TV Review: BEAUTY QUEEN OR BUST and MEET THE MORMONS

This article was originally published in The Courier on Saturday 28th June 2014.

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Beauty Queen or Bust: Thursday, Channel 4

Meet the Mormons: Thursday, Channel 4

Paul Whitelaw

Channel 4 rightly gets a bad rap for the more down-market end of its factual slate – My Big Fat Undateable Dole Cheat etc. - but it's still capable of producing the occasional gem. Last Thursday, in a moment of rare generosity, it aired two worthwhile documentaries about troubled young people from vastly different worlds.

The first, Beauty Queen or Bust, was a surprisingly touching account of three hopefuls vying for the Miss England crown. Most films about beauty pageantry tend to focus on the weirder, chintzier aspects, but this new series is more concerned with the hopes and aspirations of girls from disadvantaged backgrounds. For once, it was a programme which sought to sympathise with benefit claimants, rather than demonise them.

Formerly a blazing hub of industry, the Black Country is now one of the most deprived areas in the UK. For Diamond, Natalie and Sammy-Jo, a chance to compete in the Miss England competition offered a tantalising means of escape. Otherwise, what can a poor girl do?

Beauty Queen contestants are usually derided for their aspirational platitudes, but when the likes of Diamond expressed a need to better herself and give hope to others, she was clearly speaking from the heart. The contrast between her public persona – loud, boozy, aggressive – and her private, sensitive, insecure self was quite striking.

Having been expelled from school without any qualifications, she didn't feel as though she'd ever amount to anything. But the judges at the Miss Black Country heats were impressed by her natural elegance and obvious sincerity. Diamond just wanted to feel proud of herself for once. Happily, she succeeded.

This was a positive portrait of working-class women struggling to make something of themselves in a world where the odds are stacked against them. Their dole-funded plight was contrasted with the relative comfort of Ruby, a pageant veteran with a wardrobe full of expensive frocks. The other girls had to pay for their dresses in instalments.

Ruby has been gainfully employed for years, and believes she'd easily find another job if suddenly made redundant. “A lot of the younger generation do just sit back and wait for something to happen,” she opined. Ruby, it is safe to assume, has never walked a mile in their high-heeled shoes.

With its curious rituals and beliefs, it's easy to snigger at the Mormon faith. Yet despite a few wry nods in the direction of their temptation-cessation underwear, Meet the Mormons didn't come to mock. Rather, it was concerned with the difficult realities of life for young missionaries.

It followed Josh, aka Elder Field, as he trained to become an 'Ambassador of God' in Leeds. Barred from seeing his friends and family for the entirety of his two-year mission, Josh was understandably lonely and upset. Director Lynn Alleway offered to give him a hug, but even that was disallowed.

Despite being given unprecedented access to this notoriously secretive church, Alleway was frustrated by the constant hovering presence of a watchful PR man and Josh's limpet-like missionary partner, who swooped in whenever he risked a moment of candour. It was like living in an amenity-free prison where freedom of expression and privacy are punishable offences.

Out on the streets of Leeds, Josh tried to stay positive while facing door-to-door indifference. I don't begrudge anyone their faith, but this was a rather sad study of fruitless indoctrination.  

TV Review: THE AUCTION HOUSE and THE GIRL WHO TALKED TO DOLPHINS

This article was originally published in The Courier on 21st June 2014.

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The Auction House:Tuesday, Channel 4

The Girl Who Talked to Dolphins:Tuesday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

I don't know about you, but there's nothing I enjoy more after a hard day's work than sitting back with a light-hearted documentary about harassed millionaires.

A three-part series, The Auction House is your standard observational fare; a wry glimpse into a world most of us have never visited – in this case, an antique-packed auction house catering to London's wealthy elite – where a host of “colourful” characters go about their business against an incessant backdrop of Danny Elfman-esque music.

Honestly, what is it with the whimsical music in these documentaries? It's like being beaten senseless by Johnny Depp dressed as a raggedy clown.

