TV Review: DEREK

This article was originally published in The Courier on 17th May 2014.

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

Derek: Wednesday, Channel 4

Paul Whitelaw

Before we talk about Derek, some historical context is required. Only when familiar with the evolution of Ricky Gervais’ extraordinary paean to kindness and innocence can we truly get to grips with its myriad complexities.

It’s 2002. Following the initial success of The Office, Gervais starred in an ensemble stand-up show at the Edinburgh Fringe. He introduced a character called Derek Noakes. The mannerisms were already in place: the shuffling gait, jutting jaw and forehead-flattened hair were all recognisable as the Derek we know and love today.

The important difference is that this iteration of Derek wasn’t a wise, holy fool deserving of respect. He was a figure of fun, a lonely, deluded man with learning difficulties who existed purely as a vessel for cheap “shock” humour. We were being invited to laugh at an able-bodied comedian brazenly performing a cruel playground caricature.

Gervais frequently broke character to cackle at his own outrageousness, clearly thrilled by the buzz of getting away with it. That was the “point” of Derek: an act of childish mockery from someone who should know better.

As the years went by, Gervais would occasionally slip into Derek during his stand-up act as a way of deriding those he deemed beneath him, namely “sad” autograph hunters and Britain’s Got Talent fans. Weirdly, autograph hunting and BGT are two of the “favouritest” things of Derek from the heart-warming Channel 4 sitcom.

Gervais then got in trouble for repeatedly using the word “mong” on Twitter and on stage (he described Susan Boyle as such; the newer, nicer Derek is a big fan of Boyle). Despite being widely recognised as a disablist insult, Gervais denied any knowledge of this. As far as he was concerned, it was just a harmless way of describing the comical face-pulling he’s so fond of. And yet his Boyle routine blatantly contradicts this claim: he obviously knew what it meant.

Stung by the backlash, he hastily revived Derek for an embarrassingly mawkish, heavy-handed comedy-drama about an elderly care home. We’re now expected to accept him as an inspirational figure whose unwavering kindness is a lesson to us all. And yet Derek, which resembles an inept pantomime written by an earnest teenager, constantly undermines this simplistic message.

Kindly Derek wrestles an elderly resident to the floor; a woman is mocked for being overweight; alcoholism is debilitating yet hilarious; OAP sex is repulsive; older people should be listened to, just as long as they’re given as few lines as possible; it’s perfectly acceptable for a care home assistant to have sex with her boyfriend on the premises.

What a fascinating, jaw-dropping mess. Nothing about it makes sense. And yet some have fallen for it. Viewers who cared little for the choice highlights of his earlier work now regard Gervais as a saintly purveyor of valuable life lessons. His cynical volte-face worked. Maybe he’s a genius after all.

The latest episode featured a visit to the zoo. Its whimsical celebration of the animal kingdom would’ve had Attenborough reaching for an air rifle. Meanwhile, Hannah’s mission to conceive ended in disappointment. Cue Derek: “I wanted to ‘old it… I never knows what to say, so I just hugs. And that sort of says it all.”

I don’t think Gervais is a bad person. He’s doubtless convinced himself that Derek is a sincere plea from the heart. The reality is it’s one of the most addictively incompetent works ever produced by a major comedian. I loves it, me.

TV Review: IN THE FLESH and WHEN CORDEN MET BARLOW

This article was originally published in The Courier on 10th May 2014.

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

In The Flesh: Sunday, BBC Three

When Corden Met Barlow: Monday, BBC One

Paul Whitelaw

When In the Flesh first appeared last year, it initially looked like just another rotting passenger on the never-ending zombie bandwagon. For those of us suffering from undead fatigue, it didn't look promising. But a few minutes spent in its company revealed that, far from being a standard zombie horror show, it was in fact a surprisingly intelligent, bleak and sensitive drama about prejudice and adolescent alienation.

The premise is simple but effective: in the aftermath of a zombie uprising, the undead have been cured of their ailment and reintegrated into society. Unfortunately, trying to start a new life in a world you've only recently terrorised and chewed upon is fraught with difficulties.

First of all, you have to come to terms with the fact that you're basically a sentient cadaver. Secondly, your sincere pleas for forgiveness aren't readily accepted by those who regard you as an unholy menace. It wasn't particularly subtle, but the irony of humans being as rabid in their bigotry as zombies are in their quest for flesh was effectively delivered.

Indeed, the first series, which ran for just three episodes, seemed to explore its premise fully. Framed through the milky eyes of Kieren, a rehabilitated young zombie in a downtrodden northern village, it was a compact piece that could've easily stood alone. So is a second series really necessary?

