TV Review: GOING FORWARD + MUM

This article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 21st May 2016.

https://www.thecourier.co.uk/category/lifestyle/entertainment/tv-film/

Going Forward: Thursday, BBC Four

Mum: Friday, BBC Two

It’s arguably the fault of Carla Lane and her endless glut of joke-shy sitcoms about unhappy middle-class women that the term “gentle comedy” was, for many years, derided as a euphemism for “not funny”. The truth of the matter is that, at its best, understated, low-key comedy – a more helpful description, I think – is often sharper, funnier and more penetrating than broader examples of the form.

A notable case in point was the BAFTA-winning sitcom Getting On, written by and starring Jo Brand, Joanna Scanlan and Vicki Pepperdine. Based in an NHS geriatric ward, it said more about the struggles and faults of that beleaguered institution, and the nuanced flaws of the human condition, than any number of dramas on the same subject. Plus it was funny, piercingly so.

Now Brand is back with a sequel, Going Forward, which follows droll, kindly Kim Wilde in her new job as a community healthcare worker. Although Scanlan and Pepperdine no longer share co-writing duties, it’s just as witty and humane as Getting On. Like that show, it takes a potentially depressing premise – in this case, a middle-aged married couple with mounting financial woes – and finds something curiously life-affirming at its core.

A large part of its charm is the natural chemistry between Brand and Omid Djalili as her struggling chauffeur husband, Dave. They really do feel like a beleaguered yet happy couple who’ve shared a couch for years. Generously, Brand gave Djalili the funniest scenes in episode one, via his exasperated, almost Pete and Dud-esque conversation with a colleague who insisted that chauffeuring in Iraq is where the jackpot lies. 

Despite its warmth, there’s an underlying edge of desperation to Going Forward. Kim and Dave are barely surviving. Kim’s sister is a neurotic mess. Kim’s clients are, of course, lonely, housebound elderly people who rely on her for company. But like all the best comedies of its careworn kind, it finds humour in sadness and vice versa. Without blowing its own trumpet, it’s a sly, compassionate comment on the reality of life for millions of Britons today. There’s nothing gentle about that.

Cut from a similar cloth, Mum is a well-observed new sitcom starring the brilliant Lesley Manville as Cathy, a recently bereaved widow struggling to put her life back together. Once again, it spins a rich seam of comedy from a wholly downbeat premise.

Each episode is set over a few hours inside Cathy’s suburban home, hence why it reminds me of Simon Amstell’s underrated Grandma’s House. Tender and sharp, humane but never sentimental, it revolves around that distinctly British conceit of maintaining politeness in the face of social awkwardness. 

It’s full of small talk, inadvertent insensitivity, condescending pettiness and pained smiles (Manville is so good at smiling through anguish). But like Going Forward, it doesn’t look down on its characters. Even Cathy’s horrifically snobbish sister-in-law is tinged with pathos.

Peter Mullan – an actor often typecast as hard-nuts – is a heart-tugging bundle of unrequited love as an old friend of Cathy’s, while newcomer Lisa McGrillis shines with an endearingly tactless performance as the well-meaning girlfriend of Cathy’s son. She’s that rarity, a “stupid” sitcom character written and performed with warmth. That’s Mum all over, really. It’s a gem.

TV Review: STONEMOUTH and THE INTERCEPTOR

Stonemouth: Monday, BBC One

The Interceptor: Wednesday, BBC One

Paul Whitelaw

“Hi, is that Peter Mullan's agent? I've got a part he might be interested in; a gruff Scottish hard man who – what? He'll do it? Great!”

Fine actor though he is, Mullan could growl and scowl through his role in Stonemouth in a state of deep somnambulance. Given the thinness of his material in this case, I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

Based on a novel by Iain Banks, it's a lacklustre neo-noir yarn in which a young man, Stewart, returns to an Aberdeenshire coastal town to investigate the supposed suicide of his best friend, Cal.

A charismatic rebel, Cal was the son of a local drugs kingpin (Mullan, natch) and the brother of Stewart's estranged paramour, Ellie. An unwelcome presence in Stonemouth, Stewart was literally run out of town two years prior after humiliating Ellie on the eve of their nuptials. Consumed with guilt and regret, he's desperate to make amends by reconnecting with Ellie and avenging Cal's death.

God knows I'm not asking for sympathy, but I almost bored myself rigid writing that brief synopsis. Stonemouth is hackneyed beyond belief. Transposing an archetypal Western/film noir storyline to contemporary Scotland can't disguise its tired familiarity. On the contrary, it merely draws attention to its clichéd, self-conscious failings.

Stewart's semi-hard-boiled narration, a staple of the genre, isn't lyrical enough to excuse its function as a clumsy source of exposition. Indeed, the dialogue as a whole is awkwardly mannered and glib. What may have looked witty in print, sounds hopelessly unnatural when spoken aloud.

Surveying the new décor of his former local, Stewart opined, “I prefer the comforting ambience of the masonic conspiracy.” Later Ellie's sister declared, “My apparent lack of remorse isn't a coping mechanism.” Yuk. That's not dialogue, it's typing with fists.

Despite the dead-weight he's carrying, English actor Christian Cook – replete with passable Scots brogue - does a decent job as Stewart. Though too handsome to convince as a lovelorn everyman, he has a certain droll charm. And Mullan, well, Mullan hits his mark with practised professionalism.

While certain dryly comic moments work quite well – e.g. rival kingpin Gary Lewis's inept efforts to assure Stewart that he had nothing to do with Cal's demise – Stonemouth is fatally soulless, flat and cheap-looking. Not so much a hotbed of turmoil, more a knackered mattress of sin.

But it's a mind-blowing trip into the wild unknown compared to The Interceptor. This brazenly hackneyed thriller follows – hell yeah – an acutely observant, maverick customs agent recruited by an off-grid squad of law-enforcers intent on targeting powerful white collar drug magnates.

As a child, our brooding hero witnessed his dad being killed by a drug-addled wrong 'un. Yep, it's personal. Make no mistake, this man is on a righteous moral crusade. Scores must be settled. Brows must be furrowed.

He knows it's untouchable Mr Big, that bespoke criminal in his so-called suit and tie, and not your addict scrabbling on the street who is responsible for devastating everyday crimes. Damn right he does. It's a valid target, but his aim is scatter-shot. He's too emotional, just too damn close to the case.

In the unlikely event that any of these nuanced character motives went over your head, a Scottish boss with the truculent demeanour of an errant Beechgrove gardener was helpfully on hand to spell it out in bluntly literal detail.

I've no idea how a dramatist can write tosh like this and not feel hideously embarrassed. I hope the cheque was worth it. If, like me, you've never wondered what a Richard Madeley take on The Wire would be like, then The Interceptor refuses to honour that indifference.

With his casual, star-making charisma, lead actor O-T Fagbenle imbues this arrant pablum with far more class than it deserves. At least it's never boring, but only in the sense that it doesn't sit still: a desperate magician trying to disguise his hack-work with slick patter and an aggressive frilly shirt.

Its cynical professionalism almost makes me hanker for the student-level blandness of Stonemouth. Almost.