Full of super-rich people buying things they don't need, Lots Road auction house is owned by a balding tumult of rudeness known as Roger Ross. The staff were admirably frank in their open dislike of this brusque multimillionaire, who's obviously supposed to be The Auction House's breakout star. But unlike, say, Mr Mitchell from Educating Yorkshire, Roger isn't a magnetic presence. He's a charmless businessman, a chore to be around.

His customers were only slightly more compelling. Regular visitors Michael and Craig live in a house crammed with antiques and Old Master paintings. Resembling a pair of carelessly shaved Wookies, they plied their wares in the hope of buying a new set of teeth for dentally-challenged Michael.

Meanwhile, glamorous older lady Lily was looking to decorate her new home, a seven bedroom mansion set in its own park. At Lots Road she had her eye on a three-foot bronze vagina. No home should be without one. She didn't actually like it, she just wanted to own an expensive-looking piece of art. She eventually opted for a graffiti-covered table instead.

The idle whims of the foolishly rich aren't especially interesting, nor are the bickering internal politics of the auction house itself. It's a bum deal.

Very occasionally, a documentary comes along which tells a story so bizarre and arresting, it's a wonder it isn't more commonly known. The Girl Who Talked to Dolphins was one such film.

A tragic saga of 1960s idealism gone sour, it chronicled a NASA-funded experiment into communication with dolphins. Visionary scientist John Lilly believed if humans could find a common language with these intelligent creatures, then they could eventually communicate with extraterrestrials.

His young assistant, Margaret, went one step further: she hatched an ambitious plan to teach a dolphin to speak English. Based in a customised Caribbean house/laboratory, she lived around the clock with a dolphin named Peter. Their bond was so close, she thought nothing of helping him to relieve his sexual urges in order to focus on the lessons at hand. She described it as a precious, gentle process, from which she gained no gratification herself.

This troubling development was compounded by the revelation that Lilly injected the dolphins with LSD, in the hope of communing with them further. Understandably concerned, NASA eventually pulled the plug. When the dolphins were shipped back to America, they were housed in cramped, miserable, excrement-filled tanks.

Depressed and missing Margaret – was he in love with her? - Peter effectively committed suicide by deliberately neglecting to breathe. Margaret still talks of him with immense fondness.

Despite the sex, drugs and questionable morals, this wasn't a salacious film. Rather, it was a sad account of well-meaning humans infringing on the welfare of animals. It was quite extraordinary. 

TV Review: DAVID BECKHAM INTO THE UNKNOWN and STREET KID WORLD CUP

This article was originally published in The Courier on 14th June 2014.

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David Beckham Into the Unknown: Monday, BBC One

Street Kid World Cup: Tuesday and Wednesday, BBC Three

Paul Whitelaw

For the last 22 years, David Beckham has fulfilled a clearly defined professional role. His job was to play football and pose in his underwear for vast sums of money. A simple, straightforward vocation, and one he maintained with admirable professionalism.

No one expected him to be amusing or interesting in real life, which is why he never disappointed when required to open his mouth. Like most top athletes, he was dull, dependable and uncomplicated.

Unfortunately, these attributes are more problematic when the athlete in question is required to front a TV show. In David Beckham Into the Unknown, his crushing lack of charisma created a central void of no escape. For 90 tedious minutes, this unexceptional ball-dribbler scuppered his chances of forging a second career as an Alan Whicker/Michael Palin-style travelogue presenter.

He probably won't lose sleep over this squandered opportunity, as I doubt it was high on his list of priorities. But you have to question the logic of commissioning the programme in the first place. Who thought this was a good idea?

Beckham evidently enjoyed his trip down the Amazon, and who are we to begrudge him the experience? But in order for a travelogue to work successfully, the presenter must be capable of providing insight into the culture they're investigating. Beckham was far too wrapped up in banal self-analysis: “Why did I have to come all this way to be able to think?” I dunno, but at least it's a start.