The only dangling thread from last year was the background presence of the Undead Liberation Army, an extremist group of cured zombies who want to militantly reclaim their rotting souls. Sure enough, they lunged to the fore as the saga resumed.

The overall tone was as before: unlike most zombie dramas, In the Flesh depicts a world of kitchen sink apocalypse – 28 Days Later via Coronation Street. But it introduced a few new wrinkles in the form of a careerist politician who arrived in Roarton – all fictional northern villages should have faintly terrifying names – to further her vendetta against sufferers of “Partially Deceased Syndrome”, and a charismatic disciple of the so-called Undead Prophet who failed to attract Kieren to the cause. Meanwhile, Kenneth Cranham's bible-thumping, zombie-hating preacher gets madder – and closer to cardiac arrest – by the second.

At this stage it's too early to judge whether In the Flesh has anything to add to its established themes. The first episode was mildly intriguing, but it did feel at times like an aimless, uncertain sequel.

Similarly, what was the point of When Corden Met Barlow? An extended puff piece in thrall to tax-avoiding millionaire Gary Barlow, it was the uncritical story of a great survivor, the comeback kid. The narrative arc was that, having once been considered something of a joke, the former Take That dynamo is now a beloved national treasure. It was proof that if you repeat a falsehood often enough, it eventually becomes true.

To be fair, this contrived road trip, in which avowed fan James Corden took Barlow on a cheery road trip down memory lane, was affable enough in its entirely undemanding way. Corden has calmed down a lot since his initial burst of post-fame arrogance and ubiquity, and I can't deny that Barlow seems like a nice guy. Of course, being a nice guy is an integral part of the Gary Barlow package, but I doubt anyone could fake that level of amiability over such a sustained period of time. It would be exhausting.

TV Review: PREY

This article was originally published in The Courier on 3rd May 2014.

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

Prey: Monday, STV

Paul Whitelaw

John Simm has spent most of his acting career bruised, battered and thoroughly harrowed. Prey was no exception. Basically a brutal British remake of The Fugitive, this propulsive thriller finds Simm in the browbeaten role of Marcus Farrow, a Manchester copper wrongly accused of murdering his ex-wife and son.

Pursued by a female colleague whose own personal issues – she appears to be stalking an ex – may be distorting her judgement, he spent most of episode one in an understandable state of distress.

The jittery opening sequence was a pocket master-class in ensnaring our attention: waking up in the back of a crashed police van with a ballpoint pen sticking out of his chest (a nice, grisly detail), Farrow sprang into action and rescued the survivors from the oil-soaked vehicle. Straight away it was clear that, despite his prison fatigues, this was an inherently decent, resourceful man. But once he was free, he spied his chance and fled the scene. Unfortunately, he fled straight into the path of a passing vehicle. Did that stop him in his tracks? Not a chance. He just picked himself up and hobbled over the horizon. Cue credits.

It was – absolutely no pun intended – an arresting introduction, and typical of writer Chris Lunt's commitment to maintaining intensity at all cost. As the action flashed back to three days earlier, when Farrow was a free man, the pace never slackened.

Relentlessly overcast dramas can often be unwittingly funny - there's a thin line between intense seriousness and inadvertent comedy – but Prey was saved by intelligent writing, taut direction and understated performances from a stellar cast of reliable character actors. It wasn't even hampered by the fact that three of the principals, namely Rosie Cavaliero, Benedict Wong and Adrian Edmondson, are generally better known for comedy.

It did, however, confirm that Craig Parkinson is forever destined to play dodgy characters. As soon as he cropped up as Farrow's best friend, anyone familiar with TV drama must've narrowed their eyes in suspicion. Sure enough, it transpired that his character is somehow involved in the plot to destroy Farrow. Of course he is.

His presence also highlighted unavoidable similarities with Line of Duty, in which he also starred. It was entirely coincidental, but Lunt must've kicked himself when he watched that: you wait ages for one addictive conspiracy thriller involving an upturned prison van and an incarcerated police officer, and two come along at once.

Nevertheless, Prey worked effectively on its own terms. It may cover well-trodden territory – it's an Hitchcockian 'wrong man' thriller in modern apparel – but it's utterly committed to the cause.

The supporting cast are excellent, but this is Simm's show all the way. Three scenes in particular were testament to his acting prowess. The first, where he angrily confronted his ex-wife about her new partner, was painfully convincing. The second, in which he was informed of the death of his son, was almost unbearable. As the camera clung mercilessly to his grief-stricken face, his pitiful, muttered “oh” was more devastating than any amount of fireworks. And his untrammelled fury when he was first accused of murdering his family was a powerful example of an actor dredging raw emotion from the depths of their soul.

