TV PREVIEW: Eye Spy; Don't Call Me Crazy

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 22nd June 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-review-eye-spy-don-t-call-me-crazy-1-2974001

EYE SPY

Thursday, Channel 4, 10pm

DON'T CALL ME CRAZY

Monday, BBC3, 9pm

Paul Whitelaw

In Channel 4's new hidden camera show EYE SPY, Stephen Fry sets a number of staged scenarios upon unsuspecting members of the great British public ™.

His stated aim is to restore our faith in human nature, as selfless, stout-hearted citizens do the right thing in times of need. In episode one alone, we witness diners standing up to an outrageously racist waiter, watch passer's-by help a teenager in a wheelchair up a flight of stairs, and marvel at humankind's innate ability to avoid cycling off with bicycles which don't belong to them.

Like an elaborate Beadle prank with a civic duty twist, its an entirely pointless experiment in which the notion that some people are prone to helpful intervention, while others aren't, is held up as astonishing insight. Insufferably condescending and pleased with itself – Fry, who narrates like a cosily omniscient God, presumptuously refers to the viewer as “you” and “we” throughout – it's a heavily padded, repetitious jumble of shallow positivity and censorious tutting.

For a programme purporting to celebrate human nature, it takes a notably dim view of its audience's intelligence: it even goes out of its way to point out that the actor playing the racist waiter isn't actually prejudiced in real life. Were they worried that pitchfork-wielding viewers might accost him in the street?

Aside from its tacit suggestion that the people of Manchester are less bothered by racism than their London counterparts – if that wasn't the intention, that's how it comes across – Eye Spy's nadir is an experiment involving young children resisting the urge to eat a marshmallow. This is used, with stunning lack of tact, as an analogue for the London riots of 2011. “See? Britain isn't all about smash, grab, gimme gimme!” chortles Fry, as if he's somehow solved the complex issue of disaffected class revolt with a wave of his pampered hand.

Incidentally, the supposedly life-affirming Eye Spy is produced by Objective, who, despite having many fine programmes to their name, also delivered the notorious Kookyville, a truly hateful comedy pilot in which ordinary members of the public were held up to ridicule and the audience roundly insulted. We shattered few who witnessed it will never forget, Objective. Never.

Far more sensitive and sympathetic is DON'T CALL ME CRAZY, a three-part observational documentary focusing on patients and staff at Manchester's McGuinness Unit. One of Britain's largest teenage mental health units, it's home to troubled kids with a variety of debilitating issues, ranging from eating disorders to self-harm.

Poignant but never cloying, it's a candid study of fragile young lives: as one staff-member puts it, adolescence is a form of madness at the best of times. The recurring visual motif of depressed patients slumped in corridors may linger for some time.

TV preview: THE RETURNED; DATES; AGATHA CHRISTIE'S POIROT

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 8th June 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-preview-the-returned-dates-agatha-christie-s-poirot-1-2960252

THE RETURNED

Sunday, Channel 4, 9pm

DATES

Monday to Wednesday, Channel 4, 10pm

AGATHA CHRISTIE'S POIROT: ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER

Sunday, STV, 8pm

Their first foreign-language acquisition in over 20 years, THE RETURNED is clearly Channel 4's attempt to hijack the runaway success of BBC4's European drama bandwagon.

The subtitled likes of Spiral, Wallander, Arne Dahl, The Bridge, and, most notably, The Killing have all attracted dedicated cults in the last few years, and I suspect this French supernatural drama – a critically-acclaimed smash at home under its original title, Les Revenants – will reap similar awards. Having dipped a cautious toe in the pool with the inferior US remake of The Killing, this is Channel 4 fully and belatedly embracing one of the biggest TV trends of our time. And it looks like they've chosen wisely.

Loosely based on a 2004 film of the same name, it focuses on the residents of a picturesque Alpine town as they come to terms with the mystifying return of locals who died years ago (one suspects Dominic Mitchell, author of BBC3's recent zombie drama In the Flesh, is a fan). Outwardly normal in appearance – no rotting flesh or cannibalistic urges here – they haven't aged a day since they died, and have no memory of time passing.

