TV Review: HARRY & PAUL'S HISTORY OF THE 2's/50 YEARS OF BBC2 COMEDY

This article was originally published in The Courier on 31st May 2014.

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

Harry & Paul's History of the 2's: Sunday, BBC Two

50 Years of BBC2 Comedy: Saturday, BBC Two

Paul Whitelaw

Ever since it first popped into being, BBC Two has enjoyed a deserved reputation as a champion of edgy, innovative, subversive comedy. So it was only fitting that last weekend, in honour of its 50^th anniversary, it aired a standalone comedy which, quite without mercy, directly undermined the channel itself.

It probably wasn’t deliberate, but Harry & Paul’s History of the 2’s felt like a scathing lampoon of the celebratory clip show which aired just the night before. Not only that, it openly criticised Two’s decline from “highbrow” bastion of the arts to the confused, identity-free mess that it is today. It was alternative comedy in the truest sense.

Devised by Harry Enfield, Paul Whitehouse and Charlie Higson – who themselves owe Two an enormous debt – it was an irreverent spoof of every predictably compiled arts documentary you’ve ever rolled your eyes at. Linked by a gloriously unhinged performance from Enfield as Simon Schama – the deserted TV Centre backdrop added an unexpected note of poignancy – it attacked practically every sacred cow in Two’s illustrious history.

While some of the sketches felt undercooked and obvious, the unflinching highlights made up for the duds. As they grow older and grumpier, Enfield and Whitehouse have developed an admirable tendency to criticise their comedy peers. Targets included the sainted Pythons’ shameless milking of their own legacy, and the tired, formulaic ubiquity of comedy panel shows. This last sketch was a master-class in savage satire, as it laid waste to the phoned-in shtick of Paul Merton, Alan Davies, Russell Howard et al.

Lest they be accused of high-minded bitterness, they also included digs at their own shortcomings. A Boys from the Blackstuff spoof morphed into a self-deprecating critique of the duo’s reliance on crowd-pleasing catchphrases, while they openly acknowledged that – far from being the work of ground-breaking alternative comedians – Enfield’s sketch shows were essentially as traditional as Dick Emery.

Enfield and Whitehouse have form in this genre. Smashie & Nicey: End of an Era is one of the greatest, yet curiously underrated, spoof documentaries ever made. And sure enough, their careful attention to detail was in abundant evidence throughout. Parodies of everything from The Ascent of Man to The Young Ones used the correct film and video stock: the very best parodies always take time to accurately mimic their source material.

Indeed, this was a programme aimed at an audience steeped in TV history, and as such it was heroically refreshing. Even when the jokes fell flat, I never lost the sense that this was something created by people with huge respect for the medium, and a healthy disrespect for its failings. That deft combination of wry affection and outright mockery is a hallmark of Enfield, Whitehouse and Higson’s work.

This may not rank among their finest work, but it was still a bold, delightful, gag-packed assault on the very art of TV itself.

The real, straight-faced deal, 50 Years of BBC2 Comedy was the usual confection of over-familiar clips and platitudinous talking heads. But it did serve as a reminder that, despite Harry and Paul’s irreverence, Two has produced some of the best comedy ever made.

A welcoming playpen for uncompromising oddballs such as Spike Milligan, The League of Gentlemen and Chris Morris, it’s made an invaluable contribution to popular culture. These days it broadcasts The Great British Bake-Off. What price progress?

TV Review: NEW WORLDS and ALEXANDER ARMSTRONG'S REAL RIPPING YARNS

This article was originally published in The Courier on 5th April 2014.

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

New Worlds: Tuesday, Channel 4

Alexander Armstrong's Real Ripping Yarns: Thursday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

Six years ago, Channel 4 aired a semi-fictionalised drama about the English Civil War called The Devil's Whore. Despite boasting a cast including Michael Fassbender, John Simm, Dominic West, Peter Capaldi and Andrea Riseborough, it was a distinctly average affair.

Perhaps it's the circle of one I move in, but I don't recall much clamour for a sequel. And yet here it is, in the guise of New Worlds, galloping over the horizon on a wave of public apathy. Television is often accused of being a doggedly predictable medium, but it doesn't half surprise and confound sometimes.

Set 20 years after the unmemorable events of The Devil's Whore, it flits between an unstable 17^th century England and settler-dominated Massachusetts. Writer Peter Flannery, best known for Our Friends in the North, seems to be groping towards a valid point about the hypocrisy of Britons railing against royal oppression at home while subjugating an entire race of people abroad. He's aided in this regard by shots of Native Americans being slaughtered in meaningful slow-motion. Subtle, it is not.

Back in rural Oxfordshire, former Cromwell acolyte Angela Fanshawe – now played by Eve Best, rather than Andrea Riseborough – presides over an idyllic retreat of twee, gown-clad maidens. This safe refuge for ethereal Timotei models was inevitably invaded by the bloodied chaos of the outside world. As in The Devil's Whore, Flannery revels in presenting a lurid, violent world rife with heavy symbolism.

Although speckled with ostensibly dramatic incident – Angela's daughter being kidnapped at gunpoint; James Cosmo falling to his death against an unconvincing CG backdrop – it suffers from the same problem as its forebear: it's hard to invest in these thinly drawn characters, as they feel more like pieces being moved around on a flame-engulfed chessboard. It's handsomely shot, but pretty pictures count for nothing when used to mask such turgid storytelling. New Worlds isn't so much a drama as a lavish historical pop-up book; a bewigged chore in search of meaning.

Accompanied by a welcome repeat run of Michael Palin and Terry Jones' post-Python classic, Alexander Armstrong's Real Ripping Yarns delved into the square-jawed world of Boy's Own adventures. Much like the series itself, it was mired in a sort of appalled affection for this archaic terrain of absurd Victorian values.

Armstrong, our genial guide, could barely disguise his admiration for an era when boys were trusted with dangerous poisons and explosives, although his excruciating dip into an ice-cold bath – once thought of as a catch-all cure for male ailments – left one in no doubt about the madness of the era's teachings.

Palin and a curiously marginalised Jones were on hand to discuss their love/hate relationship with the literature of their youth. Palin is often lazily categorised as a frightfully nice and placid chap, but it was clear that a spur of righteous anger underpinned his satirical recollections of a childhood spent in the public school system. It's hard to be truly fond of an epoch steeped in racism and bullying conformity.

Nevertheless, I had to marvel at the deranged metal contraptions used to stave off adolescent sexual urges; “self-pollution” was the wonderfully chaste description. And the letters pages of the day were a font of inadvertent comedy. Full of blunt editorial answers shorn from the context of the letters themselves, they were a master-class in straight-faced surrealism. No wonder Palin and Jones were taking notes.