Suffice to say, it's not the sort of thing one normally expects from ITV at 9pm. Thank goodness for that.

TV Review: THE GUESS LIST and AMAZING GREYS

The Guess List: Saturday, BBC One

Amazing Greys: Saturday, STV

Paul Whitelaw

It's testament to the versatility of Rob Brydon that he can concurrently star in BBC Two's The Trip to Italy with Steve Coogan, which behind all the crowd-pleasing impersonations is a relatively introspective project, and appear as the host of a shiny-floored Saturday night game show on BBC One. Almost unique among his peers, he straddles both worlds with ease.

Co-produced by the man himself, The Guess List is basically just an excuse for him to muck about with an unusually high calibre of celebrity guest. When was the last time you saw Simon Callow, let alone Jennifer Saunders, on a quiz show? It's presumably due to Brydon's standing in the industry that he can command such stellar talent.

The actual quiz format – basically a straightforward fusion of Family Fortunes and Blankety Blank – takes a back seat to Brydon's genial joshing with the panellists and contestants. And that's why, despite its populist front, The Guess List finds itself in a post-watershed slot.

While I'm sure he's more than capable of fronting a family-friendly light entertainment show, the default nature of his wit – that winning barrage of barbed insults softened with a butter-wouldn't-melt veneer – is slightly too dark for the Doctor Who and Strictly audience. 

While hardly shocking, his quips about autopsies and caesareans wouldn't sit comfortably at 7pm. This is a man, lest we forget, who was responsible for Marion and Geoff and Human Remains, two of the bleakest TV comedies of the last fifteen years. That contrast between the affable mainstream entertainer and the cult character comedian with a penchant for darkness creates an interesting tension.

Ultimately, however, The Guess List is good, silly, harmless fun. As a quiz show host, Brydon has learned from the best. His aghast looks to camera are pure Brucie – he even threw in a brief impersonation, which were otherwise sparingly used – and his occasional gags at the expense of “Mrs Brydon” would've delighted Les Dawson. As host of Would I Lie to You? he often intrudes to the detriment of the game, whereas here the whole point is his cheeky dominance of the format.

It helps that his guests happily throw themselves into the spirit of the show. Callow was an endearing tumult of good-natured mirth as he endured countless barbs about his age. And even James Corden – who's obviously learned a few valuable lessons in humility – was content to let his old Gavin & Stacey colleague hog the spotlight. 

If your tolerance for Brydon is limited, then The Guess List will quickly outstay its welcome. But if, like me, you're a fan of his work, then it's just another welcome excuse to spend time in his company.

ITV's new Saturday night rival, Amazing Greys, is by comparison a turgid bore. Together at last, Paddy McGuinness and Angela Rippon pit various young pretenders against a team of older experts. The point is presumably to show that - hey! - old people can achieve things too. How enlightening.

Interminably padded – just five tedious rounds were played over the space of an hour – it's an inherently patronising misfire that encourages a kind of cloying faux-rivalry between the generations. It also begs the unanswerable question: why is Paddy McGuinness? You could drive yourself mad pondering that one.

TV Review: TOMMY COOPER: NOT LIKE THAT, LIKE THIS

This article was originally published in The Courier on Saturday 26th August 2014.

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

Tommy Cooper: Not Like That, Like This: Monday, STV

Paul Whitelaw

In the unlikely event that I should ever appear on Mastermind, I suspect my specialist subject would be 'TV Biopics About Dead Comedians'. That's hardly the most impressive claim, but you work with what you have.

BBC Four has famously mined this seam for all it's worth in the last few years, more often than not with dubious results. For every incisive drama about the likes of Kenny Everett and Kenneth Williams – famous, funny Kens have been served well - they've produced half a dozen hackneyed biopics seemingly hell-bent on reducing the subject in question to the laziest set of tears-of-a-clown clichés. I've seen 'em all, and admired very few.

So I wasn't expecting much from Tommy Cooper: Not Like That, Like This. He may be one of our most beloved comics, but the grisly details of his personal life – alcoholism, infidelity, domestic violence – suggested that this would be just another tawdry wallow in showbiz misery. How wrong I was. What I hadn't banked on – and this was foolish in retrospect – was that this prestigious production was written by Simon Nye, a seasoned comedy writer whose respect for the Gods of his craft couldn't be more obvious.