Each episode nominally focuses on one particular character, with the first revolving around Camille, a young girl whose school bus crashes into a mountain dam. The opening scenes, in which she clambers from the ravine and wanders home through the twilight, recall the striking introduction to Twin Peaks: indeed, there's a vaguely Lynchian feel to this painterly study of a remote community torn apart by grief and mystery.

Despite the fantastical premise, the action unfolds at a leisurely, underplayed pace. Its quietude merely adds to the pervading atmosphere of disquieting intensity. With a sonorous score by Glasgow post-rock band Mogwai, it's a captivating moan of arthouse horror. That's right, on Channel 4, the home of Embarrassing Bodies and Big Fat Strictly Dole-Scum Hoarders. Well I never.

Mostly set at night, it takes place against an unnervingly sparse world of lamplight, underpasses and stark apartment blocks, redolent in mood of Let The Right One In. Aside from Camille – whose divorced parents greet her return with a believable embrace of stunned rapture – we're also introduced to a dazed returnee in search of his fiancee, and a creepy little boy whose mute demeanor and inscrutable smile are more frightening than most 18-rated horror films. He's like a “cursed” painting come to life.

If we're to trust the garlands it received upon its initial transmission in France, then The Returned may be one of the most striking TV dramas of the year. Channel 4 doubtless regard it as a gamble – their decision to broadcast the ad-breaks in French smacks of nervous gimmickry – but I don't doubt its addictive cult appeal. Baffling in the best possible sense, its haunting mystique is inescapable.

Given my pathological aversion to cocksure young people and their hats, I could never abide E4 youth drama Skins. But its creator, Bryan Elsley, has pleasantly surprised me with his latest venture, DATES. A series of half-hour dramas focusing on characters struggling through first dates, it's an almost unremittingly bleak treatise on various human foibles. But don't let that put you off: bleak is good.

Essentially a series of standalone two-hander plays – although at least one character crops up in a later episode – it's the sort of “experimental” piece one used to associate with Channel 4 in its halcyon days. Although episode one shows that Elsley hasn't lost his knack for creating profoundly irritating characters, there's something cruelly captivating about chippy everyman Will Mellor's awkward encounter with Oona Chaplin's aggressively unlikeable bully. Although one wonders why, wounded pride aside, Mellor's character would put up with her exhausting unpleasantness, I do admire Elsley's refusal to soften the blows.

Having watched the first three episodes – mousy Sheridan Smith's queasy date with Neil Maskell's gruff city trader is similarly unyielding – it seems that Elsley is attempting to say something meaningful about the guises we adopt at our most vulnerable and desperate. It's an unedifying portrait of human nature at somewhere near its worst: a cynical blast of rotten candour. Whether Elsley and his fellow writers actually like their characters is a moot point, but I can't deny the claustrophobic, voyeuristic impact of these superbly performed chamber pieces.

David Suchet's ambitious goal of starring in an adaptation of every single Hercule Poirot novel and short story nears fruition with AGATHA CHRISTIE'S POIROT: ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER, which begins ITV's final leg of the long-running franchise. Widely regarded as the weakest Poirot novel – published in 1972, it was Christie's final dalliance with the character – it inevitably fails to pass muster in TV form.

Zoe Wannamaker returns as feted crime author – and Christie simulacrum – Ariadne Oliver, as she seeks the Belgian detective's assistance in solving the apparent double suicide of a happily married couple. Suchet, as always, is impeccable, but one can't shake the feeling that this underwhelming entry is merely a box-ticking exercise in fulfilling a legacy.

Book review: GOD SAVE THE KINKS by Rob Jovanovic

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 8th June 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/books/features/book-reviews-god-save-the-kinks-by-rob-jovanovic-1-2959554

God Save The Kinks

by Rob Jovanovic

Aurum, 336pp, £20

In the foreword to his thoroughly researched biography of one of Britain’s greatest bands, author Rob Jovanovic argues that, despite their lofty reputation, The Kinks remained curiously under-appreciated for much of their career.

