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.

TV Review: POLDARK and NURSE

This article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 14th March 2015.

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

Poldark: Sunday, BBC One

Nurse: Tuesday, BBC Two

Paul Whitelaw

It's oddly satisfying, humbling even, that one of Britain's biggest ever TV exports concerns a man in a tricorn-hat struggling to revive his tin mine. A massive hit in its 1970s heyday, the BBC's first adaptation of Winston Graham's Poldark novels cemented forever our worldwide reputation as stalwart purveyors of high-end period drama.

It's therefore fitting that this grand tradition continues with the latest version, which – mark my soothsaying words – will be an enormous hit. Why? Because it ticks all the right boxes in brazenly confident style.

Self-evidently, no expense has been spared in bringing this savagely romantic world to life. Set in Cornwall in the late 18^th century, it mercilessly exploits the area's rugged coastlines and vast, God-fearing skies. While it doesn't quite match the almost docudrama feel of Wolf Hall, it does boast a fairly authentic sense of candle-lit time and place. Visually, it's a resplendently photographed treat.

But pretty pictures are all for naught without a sturdy mainframe to support them. Fortunately, this epic saga is told in rip-roaring style. Though played deadly straight by a fine ensemble cast, it benefits in execution from a kind of sly knowingness.

Scenes of Poldark on horseback galloping dramatically along the coastline, or removing his shirt for no earthly reason, flirt outrageously with barnstorming camp. Casting Aidan Turner from Being Human as Poldark is a master-stroke. A charismatic, handsome actor, he broods and twinkles most effectively. Artfully stubbled and tousled of barnet, this saturnine hunk spends much of his screen-time glowering intensely as clouds gather ominously, yet somehow sexily, overhead. It's a star-making performance.

A charming scoundrel with a sturdy moral core, he's ably supported by a rich cast of characters including Phil Davis in unabashed scowling mode as a ruddy-faced manservant, and the late Warren Clarke in his final screen role as Poldark's scheming uncle. Though she doesn't come into her own until later episodes, newcomer Eleanor Tomlinson is suitably feral yet delicate as Poldark's vulnerable peasant ward.

Normally I'd criticise a drama for leaning on blunt exposition - I lost count of the number of times a variation on “Cornwall is changing, these are difficult times” was uttered in episode one – but here it forms part of a slightly heightened, charming sense of melodrama. Subtlety is grabbed by the seat of its britches and hurled into the crashing briny. In the rampant world of Poldark, understatement is as welcome as a bout of scurvy.

The bold antithesis of a staid Sunday night period drama, it's tremendous fun.

A tender new vehicle for Paul Whitehouse, Nurse is as low-key as Poldark is bombastic. Essentially a series of bittersweet character sketches linked by a loose yet effective through-line, it follows a community psychiatric nurse as she visits her patients, most of whom are played by the heroically versatile Whitehouse. 

Stand-out characters include a depressed ex-con struggling with agoraphobia, and a delightfully ingratiating Jewish OAP. Whitehouse is an extraordinary actor, yet his multiple turns never feel like egocentric grand-standing. He's fully invested in these three-dimensional characters.

Though often very funny, ultimately Nurse is a sensitive and humane study of issues surrounding mental health and community care. I can't recommend it enough.

TV PREVIEW: Dancing on the Edge, Being Human

This article was originally published in The Scotsman on 2nd February 2012.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/tv-and-radio/tv-preview-dancing-on-the-edge-being-human-1-2774766

DANCING ON THE EDGE

Monday and Tuesday, BBC2, 9pm

BEING HUMAN

Sunday, BBC3, 10pm

Paul Whitelaw

Listen. Can you hear it? That hushed collective murmur. That crackle of furrowed brows. It can only mean one thing: maverick auteur Stephen Poliakoff has descended from the heavens with yet another lofty drama heaving with prestige.

One of British television's only prominent writer/directors, Poliakoff is renowned – and in some quarters, reviled – as an idiosyncratic purveyor of discursive narrative and mannered style. His dramas are often wilfully opaque and burnished with a sort of straight-faced eccentricity which, for me at least, makes him one of the medium's most intriguing artistes (for make no mistake, the man is an artiste).