Unlike most dramas of its kind, this one actually went out of its way to remind us that the tragic Pagliacci in question was a very funny person. The re-staging of classic comedy routines almost always fall painfully flat in biopics, but in the careful hands of Nye and David Threfall – who delivered an uncanny performance as Cooper, rubbery latex face and all – they really came alive. It was an affectionate tribute to the craft and toil of mirth-making itself; very few dramas in my experience have explored the idea of comedy as a serious business with such scrutiny and understanding.

Cooper came across as an artist who knew exactly what he was doing at all times. Like all performers, he could be anxious, self-involved and demanding. But you have to admire the amount of effort he devoted to looking like an inept, befuddled fool on stage. The irony, of course, is that in private he was a mess. 

All of the care and attention he lavished on his studiously ramshackle act was absent from his dealings with the women in his life. But Nye and Threfall, both of whom have clearly studied Cooper in some detail, understood that behind his maddening frailties, this was ultimately a lovable man. He was obsessed with comedy, but ill-suited to reality.

The way he treated his wife and mistress – both portrayed with dignity by, respectively, Amanda Redman and Helen McCrory – was unforgivable. Without going into graphic detail, Nye didn't shy away from the fact that Cooper could be physically abusive when drunk. But he never came across as a monster. Rather, he was a lost and rather hopeless alcoholic who craved adoration on his own unreasonable terms. 

I didn't think any less of Cooper after watching this sensitive, witty, nuanced drama. On the contrary, I came away from it with a renewed respect for his genius, and a sort of weary, hesitant sympathy for him as a tortured human being.

Everyone involved should be applauded for creating that rare beast: an angst-ridden biopic about a comedian that succeeded in celebrating his art while seeking to understand his personal demons. Without question, it was one of the best dramas of it's kind I've ever seen. 

TV Review: THE CRIMSON FIELD and THE TRIP TO ITALY

The Crimson Field: Sunday, BBC One

The Trip to Italy: Friday, BBC Two

Paul Whitelaw

If the Sunday evening gulf left by Call the Midwife is proving difficult, then The Crimson Field should help to ease the pain. Similarly mired in suffering, it's a death-infested medical drama set in an army field hospital during World War One. While I wouldn't go so far as calling these shows subversive, it's somewhat pleasing that BBC One's traditionally cosy period drama slot is now the reserve of determinedly miserable bedpan horror stories.

Our plucky heroines are a trio of mismatched voluntary nurses. They're a carefully selected study in contrasts: one plays by the rules, the other is a brusquely perceptive rebel, and the third is a golly gosh posh girl who's frightfully eager to please.

As played by Oona Chaplin, the taciturn maverick is the only truly interesting character. Immediately at odds with the stereotypically stern matron, she's a novel protagonist – certainly for dramas of this nature – in that's she's not immediately sympathetic. 

“I didn't come here to make friends,” she snapped, like a prototypical reality TV star. Indeed, she didn't bond with anyone other than the possibly psychotic dying soldier who physically attacked her and demanded that she save his life. When she refused to beg for mercy, he crumbled in confusion. How convenient. There was an intriguing suggestion that she doesn't really care if she lives or dies, which given her circumstances is probably an ideal state of mind.

As with most Great War dramas, The Crimson Field makes a blunt point about the mercenary madness of governing officers. We were treated to a visit from a straight-faced General Melchett type who was practically frothing at the mouth at the prospect of getting wounded men back in the firing line.

“If they can walk and shoot then back up they go,” he barked, his medals for cruelty glistening by gaslight. Not content with sending a clearly traumatised young man to war, he then accused the patients of faking venereal disease. Thank heavens, then, for the kindly hospital chief played by Kevin Doyle, otherwise known as that nice Mr Molesley from Downton Abbey. He's like a beacon of decency in a quagmire of carnage.

The late arrival of Suranne Jones as a strikingly modern Sister – she has a bob and rides a motorbike – suggested an impending storm of friction, and there's obviously something afoot with the quietly bitter Sister whose position she's usurped.

Written by former EastEnders scribe Sarah Phelps, it's a slick and assured drama. While it was hardly free of cliché, episode one was more or less a textbook example of how to establish an ongoing drama. And hats off to Phelps for including a plot strand about graphically depicted dismembered toes and the incineration of amputated limbs. It was admirable in that it would be insulting to shy away from the visceral realities of World War One. I'm sure we've got a lot more discomfort to come.

One of the most purely pleasurable shows I've seen in quite some time, The Trip to Italy reunites Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon as barely fictionalised versions of themselves on a culinary road trip through gorgeous scenery. Mostly free from the animosity that characterised series one, their enjoyment of each other's company is contagious. Spending half an hour with them each week is a grin-inducing treat.

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.