Never as hip as their enduring peers The Rolling Stones and The Who, they were always a square peg, even during their first flush of chart-topping fame in the 1960s.

Led by enigmatic contrarian Ray Davies, they famously pilloried Swinging London in Dedicated Follower of Fashion, harked back to music hall following an opening streak of pioneering proto-punk/metal hits, and retreated into more parochial musical pastures just as their rivals were tuning in and freaking out. A decade later, when they were being embraced by the New Wave bands they influenced, they did the naffest thing imaginable and became unlikely stadium rock stars in the US.

But, as God Save The Kinks makes clear, it’s that very refusal to play the game, that single-minded, unfashionable vision played out over 40 years of fluctuating fortunes, that made the band so special. Years before Pulp prevailed with a similar shtick, The Kinks were the original misfit underdogs: fey eccentrics with a savage bite. Indeed, it wasn’t until the 1990s emergence of Britpop, just as The Kinks – with typical rotten timing – fell apart, that their importance was finally recognised.

The most overtly English of all the British Invasion bands, their acute character portraits of class strife and urban malaise were an obvious influence on the likes of Blur’s Damon Albarn. Suddenly, Ray was the godfather of Britpop.

In the years since, The Kinks have been canonised via the usual flurry of documentaries, lovingly rendered reissues, and music magazine features. As evinced by his touching appearance at the Olympics closing ceremony – a symbolic event which bookends Jovanovic’s account – Ray has attained National Treasure status, a position he’d doubtless profess to hate, but probably secretly enjoys.

However, their critical resurgence also means that several fine books have already been written about them. The problem Jovanovic faces is whether he can inject fresh insight into a narrative which will obviously be familiar to anyone interested in buying his book in the first place.

“Their little known tale can now be told,” he claims, somewhat disingenuously, “in the words of those who were there.” Unfortunately, the words of the leading players, notoriously inimical siblings Ray and Dave Davies, have been culled from pre-existing interviews and the pages of their respective memoirs (he quotes huge swathes from Dave’s in particular). Nevertheless, he’s obviously immersed himself in the archive, and pilfers from it wisely.

While their often violent love/hate relationship understandably takes centre stage, Jovanovic makes sure to give other key members their due. The often unfairly overlooked bassist and founder member Pete Quaife, who died in 2010, is given satisfying prominence via a revealing interview with his brother.

Elsewhere, in-depth interviews with various engineers, journalists, photographers and musical collaborators provide an often dispiriting illustration of what it was like to work with the band. Tales of Ray’s egocentric petulance make for exhausting reading.

Yet one also discovers renewed appreciation for his dazzling talent, and the enormous pressure he was under during the manic 1960s and self-indulgent 1970s. Here was a sensitive young man blessed with genius yet cursed with restless ambition, who endured terrible nervous breakdowns and at least one suicide attempt. Despite these darker depths, Jovanovic provides a shaded portrait: a complex character, Ray can switch from wicked prima donna to self-deprecating charmer in the space of a paragraph.

Dave also comes across as a sensitive soul, whose exasperation at Ray’s undermining behaviour is mirrored by an obvious desire for his approval. Truth be told, his constant whining palls after a while: then again if you were stuck in a band with a sibling who once threatened to cancel a tour because someone spilled his backgammon set on the floor, you’d be whining too. “Dave,” sniffs Ray at one point, “I’m a genius, a perfectionist.” Sighs Dave wearily, “No you’re not, you’re an arsehole.”

A tragicomic epic of triumph and dysfunction, this is a highly readable account of a unique career. Although a self-confessed worshipper, Jovanovic never fawns over his subject, writing instead with a clear eye for detail and context. Despite a few niggling factual errors, it’s a fine retelling of a very British legend.