Director Anthony Mandler attempted to inject some depth into proceedings with the recurring theme of Beckham's global celebrity. Although quick to point out that he always had time for the fans, the multimillionaire superstar frequently expressed frustration at being recognised wherever he went. This trip, he argued, was an attempt to become anonymous for the first time in years. When he eventually encountered a group of Brazilians who didn't know who he was, he claimed to be delighted. Well, good for you, David. Remind me why I should care again?

That may sound harsh, but it's hard to feel much sympathy for a celebrity who tries to escape the limelight via a feature-length documentary about themselves. Complete with cameos from his adoring wife and children, this was an extended PR exercise for the powerhouse Beckham brand. He's obviously a decent soul, so objecting to his presence would be like smacking a one-eyed teddy bear. But the Beckhams are no fools: this was just another example of their canny knack for remaining in the public eye.

None of which would matter if the end product was entertaining. But much like Ewan MacGregor's bike-bound forays into similar territory, it was just a jolly boy's outing filmed and edited to a professional standard. Enjoy your retirement, David. Please don't make any more TV programmes, there's a good lad.

Ironically, Street Kid World Cup was the sort of endeavour that Beckham would doubtless praise to the hilt. A two-part documentary, it followed a team of footballing teenage girls from London, all of whom had been raised in care.

They’d been chosen to represent England in Brazil, as part of the Street Child World Cup. Having never played football together prior to training, they faced a serious uphill struggle. The journey was even harder due to the sheer weight of emotional baggage they carried.

It was a heartening glimpse into the lives of vulnerable children for whom sport offers an invaluable lifeline. 

TV Review: HAPPY VALLEY and AMBER

This article was originally published in The Courier on 7th June 2014.

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Happy Valley: Tuesday, BBC One

Amber: Tuesday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

The time: May 2015. The place: London’s Royal Festival Hall. A noted luminary of stage and screen takes to the podium to make an announcement: “And the BAFTA for Best Drama Series goes to… Happy Valley!” Let’s face it, the bets are off. It’s a foregone conclusion.

This exceptional series, which ended last week, felt like a much-needed assault on the complacency of most mainstream TV drama. Relentlessly dark and unflinching, it’s hardly the sort of thing one normally associates with BBC One at 9pm. That’s why it was so refreshing. An intelligent adult drama, it combined social realist grit with the propulsive drive of a fine-tuned thriller. Hyperbole be damned: it was British TV at its best.

Writer Sally Wainwright has a proven track record with the likes of Last Tango in Halifax and Scott & Bailey, but here she surpassed herself with a tense, gripping triumph of impressive depth and assurance. Compassionate yet unsentimental, her scripts for Happy Valley were a master-class in story-telling and character development.

Despite a dramatic storyline involving kidnap and murder, it felt grounded in the real world. Its scenes of trauma and violence would’ve been stripped of their impact if Wainwright had treated Happy Valley as just another cop show full of gratuitous thrills. Instead she delivered an entirely believable, thoughtful treatise on nature vs nurture and the complex ties between parents and their children. That she did so while keeping viewers on the edge of their seats is testament to her prowess.    

She was aided considerably by faultless performances from all concerned. Sarah Lancashire is rightly considered one of our finest actresses, but her powerful performance as Sergeant Catherine Cawood was her strongest work to date. Despite her tough, sardonic exterior, Catherine was no idealised hero. She was a flawed, convincing, three-dimensional character: a sympathetic woman trapped in a world of conniving, violent men.

Here was a matriarch trying to do the best for her family under inordinately trying circumstances. Consumed with grief and anguish, her gradual descent into depression felt unbearably real in Lancashire’s sensitive hands. Nuanced female protagonists are still a relative rarity on TV, so Wainwright and Lancashire should be applauded for bringing Catherine so vividly to life. 

