unique artistry. Believe me, I don't use such terms promiscuously. Unique, original, iconoclastic, maverick: these adjectives are oft overused and abused. I creep upon the word 'genius' as one might approach a hammer-wielding Boris Johnston. But how else to describe an artist who sounds like no one else before or, blatant imitators aside, since?

As correctly pointed out by Elton John, who was just one of many celebrity fans queuing up to sing her praises, Kate Bush is hardly your average million-selling art-pop songwriter. “They're not normal songs,” he said, almost in awe, like a craftsman examining a bizarrely imaginative sculpture with envious admiration.

Elsewhere, author Neil Gaiman described her work, lovingly, as “book music”, a point proven quite literally (no pun intended) by the likes of Wuthering Heights and the James Joyce-influenced The Sensual World. Steve Coogan, a Byron quote never far from his lips, cut to the chase by stating, “Liking her makes you feel a bit clever.”

Delivered by non-musicians, both quotes were rather telling. As evinced by his self-mocking turns in The Trip et al, Coogan is entirely aware of his own pretentiousness and elitist tendencies. Perhaps more than any other contributor – in a roster including Peter Gabriel, John Lydon, Brett Anderson of Suede, and popular Kate Bush tribute act Tori Amos – his comments tapped into Bush's singular appeal: yes, she's literate and arty, but her eccentric sense of humour – that controlled yet natural 'madness' – is what elevates her above mere po-faced experimentalism.

It's a pity, then, that the programme occasionally veered into Pseud's Corner territory. I welcomed the lack of patronising narration – replaced instead by the occasional explanatory caption – and I don't doubt the sincerity of her gushing apostles. But one could easily picture Bush chortling along at home, both flattered and amused by such blanket fealty. Presumably aware of this, the director pointedly closed with a gently ribald quote from Coogan to puncture the often church-like drift of the preceding 60 minutes.

Nevertheless, the level of insight from our esteemed talking heads was, at its best, of a higher standard than your average hagiography. The worshipful tone was a bit much at times, but we should all be thankful for the dearth of clueless hack comedians spluttering, “Babooshka? What were all that about?!”

Yes, the borderline comedic aspects of her early, flailing, leotard-clad persona were fleetingly acknowledged, albeit placed fairly in the context of a young and exceptionally talented prodigy in the grip of wild expression. In any case, the point was neatly made that an artist as – that word again – unique as Bush was a gift for impressionists. Such is the small, amusing price you pay for daring to be different.

Given the circumstances, it was a classy, affectionate tribute to an admirably private subject.

TV Review: MAMMON and INSPECTOR DE LUCA

This article was originally published in The Courier on 29th March 2014.

http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle

Mammon: Friday, More4

Inspector De Luca: Saturday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

Home to cult hits such as The Killing and The Bridge, BBC Four is the crime-sodden kingdom of gloomy Nordic noir. So it's little wonder that their rivals have recently tried to grab some of that subtitled treasure for themselves. After all, these quality imports are relatively cheap to acquire, but very popular among discerning viewers. It's the sort of equation that TV executives drool over.

Channel 4 gambled wisely when they aired French supernatural drama The Returned, which turned out to be one of the TV highlights of 2013. Flushed with that success, they now give us Mammon, an intriguing Norwegian thriller about journalistic integrity versus corporate corruption.

Our hero is investigative journalist Peter Veras, who uncovers evidence of fraud involving Norway's elite. Unperturbed by the fact that one of the alleged fraudsters is his own brother – they hardly seemed close – he ploughed on with the story in spite of a police report claiming that no crimes had been committed.

But why did his brother resign? And if Peter really is such a hot-shot, why didn't he pick up on the screamingly obvious clues that brother dearest was about to commit suicide? He practically had “DEAD SOON” tattooed on his face. As the episode progressed, I began to suspect that, far from being a leading light of Norway's Fourth Estate, Peter Veras is in fact a blundering idiot.

He hadn't even verified the source of his story. No wonder he was so shaken when it turned out to be his own brother, who was presumably trying to bring down the system from within. That's possibly why he left behind a series of Treasure Hunt-style clues for Peter to chase, which resulted in him donning scuba diving gear and searching for something or other in a roadside lake.

The episode climaxed while he was out on this goose chase, when another millionaire embezzler crashed his car into the lake before shooting himself in the head. It was an unexpected turn of events, I'll grant you that, but it still felt like a ridiculously laboured attempt to create an explosive cliffhanger. That sort of nonsense is acceptable in a comic book thriller like 24, but Mammon appears to think of itself as more meaningful than that. Why else would it begin with a sombre quote from the Book of Revelation?

Its more wayward tendencies aside, this slow-burning and occasionally quite suspenseful drama does show some promise. With its weighty themes of guilt and morality – it's no coincidence that Peter's father is a priest – it may well add up to something quite substantial. I just hope Peter stops behaving like the Norwegian equivalent of a depressed Frank Spencer.

There was more high-powered corruption in BBC Four's latest foreign import, Inspector De Luca, only this time it involved the fascist regime of Benito Mussolini.