TV PREVIEW: The Americans; Les Dawson: An Audience That Never Was; Love & Marriage; Queen's Coronation 60th Anniversary

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 1st June 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-preview-the-americans-les-dawson-an-audience-with-that-never-was-1-2951822

THE AMERICANS

Today, STV, 10pm

LES DAWSON: AN AUDIENCE THAT NEVER WAS

Today, STV, 8:30pm

LOVE AND MARRIAGE

Wednesday, STV, 9pm

QUEEN'S CORONATION 60^th ANNIVERSARY

BBC/STV, times and channels vary

Paul Whitelaw

It's clear that ITV have spent much of their time of late gazing enviously at the success of their rivals, before pilfering their strategies for themselves. So, after the success of the BBC's Mrs Brown's Boys, they unleashe an unabashedly old-school sitcom too in the shape of Vicious. And now, with US drama THE AMERICANS, they're obviously hoping to emulate the ratings bonanza reaped by Channel 4's Homeland.

But will they succeed? The pilot episode is certainly quite promising, as it introduces a pair of KGB agents working undercover as a married American couple in the suburbs of early 1980s Washington. Their cover is so deep, even their kids don't know the truth.

Played by British actor Matthew Rhys (so that's a British actor playing a Russian playing an American) and the feline Keri Russell, they're intriguing protagonists, working as they do against the usual Cold War stereotype of the villainous Russki. Her loyalty to the Motherland is sturdier than a hammer and sickle, whereas he entertains treasonous thoughts of defecting and settling down in this sunny nation of affluent capitalist pig-dogs. Both trained assassins, this leads to some rather fraught confrontations in the kitchen.

Although the opening chase sequence, with its 1980s fog and neon scored to the thumping blare of Fleetwood Mac's Tusk suggests The Americans is some sort of cheesy pastiche, it then switches tone, rather jarringly, into a relatively serious drama with darkly comic undertones. Mercifully, it dispenses with the clunky ironic foreshadowing so common to period dramas set in the recent past, and never sniggers at 1980s fashions and mores. It opts instead for an understated evocation of the era. Nevertheless, it doesn't yet feel like it's decided what it wants to be: the use of Phil Collins' In The Air Tonight over a supposedly dramatic scene towards the end comes across as inadvertently camp and comic.

But the ever-watchable Rhys is an interesting presence, as he goofs off with the kids while privately wrestling with his conscience. Their double life is rather brazenly symbolised by the presence of a kidnapped KGB agent in their garage, with the decision of what to do with him forming much of the episode's dramatic spine. The question of whether their secret will be uncovered is heightened by the introduction of their new neighbour, who - wouldn't you know it? - happens to be an FBI agent specialising in Counter Intelligence.

Although it takes a while to shift into gear, The Americans gradually exerts a grip once we learn more about these character's backgrounds (cue flashbacks in which they speak in heavily eggs-scented English). But one does wonder if, like Homeland, the storyline can be sustained over more than one season. The threat of dark secrets being exposed is all well and good, but it tends to lose dramatic impact if exploited for too long.

ITV's bold new experimental phase continues with what sounds like one of the maddest programmes in the entire history of television. In LES DAWSON: AN AUDIENCE THAT NEVER WAS, the late, great comedian is reanimated as, it says here, a "staggeringly realistic" 3-D hologram performing in front of a celebrity audience. Preview copies of this remarkable happening were unavailable at the time of writing, but one fears that digital Dawson will be a unnerving creation marred by the uncanny valley effect. But I can't wait to see how this pans out, as it sounds like an almost avant-garde venture. And let's face it, we'll all enjoy ourselves immensely if it turns out to be a disastrous folly.

ITV return to more traditional territory with the cuddly comedy-drama LOVE AND MARRIAGE, in which - and steel yourselves here, because this sounds like an outright parody - Alison Steadman stars as a retired lollipop lady and matriarch called Pauline Paradise. The sort of whimsical confection where nary a scene goes by without chortling musical accompaniment, its "hook" is the device of having the various members of the extended Paradise clan speak directly to the audience from their sofas, much like those old Prudential adverts. Other than that it's nothing you haven't seen before: family strife presented as an ultimately positive cavalcade of blunders and hugs.

