TV Review: THE NIGHT MANAGER + STORYVILLE: THE BLACK PANTHERS

A version of this article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 27th February 2016.

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

The Night Manager: Sunday, BBC One

Storyville: The Black Panthers: Sunday, BBC Four

Like a bar of luxury soap sliding inexorably down a bidet bowl, The Night Manager is a slick and slow affair.

Adapted and updated from John La Carre's 1993 novel of the same name, it's an inertly glossy thriller starring Tom Hiddleston as Jonathan Pine, a former British soldier on a covert mission to destroy billionaire arms dealer Richard Roper (Hugh Laurie fulfilling his Bond villain fantasies).

When we first met Pine, a charming cove, English “to the core”, he was working as the night manager at a luxury Cairo hotel while the Arab Spring raged outside. As dutifully dedicated to the welfare of his guests as he is to Queen and country, he found himself acting as gallant protector to the glamorous mistress of the hotel's corrupt owner.

Presumably on account of his approachable cheekbones – even allowing for standard spy thriller intrigue, character motivation is sketchy - she chose to show him some documents containing conspicuous evidence of an arms deal involving Roper.

Shortly after sharing this explosive information with the British embassy, he found himself in bed with the woman, despite there being no chemistry between them whatsoever. Lonely nights in Cairo, I suppose. Seeing as she spoke entirely in flirtatious riddles consumed with fatalistic portent, it was hardly surprising when she wound up dead.

The action, and I use that word advisedly, then span forward four years to find Pine working in a remote Alpine hotel, where his inexplicably grief-stricken flashbacks were rudely interrupted by the arrival of Roper.

Laurie appears to be enjoying himself playing “the worst man in the world”, but by the time he and his amusingly unpleasant henchman (Tom Hollander) turned up, it was too late. Even the presence of the perpetually pregnant Olivia Colman as a cardigan-clad spy with an indeterminate northern accent can't inject any life into such a soulless confection.

A good thriller poses intriguing questions which keep us watching in the hope of surprising, satisfactory answers. Yet despite the theoretically high stakes on offer, I see no reason why we should care about the players, let alone the outcome, of this dreary game of cat and mouse.

A gripping and propulsive feature-length documentary, Storyville: The Black Panthers strove to reclaim the oft-misunderstood story of the African-American revolutionary party who boldly took on the establishment in the late '60s and '70s.

Set against a tense backdrop of police brutality and racism, it traced the rise and fall of a militant black movement borne of righteous frustration. Despite their gun-toting image – an edgily symbolic pose, at least initially - their fundamental goal was the dismantlement of a system that actively suppressed equal rights in housing, healthcare and education for, not only African-Americans, but any victim of poverty. 

One of their most successful initiatives was a free breakfast programme for children. No wonder they were branded as terrorists by the FBI; for a while at least they were a galvanising force to be reckoned with.

But as soon as they became a respectable folk hero force within the black community, the government made damn sure that their civil liberties went out the window. Victims of incessant raids, arrests and, in one horrifying instance, cold-blooded assassination, their radical socialist manifesto didn't stand a chance in Nixon's America.

When their steadfast vow to defend themselves by any means necessary was put to the test, the body count rose, the party started to split, and the revolution was put on indefinite hold.

Despite the sizzling funk vibrancy of his stylistic approach, director Stanley Nelson refrained from romanticising the Panthers disproportionately. The rock 'n' soul power of their media-savvy image – dark glasses, berets, afros and leather jackets – remains ineffably cool, but that's hardly the most important facet of their legacy.

Nelson focused instead on insightful contributions from several former Panthers, who related their story with a fluctuating mix of pride, humour, anger and sadness. He also gained access to FBI documents laying bare their insidious campaign to divide and destroy a party already riven with contradictions.

The result was a sympathetic yet unsentimental study of a political awakening destroyed by ideological differences, personal demons and the insurmountable might of The Man (an enemy embodied by the wizened toddler scowl of crackpot FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover).

The film's underlying sense of tragedy and wasted potential was compounded by an unspoken yet powerfully tacit, sobering truth: the struggles at its core are still relevant today.

The radicalism of the Panthers is dead, possibly forever, even though we live in a world where the odds are more stacked against The People than ever before. Fight the power, pay the consequences. 

TV Review: THE GAME and PETER KAY'S CAR SHARE

A version of this article was originally published in The Courier on Saturday 2nd May 2015.