But it wasn’t simply Lancashire’s show. Steve Pemberton, who’s normally associated with darkly comic roles, was perfect as the pathetic worm whose desperate, selfish actions set the whole terrible ordeal in motion. And James Norton proved genuinely unsettling as a dangerous psychopath who was so much more than a one-note villain. Even the little lad who played Catherine’s troubled grandson held his own: he delivered one of the most affecting child performances I’ve seen in some time.

What a pleasure it is to heap such praise on a classy home-grown jewel.

Sadly, Amber couldn’t compete. Covering broadly similar territory to Happy Valley, it’s a four-part Irish drama about a missing teenage girl. Yet despite the emotive subject matter, it suffered from thin characterisation and rather stiff, quotidian execution.

With its muted tone, steely greys and overcast skies, it’s obviously indebted to Scandinavian dramas such as The Killing. Much like series one of that modern classic, it focused on the post-traumatic fall-out of the family concerned. But it's a curiously flat and empty experience.

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.

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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: FROM THERE TO HERE

This article was originally published in The Courier on 24th May 2014.

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

From There to Here: Thursday, BBC One

Paul Whitelaw

If he has any sense, then Philip Glenister has no doubt long since accepted his professional destiny of playing taciturn, dry-witted men from Manchester. But typecasting isn’t necessarily a curse: never out of work, Glenister is the go-to guy for roles which require a certain amount of gruff, vinegary charm.

He delivered yet another variation on his usual shtick in From There to Here, in which he plays Daniel, a happily married businessman whose life is sent into tailspin following the IRA’s attack on central Manchester in 1996. Using a real-life event such as this to trigger fictional drama could easily come across as insensitive, but writer Peter Bowker obviously has a great deal of affection for the city.

It’s a tale of transformation, both physically and emotionally. Manchester underwent major redevelopment following the bombing: the notion of a city and nation being on the cusp of seismic change is one of Bowker’s underlying themes. Not that he explored it with much subtlety. Daniel’s father and son are depicted as capitalist caricatures, whose money-grabbing avarice are emblematic of the Thatcher/Major era that, in theory at least, is about to be undermined by the initial optimism of the New Labour years.

Set against the galvanising backdrop of Euro ’96, From There to Here is full of characters in search of meaning and stability. When the bomb went off, Daniel was trying in vain to reconcile his domineering father and black sheep brother. Following the blast, he had a chance encounter with Joanne, a female cleaner (Glenister’s Life on Mars co-star Liz White) who lives in the working-class area in which he spent the first few years of his life.

It transpired that Daniel was adopted when he was five, which has left him with the nagging feeling that he doesn’t truly belong anywhere. When he drove Joanne home, he impetuously decided to pose as a single man in need of companionship. Could this be the life he was destined to live all along?

Despite the fact that Daniel was effectively trying to start an extramarital affair, he still came across as fairly sympathetic. Glenister always tends to play outwardly confident characters with an underlying layer of vulnerability.

There was scope here for some thoughtful ruminations on the nature of identity, but Bowker undermined its promise with blatantly on-the-nose dialogue. Was it really necessary to have characters spelling out their inner thoughts and motivations with such clarity? Bowker is usually a safe pair of hands, but here he displayed an unfortunate disinclination to let the audience work things out for themselves.

We know he wants to make a point about how lives can change in an instant, and how a brush with death will put things in perspective, because Daniel and co kept reminding us. 

Furthermore, the attempts at creating tension in the last few minutes just didn’t work at all. Even a football novice such as myself knows that England were knocked out following their penalty shoot-out against Germany, and there’s just no way that Daniel was killed in the bomb blast at his brother’s club. Or is that really the last we’ve seen of the star of TV’s latest Philip Glenister vehicle? I’m all for suspending disbelief, but you can’t mount a cliff-hanger on such an unlikely proposition.

In any case, what the hell was he doing with the bomb in his lap? Had he suddenly developed a death wish? It made not a jot of sense. 

Laboured and unconvincing, From There to Here is a hefty disappointment.

TV Review: DEREK

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

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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.