The 60th anniversary of the Queen's Coronation is celebrated with a few programmes this week, with The BBC, as is its loyal wont, rolling out the largest amount of bunting. Their first tribute is by far the most enticing, as it's the actual archive footage of THE CORONATION OF QUEEN ELIZABETH II from 1953 shown in its entirety on BBC Parliament. Famously responsible for a huge spike in the sale of television sets - and therefore the instigator for telly's first golden age - it's been scheduled to follow the exact times of the original broadcast, meaning it begins at 10:20am and finishes just after 5pm.

On Monday on BBC1 at 9pm, David Dimbleby presents THE PEOPLE'S CORONATION, in which he talks to some of those who celebrated and took part in the event. It's obviously a very personal trip for Dave, seeing as his father, Richard, was one of the BBC's commentators during the Coronation.

Finally, ITV presents CORONATION YEAR IN COLOUR at 5:30pm on Sunday, in which archive footage - much of it amateur home movies - tells the story of everyday Britain in 1953. See, and I got through all of that without once making a snide anti-royalist jibe. I have matured.

TV preview. UP THE WOMEN, PSYCHOBITCHES, and DAVID BOWIE: FIVE YEARS

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 25th May 2013.

 

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-preview-up-the-women-david-bowie-psychobitches-1-2943828

 

UP THE WOMEN

Thursday, BBC Four, 8:30pm

PLAYHOUSE PRESENTS... PSYCHOBITCHES

Thursday, Sky Arts 1, 9pm

DAVID BOWIE: FIVE YEARS

Today, BBC Two, 9:20pm

Paul Whitelaw

From Monty Python and The Holy Grail to Blackadder, it's long been established that one of the give-or-take rules of historical comedy is to subvert the period setting with knowingly incongruous nods to the present day. Which is all well and good when employed as part of a wider comic arsenal, but cheap and wearying when overdone.

 

Unfortunately, that's the fatal undoing of Jessica Hynes' Edwardian-era sitcom UP THE WOMEN, which drills away at the supposedly hilarious spectacle of characters from the past failing to comprehend things we now take for granted.

Thus we have Adrian Scarborough's hapless caretaker getting into a pickle over the installation of a light bulb, and Rebecca Front's bullying snob sniffily dismissing electricity as a fad that'll never catch on. These moments, I should point out, are clearly regarded by Hynes and her five co-writers as rib-tickling conceits of massive comic import. Given that Hynes is a fine actress and co-writer of fondly regarded sitcom Spaced, the unrelenting weakness of her latest effort is hugely disappointing. It's not unreasonable to expect more from one of Britain's foremost comedy performers.

The only truly notable aspect of Up The Women is that it's a traditional studio-bound sitcom accompanied by a live laughter track (and the last, alas, to be recorded in Television Centre). It's an ancient form new to “high-brow” BBC Four. But that presents its own problems; you can clearly hear the underwhelmed audience almost willing themselves to laugh as gag after gag falls flat.

Lines such as “I've had to swaddle mother again, and she really does put up quite a fight” and “Does your husband know you're cavorting with skirted anarchists?” have the rhythmic cadence of funny dialogue, but they're not actually witty in themselves. A sense of embarrassingly forced whimsy hangs over its attempts to revel in florid language a la Blackadder. But Hynes and co aren't in the same league as Curtis & Elton at their peak.

The characters speak in a combination of BBC Edwardiana and anachronistic contemporary argot, which, if one were feeling charitable, could be regarded as a parody of Andrew Davies' penchant for dropping contemporary terms into his period dramas. But the paucity of wit on display means it's all for naught.

As for the set-up, Hynes plays a timid yet worldly-wise idealist whose belief in the suffragette movement throws her into sharp conflict with Front's stubbornly immovable conservative. And that's about it. All concerned – including an almost unrecognisable Vicki Pepperdine from Getting On as a daffy, buck-toothed housekeeper – deliver game performances, but no amount of gusto can compensate for such poor material. Having wasted such a fine cast, Up The Women merely wanders along to unremarkable effect.

Even taking into account the inherent difficulties of introducing a brand new sitcom over the course of thirty minutes, this lifeless groaner has to be regarded as a failure.