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

The Game: Thursday, BBC Two

Peter Kay's Car Share: Wednesday and Thursday, BBC One

Paul Whitelaw

Union strikes and power-cuts. Soviet spies and government traitors. A dingy, orange-brown Britain choking to death on the thick sting of Capstan smoke. The Game sometimes feels like an unlikely Peter Kay routine: “The Cold War, eh? What were all that about?”

Set in 1972, this six-part thriller is mired in a kind of perverse nostalgia for an age when paranoid East/West enmity threatened to spill over into all-out nuclear annihilation. Those were the days, my friend.

Yet despite being shamelessly derivative – it wouldn't exist without the work of John le Carre and Tomas Alfredson's 2011 film adaptation of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy  – The Game has just enough character of its own to deflect accusations of irrelevance. At least so far.

Written by Toby Whithouse (Being Human; Doctor Who), its sardonic sense of humour is a saving grace. Steeped in neo-noir trappings and an ominously jazzy John Barry-esque score, The Game blends knowingly fond pastiche – the nasty chief villain is defined by his unerring ability to peel apples sinisterly – with violent severity. It's also handsomely, gloomily stylised without drawing too much attention to its handsome, gloomy style. That's a tricky balancing act, but Whithouse at his best is an assured purveyor of black comic drama.

Our idiosyncratic team of MI5 anti-heroes are headed by a world-weary chief codenamed 'Daddy' – Brian Cox in careworn teddy bear mode - which none too subtly heightens the notion of them as a dysfunctional family.

Chief among them is a Bowie-boned young agent whose carapace of ruthless, almost catatonic efficiency masks an impulsive broken heart, a terribly nice wire-tapper who is so socially inept he keeps a list of possible conversation topics in his pocket, and, via a wonderfully arch performance from Paul Ritter, a barely-closeted establishment kingpin cruelly domineered by his monstrous mother. They're typical Whithouse creations – flawed, odd and intriguing.

The saga began with a defecting KGB officer informing MI5 of a potentially devastating Soviet plot. What this involves remains unclear, but already the body-count is rising. Throw in the usual paranoid spy themes of strained loyalty and creeping mistrust, and the potential is there for a compelling yarn told at a suitably deliberate pace.

In a way, I don't blame Whithouse for indulging himself in this familiar milieu. As a petrified child of the Cold War myself, I admit to being similarly obsessed with the era and its chilly accoutrements. Doom-caked BBC classics such as Edge Of Darkness and Threads are part of our collective DNA. With good reason, they still haunt our dreams.

Plus there's no reason why a talented dramatist shouldn't be allowed to play a brand new game using the Tinker, Tailor toy box. I remain cautiously optimistic.

Peter Kay's last sitcom was the best-forgotten Max and Paddy's Road to Nowhere in 2004. Since then he's coasted along on an increasingly flimsy raft of good-will, his best years seemingly behind him. Hence why Peter Kay's Car Share is such a pleasant surprise.

A low-key sitcom in the claustrophobic mould of The Royle Family and Rob Brydon's Marion & Geoff, it's set almost entirely within the confines of a car belonging to assistant supermarket manager John (Kay) as he drives to and from work with employee Kayleigh (Sian Gibson, a revelation).

The company car share scheme has thrown these two together. John is an affable curmudgeon, Kayleigh a naïve chatterbox. The pleasure derives from watching their relationship gradually blossom from initial reluctance to comfortable co-dependence. While their arc, complete with will-they-won't-they romance undercurrent, is predictable, Kay and Gibson share sweetly convincing and often very funny chemistry.

After years of cynical laziness, Kay has remembered what he's good at – broad-appeal observational comedy fused with subtlety, detail, warmth and pathos. Granted, the spilled urine gag in episode one was hammered into the ground, and the incongruous musical fantasy sequences are pure padding.

But his ability to weave revealing threads of backstory into John and Kayleigh's conversation is impressive, as is his use of the car stereo – which spews forth an acutely-observed parody of banal commercial radio plus a “timeless” roster of semi-obscure hits, while triggering and commenting upon the surface duologue.

That all of this is achieved using two characters who barely depart from a confined space is testament to the effort that Kay and his co-writers – Gibson included – have put into this show. It's an impressive piece of writing, beautifully performed.

Against all odds, Car Share is a thoroughly charming affair that returns Kay to his oft-overlooked character comedy roots. I was wrong to write him off, and I'm delighted about that.