Set in 1930s Italy on the eve of World War II, it squanders a potentially interesting period setting with a lugubrious pace and anaemic plotting. It's like watching an armchair age in slow motion. De Luca himself is your standard lonely detective: driven yet subdued, a haunted man apart. I'd quite happily never see this archetype again.

It's enough to make you long for a cop drama about a jovial detective who lives in a bouncy castle. Obviously I wouldn't like that either, but at least it would be different.

TV PREVIEW: Spies of Warsaw, Borgen

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 5th January 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio

SPIES OF WARSAW

Wednesday, BBC4, 9pm

BORGEN

Today, BBC4, 9pm

Paul Whitelaw

It's probably fair to say that, unless you're terminally befuddled, SPIES OF WARSAW isn't a title that implies a great deal of ambiguity. It's a drama about spies, set in Warsaw. Of course it is.

That this blunt, say-what-you-see title hovers over a work penned by legendary comedy partnership Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais is perhaps surprising. After all, Porridge never traded under the name of 'Prison Men'. Auf Wiedersehen, Pet wasn't called 'Geordie Builders in Germany' for good reason. The Likely Lads wouldn't be so fondly remembered if it was called 'Actors Speaking Comedy'. I could go on.

But Spies of Warsaw is an inherited title, taken from a novel by Alan Furst, who specialises in atmospheric, detailed evocations of Second World War espionage in Eastern Europe. Shown over two feature-length parts, this unyieldingly dramatic piece also doesn't contain a shred of the wit that Clement and La Frenais are renowned for, although you could argue that its sense of slightly heightened realism is a droll joke in itself. Because make no mistake, this is a spy drama that's seen lots of other spy dramas.

Set in the late 1930s, with Hitler's invasion of Poland hovering malignantly on the horizon, it contains all the elements you'd expect: furtive conversations at lavish embassy balls; pinch-faced Nazis brandishing barking wolfhounds; tense border-checks with barbed-wire trimmings; glamorous women smoking cigarettes seductively; solemn spies drinking reflective brandies; drunken Russian poet dissidents railing against the system; ominous knocks on the door at midnight; and impressively choreographed covert missions. At one point there's even a leather-gloved Gestapo officer stroking a cat (I kid you not).

But these familiar motifs actually add up to a fairly absorbing whole, with David Tennant on taciturn form as an impressively decorated war hero working as a military attaché/undercover spy. Whenever he isn't floating through polite diplomatic functions, he spends most of his time spying on Nazis – they're up to no good in the Black Forest - and trying to protect his various informants.

Something of a cold fish, he's nevertheless honourable and ethical, at one point refusing to murder a teenage Nazi assailant because war has yet to be officially declared. Yes, he's a damn good oeuf. But as a character he isn't especially fascinating, so although, as a tale of heroism and intrigue, Spies of Warsaw gradually exerts its grip, one never feels particularly engaged with Tennant's underlying heartbreak – his beloved wife dies of consumption before the action gets underway – nor his burgeoning romance with a beautiful, brittle Parisian lawyer.

You may also have to get used to the curious spectacle of a Scottish actor adopting an English accent to play a Frenchman, although perhaps we should be thankful that he didn't opt for the full Clouseau. Few things are more distracting than actors earnestly intoning dialogue of the “ah wuz pizzing on mah boocycle” variety.

A co-production with BBC America, it's clear that little expense has been spared here. The whole thing gleams with a richly textured, cinematic hue. And the soundtrack – swathed in mournful brass, woodwind and plucked piano strings – is an almost too fitting accompaniment to the prevailing mood of paranoia, contempt and fear.

Oh, and for no good reason – other than, I suppose, to show off his character's war wounds – Tennant removes his shirt quite frequently, which will doubtless curry favour with fans who enjoy his work in “that way”. And that, I think, is one of the most important pieces of information I've ever imparted in a preview. No need to thank me for it.

If you're mourning the loss of the recently departed Forbrydelsen (aka The Killing), then you may be comforted by the return of Danish political drama BORGEN, especially as the actor who played the troubled Prime Minister in the most recent series crops up as a grieving car salesman. Oh, there's literally seconds of fun to be had imagining he's playing the same character, after deciding to leave politics for a quiet life in the motor trade.

It begins with female PM Birgitte Nyborg – the sort of principled, liberal, uncorrupted and sympathetic politician who only really exists in fiction – visiting Danish troops in Afghanistan. Forced to flee following a Taliban attack, she returns home to a frosty reception from all sides when an unprecedented number of soldiers are killed in one day.

Meanwhile, her ambitious spin doctor Kasper is on the verge of moving in with his new partner, following the breakdown of his relationship with principled, liberal, uncorrupted and sympathetic journalist Katrine. The latter is used – quite effectively – as a device to explore media ethics with regards to dealing with the bereaved during times of tragedy, while Nyborg's conflict over whether to withdraw from Afghanistan is handled with the thoughtful nuance typical of this series.

Sure, some of the exposition is a tad heavy-handed – those explanatory news reports are awfully handy, are they not? - but this is so much more than merely a Danish version of The West Wing. It's mercifully lacking in suffocating piety and schmaltz, for a start. And don't worry if you missed series one, as it more or less starts afresh. Tak!