A somewhat more successful attempt at female-fronted comedy is PSYCHOBITCHES, in which Rebecca Front crops up again as a therapist whose patient roster consists solely of famous women from throughout history. Essentially an excuse for a fast-paced series of disconnected sketches, this simple premise is only semi-successfully executed by co-writer/director Jeremy Dyson from The League of Gentlemen.

Resembling a surreal parody of the great In Treatment, the series begins with a neat visual gag involving Rosa Parks – I suspect that's the first and last time I'll ever place those words in that order – before roaring into gear with Front's Grandma's House co-star Samantha Spiro delivering a pitch-perfect evisceration of Audrey Hepburn's irritatingly kooky screen persona.

Unfortunately, it then devotes far too much time to a mirthless series of Bronte sisters sketches – no, it wouldn't be hilarious if they were portrayed as gruff, foul-mouthed northerners – and Julia Davis as Sylvia Plath, which, while beautifully performed, hammers its one joke into the ground. 

 

Elsewhere, Frances Barber and a dragged-up Mark Gatiss (Dyson's League of Gentlemen cohorts crop up throughout the series) sell the hell out of a warring Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, but without banishing memories of French & Saunders' superior take on their feud. The only other sketch that really takes flight is Sharon Horgan as a glamorously self-obsessed Eva Peron.

 

As an excuse for a cast of talented, funny women to show off their versatility, Psychobitches is a success. But reducing Front to a straight role feels like a waste of her abilities, which merely adds to the overall air of mild disappointment.

The Dame receives his due in DAVID BOWIE: FIVE YEARS, a globe-trotting, pan-dimensional documentary charting pivotal moments in his career. Gloriously awash with rare archive footage – thrill as our man mimes his own disembowelment while Andy Warhol coos off-camera! - it's narrated by a disembodied Bowie culled from old interviews, while various music journalists pontificate earnestly in artfully deserted warehouses. Key collaborators, including Brian Eno (chasing after his cat, no less), Tony Visconti, Nile Rodgers and, resembling a gnomic bank manager, Robert Fripp also crop up to discuss his creative process in some depth. It's a lovingly assembled tribute to one of rock's most restlessly innovative artists.

TV PREVIEW: The Fall, Frankie, The Supicions of Mr Whicher

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 11th May 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-preview-the-fall-frankie-the-suspicons-of-mr-whicher-1-2925907

THE FALL

Monday, BBC2, 9pm

FRANKIE

Tuesday, BBC1, 9pm

THE SUSPICIONS OF MR WHICHER

Sunday, STV, 8pm

Paul Whitelaw

“Hello. Is that J. Jameson Spotlight, big-shot representative of famed actress Gillian Anderson?”

“Yeah. Whaddya want?”

“I have a part she may be interested in. It's an aloof, icy, enigmatic professional whose emotional distance causes...”

“She'll do it.”

Now: I'm not suggesting that Anderson is a one-note actress. Her ethereal performance as Miss Havisham in the BBC's 2011 adaptation of Great Expectations proved she's more than capable of playing something other than emotionally withdrawn maidens. But it's true that she's frequently typecast as glacial beauties who shrink from matters of the heart.

And so it is in THE FALL, an absorbing five-part thriller in which she casts her inscrutable gaze over the gloomy streets of Belfast, in search of an elusive serial killer. Yet despite initial suspicions that this is Anderson on autopilot, she gradually reveals an enjoyably arch and self-aware approach to the role of DSI Stella Gibson. It's an astute match of performer and part.

Called in to review an ongoing investigation into an unsolved murder, Gibson quickly connects it to the subsequent death of another young professional woman. So far, so-so. But the twist in The Fall is that we know who did it. Like Columbo, it reveals the identity of the killer upfront, thus turning it into a suspenseful “Howcatchem” rather than a traditional “Whodunnit”.

Our villain in this case operates along the Norman Bates principle: a good-looking, outwardly normal young man who happens to be a psychopathic murderer. Married with two young children, Paul Spector (a subdued, intensely creepy performance from Jamie Dornan) is an unsettling creation who feels far more dangerous than the zany lunatics who usually dominate this landscape.