And yet despite having worked in TV for over 30 years, Poliakoff has never created a drama series. That is, until now. Spread over six episodes, DANCING ON THE EDGE focuses on a fictional black jazz band caught in web of dangerous intrigue in early 1930s London.

It begins arrestingly with the suave yet hunted figure of band-leader Louis Lester (the strikingly charismatic Chiwetel Ejiofor) seeking desperate refuge at the headquarters of a popular music magazine edited by rogueish critic Stanley (Matthew Goode, seemingly channelling the winning, edgy charm of a young David Bowie). It then flashes back to eighteen months earlier, where we discover how they met amidst an aristocratic circle of seemingly well-meaning white liberals who, despite professing a sincere love of Lester's thrillingly modern music, appear to be partially attracted by the shock-waves it causes throughout sniffy high society.

The more enigmatic members of the group include a powerful American tycoon played by John Goodman, whose ambiguous motives drive much of the plot, and a benevolent playboy played by Anthony Head. The impressive cast is rounded out by Jacqueline Bisset, Mel Smith, Caroline Quentin and new Doctor Who companion Jenna Louise-Coleman.

One of the more interesting things about Dancing On the Edge is how it merges thriller fiction with little-explored historical fact, as The Louis Lester Band, under the auspices of the ambitious Stanley, suddenly find themselves rubbing shoulders with royalty (in reality, Edward VIII was friendly with the Duke Ellington band) while struggling against ingrained prejudice and Britain's fierce immigration policies.

It's also interesting to see Poliakoff attempt a drama with a potentially more populist appeal – indeed, it's vaguely redolent of The Hour - although the downside of this is that some of his more distinctive traits are compromised in the process. His approach at times is clumsily heavy-handed, with characters prone to articulating their inner motives in unnecessarily helpful detail (in episode one alone, Head's character seems to spend most of his time excitedly looking forward to Britain's future. Oh, if only he knew, eh viewers?). It feels rather condescending, as if the great artiste doesn't trust his audience with nuance of meaning. And having watched the entire series, I can report with some authority that he spreads too little story over too many episodes.

Furthermore, it's little wonder that the first two episodes are screening over successive evenings, given that very little of note actually happens in part one. It's only in part two that the stakes are ramped up, thus drawing you in for more. Because once it gets going its central mystery exerts a fairly solid grip – the gnawing question of who Lester can really trust among his new friends is effectively sustained throughout – and the cast never put a foot wrong. The original period score by Adrian Johnston is appropriately lively, and Poliakoff has lost none of his knack for creating unsettling moods within the artfully oppressive confines of grand houses and hotels. That's one of his “things”, dontcha know.

Similarly obsessed with the horror of hotels, albeit of a tattier three-star persuasion, is writer Toby Whithouse, who delivered a memorable episode of Doctor Who in 2011 which owed much to Kubrick's The Shining. He's at it again with the fifth series of BEING HUMAN, which positions two of its central characters – Hal the vampire and Tom the werewolf – as lowly employees at a hotel in which all manner of blood-caked supernatural mayhem inevitably ensues.

This is the first series of this black comedy-drama in which the original trio of house-sharing ghouls don't appear at all. Fortunately, actors Damien Moloney, Michael Socha and Kate Bracken – a Scottish actress who would've been a far more effective Amy Pond in Doctor Who than Karen Gillan ever was – are capable, likeable replacements. But the problem now with Being Human isn't that the cast has changed, but that the format feels tired.

The personal (if you will) demons and emotional dynamic between the three characters are essentially identical to those of the original line-up. It feels like we've seen it all before. Also, the conceit of introducing a powerful new antagonist every year, who must always be bigger and badder than previous foes, now feels rather rote and strained. All ongoing dramas are bound by formula to an extent, but Being Human appears to have exhausted itself.

You know it's getting desperate when even the addition of Phil Davis in his grizzled, scowling pomp can't add much juice to proceedings. I'd like to be proved wrong, but I don't hold out much hope.