While the director is perhaps slightly overfond of darkly ironic juxtaposition, the switching back and forth between Gibson's investigation and Spector's double-life plays out very effectively. Both desensitised and diligent - “You and I are very much alike, Mr Bond!” - they're a compelling double-act who never share the screen.

Despite some fleetingly silly moments – the serial killer genre practically demands them – this a relatively understated production boasting a ring of authenticity. The minimal use of incidental music is a notable, welcome touch. However, the suffocating scenes of violence against women are arguably gratuitous, and I can't say I feel entirely comfortable with them. That they appear in a largely female-led drama (written by a man) merely compounds the sense of unease.

That caveat aside, its an addictive, twist-ridden study of grief, obsession and identity (or: a grisly thriller that's read a few books). Boosted by uniformly fine performances, it's Anderson's subtly eccentric turn as the outwardly emotionless, alpha-female Gibson which suggests The Fall has the potential to run beyond a mere five episodes.

The female protagonist in FRANKIE is practically Gibson's polar opposite. Indeed, it's possible to glean whole seconds of fun from imagining these two characters awkwardly attempting to relate to each other (Gibson wouldn't bother, Frankie would overcompensate). Played by Torchwood star Eve Myles, she's a winsomely fun-loving district nurse who gets her kicks from singing along loudly to her car radio, and dancing around sassily in the kitchen. She may as well have “I'm mad, me!” stencilled on her forehead.

Like one of those Here Come the Girls Boots ads with added medical trauma, Frankie combines excruciating whimsy with well-intentioned attempts to explore human dilemmas via the dedicated exploits of an overworked NHS professional. And that's partly the problem: would even the busiest district nurse deal with so much dramatic incident over the course of a few days? I'm all for suspending disbelief, but Frankie comes across as a sort of feisty superhero with a heart of gold.

Its main saving grace is the charm of Myles, an appealing, believable actress whose natural warmth tends to compensate for the material she's lumbered with. This, remember, is a woman who survived ghastly episodes of Torchwood written by Chris “Redeemed himself with Broadchurch” Chibnall. But even she can't override supposedly funny yet cringe-inducing lines such as “I laugh at cutbacks! I sneer at them!” At one point a loveable old man with Alzheimer's says her profession is a funny one. “Well, I'm a funny sort of woman,” she winks. True, Frankie, you're bonkers.

In fairness, the Alzheimer's storyline is handled fairly well, and Frankie isn't depicted as entirely perfect. Her saviour complex is shown to have a detrimental effect on her private life, although her boyfriend, played by Dean Lennox Kelly, is such a nuisance, she'd be better off in the arms of her male nurse colleague (Scots actor Derek Riddell, with whom Myles shares an engaging chemistry).

The criminally underexposed Olivia Colman crops up in THE SUSPICIONS OF MR WHICHER, the second candlelit drama based on the real-life exploits of the pioneering Victorian detective. Paddy Considine is on reliable form as the troubled, upstanding Whicher, as he investigates the murder of Colman's runaway niece in Jack the Ripper London. It's a mildly diverting mystery, marred by a ludicrous contrivance in the final act. Also, fans of the Olivia Colman Crying Game are advised to imbibe sensibly.

TV PREVIEW: Vicious, The Job Lot

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 27th April 2013.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-preview-vicious-the-job-lot-1-2911304

VICIOUS

Monday, STV, 9pm

THE JOB LOT

Monday, STV, 9:30pm

Paul Whitelaw

No-one would've believed, in the early years of the 21^st century, that human credulity would be stretched to breaking point by the arrival of a sitcom power-hour on primetime ITV. But it's true, it's here. It's happening. In a turn of events so shocking and bizarre it's actually quite frightening, the notoriously laughter-shy broadcaster – whose pantheon of classic sitcoms amounts to piddling single digits – has decided to take comedy seriously again.

Given the BBC's total domination of the field, it's long felt as though ITV were simply unwilling to compete, preferring instead to concentrate on glum thrillers, cloying dramas, and Ant & Dec's pension plan. But the huge mainstream success of BBC sitcoms such as Miranda, Outnumbered and Mrs Brown's Boys has obviously spurred them into belated action.

What's even more remarkable – staggering, even – about this dedicated comedy offensive is that one of their new efforts, VICIOUS, is actually very funny. You may wish to take a moment to process that information.

A studio-bound, single-set, multi-camera sitcom, it's a gratifyingly old-school farce in which thespian deities Ian McKellen and Derek Jacobi have a char-grilled whale of a time as an incessantly bickering homosexual couple. Sealed within their sepulchral Covent Garden abode – they shriek like vampires when the curtains are accidentally opened – pompous actor Freddie (McKellen) and retired bar manager Stuart (Jacobi) tussle waspishly over decades of perceived slights, while never missing an opportunity to mock each other's supposed decrepitude.

Now, these are hardly original comic creations – the vituperative, hammy old queen has long been a staple of popular culture - and there is nothing especially notable about the premise. But that simply doesn't matter when the execution is as strong as this.

Resembling a startled, wounded guinea pig, Jacobi squeals and frets amidst a knowing flurry of camp mannerisms, while McKellen booms fresh insults in that oak-lined voice of his. He also pulls some of the funniest “Why, I've never been so insulted in my life!” expressions this side of imperial phase Frankie Howerd. It's an impeccable dual assault of seasoned comic timing.

Enjoyment is magnified by the addition of Frances de la Tour as their dotty, man-hungry pal. Famously, she starred in Rising Damp, one of ITV's few great sitcoms, and it's tempting to view her presence here as a deliberate nod to the past. Not that her involvement is merely symbolic – she's a peerless comic actress – but you could argue that she's essentially playing lonely Miss Jones thirty years on. Even the dingy brown set recalls her most celebrated role.

Broad and boisterous in the best possible sense (i.e. it's nothing like that aforementioned avalanche of horror, Mrs Brown's Boys), Vicious is jam-packed with gags, hitting the ground running with an impressive opening episode which establishes set-up, character and backstory with consummate ease.

A co-write between acclaimed playwright Mark Ravenhill and Gary Janetti, a former executive producer on Family Guy and Will& Grace, it revels in its camp bluster with such benign relish, I doubt it'll get into too much trouble for reinforcing stereotypes. It's obvious that Freddie and Stuart are blissfully happy in their enmity, and it's that undercurrent of warmth – the spoonful of sugar beneath the barrel-load of bile – that make these characters so engaging.

I'm no soothsayer – I've never said “sooth” in my life - but I predict that Vicious will be huge. A hit sitcom! On ITV! Nurse, the smelling salts...

The madness continues with THE JOB LOT, which, while nowhere near as sharp as Vicious, is a perfectly amiable and amusing sitcom set in a drab job centre (is there such a thing as a bright, welcoming job centre?).

Despite being a single-camera comedy with no laugh-track, it's essentially a traditional sitcom populated by dysfunctional characters and daffy situations. It is, however, blatantly influenced by The Office, not because it's a workplace comedy – Gervais and Merchant didn't invent that genre – but because of the exceedingly Tim-like lead played by Russell Tovey. A bright, likeable everyman trapped in a job he detests – his feelings for an attractive female colleague stop him from leaving - the similarity is compounded by the fact that Tovey appears to have partially based his acting style on Martin Freeman.

While Tim-bot 2000 is mildly distracting, he doesn't detract overall from a show which, given the danger inherent in its recession-fuelled premise, mercifully refrains from sneering at the unemployed. Granted, one of the regular job-seekers is portrayed as a harmless oddball, but it's significant that the villain of the piece is a rude, sadistic and actively obstructive job centre employee played by the excellent Jo Enright.

This character has an obvious antecedent in the monstrous Pauline from The League of Gentleman. She also shares a few genes with Little Britain's “Computer says 'No'” grotesque. And yet despite these visible origins, Enright imbues her with a distinctive, deadpan venom.

What this all adds up to is a derivative yet serviceable sitcom with a smattering of potential. But it undoubtedly succeeds in being an ITV sitcom that's Not Appalling. I still can't quite believe it and Vicious exist at all.