For more info, check out the official Evil UnLtd site.
SAF
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Olive Press
Yet another independent offering in an ever-expanding sea of self-published novels. Maybe it’s the circles I move in, but I’m bombarded daily via Twitter and Facebook and the like to read this ebook and that ebook. It’s the shape of the future and if more indie novels were as good as Olives by Alexander McNabb then mainstream publishing would have cause to tremble.
Of course, if quality was the only gauge then the market wouldn’t be so flooded with high-profile dross from the big publishing houses and you wouldn’t find any good books remaindered and selling 3 for a fiver in your local bargain bookstore. (I’ve found them, although the challenge is finding 3 good ones at the same time to qualify for the offer.) It’s all about the publicity, the marketing, the prominence given to titles on the shelves – or, in the ebook world, on websites – and I can only hope Olives garners the recognition and attention it deserves.
To that end, this review.
Now, hand on heart, in the interests of full disclosure, I chose to buy myself a copy of this book because I know the author. The fact is, I often end up reading friends’ books, whether through volunteering to proofread the MS or, as in this case, simply because I’m familiar with the guy’s work and so there’s a trust that the book will be of a certain quality. Given the unfeasibly huge range of indie books out there, this might as well be one of the selection criteria. Anyway, with that in mind, I always do my best to be as objective and critical as possible, regardless of connection with the author or (in the case of TV, movies etc) anyone else involved, but by all means feel free to make allowances while weighing this review.
Olives is a courageous work, far braver than anything I’d venture to write. A white guy writing about the Middle East? Must be mad to try.
But McNabb has lived and worked in the region for decades and writes with an assured confidence, while taking the precaution of introducing his first-person protagonist a fish out of water. Indeed, Paul Stokes, journalist, never really reaches a full understanding of the world into which his career has thrown him and there’s a sense that no matter how much he learns he will remain to some extent out of his depth. It’s an admission most of us might make on Middle Eastern matters.
According to the publishing world – agents and editors, folks of that sort with their finger on the global pulse - readers aren’t going to be very interested in a tale centred on Middle Eastern troubles. Maybe I’m strange, but I shake my head at this wisdom - it seems to be lacking the full set of pillars – and at the risk of turning hippy it strikes me that we all need to embrace a little understanding if we’re ever to find peace. So while every bomb and shooting disinclines me to watch the news and while every arduous airport security check puts me off travel, I welcome this novel as a rare opportunity to lift the curtain on the region.
Rest assured, it won’t bore you with the issues. It’s not some stale classroom lesson or documentary. It’s fiction. It’s an initially slow-burning thriller, a deftly mixed cocktail of political and sexual tension that – very broadly – puts me in mind of The Year Of Living Dangerously: romantic heat against a backdrop of political troubles. And after drawing you in, it becomes genuinely un-putdownable at around the halfway mark.
Where it’s especially clever is in its deliberate eschewing of religious issues in favour of a far more fundamental concern – water – and a very human story of people embroiled in and affected by the long history of conflict. It takes care to offer balance too and I’m thinking particularly of a powerful scene involving an Israeli border guard that, for all its relatively incidental nature, provides the most effective reminder that there are far more lives – on all sides – touched by the violence than the central family to which Paul attaches himself.
The only faction who perhaps don’t receive an even-handed treatment are the British, as represented by the odious Gerald Lynch, but to say too much about him might entail straying too far into spoiler territory and I’m keen to avoid that.
For me, the only areas in which the book falls a little short of the mark are with the Swede, Lars - whose dialogue is peppered with faltering English and all the Scandinavians I’ve ever met have never suffered anything like that in the language department – and, curiously, in Paul Stokes himself. As a protagonist, Stokes is not unrealistic, but he spends much of the story as a hapless victim, only properly taking control in ending his relationship with Anne, when he’s cowardly and disingenuous, unable to fess up to the real reason it’s all coming apart: namely, his dalliance with Aisha. Not atypical male behaviour, by any stretch of the imagination, but it makes for a somewhat un-empathetic central character. On the other hand, it detracts not one jot from the engrossing and progressively compelling nature of the plot and, moreover, shifts focus of our sympathies onto other characters like Aisha - and even Lars. Thus, it becomes a book not about Paul Stokes, but about the people and the issues around him, which, for my money, is the way it should be.
In a similar way – without giving the game away – come story end, I found myself hankering for some additional coda, but against that, on reflection, I have no idea what more might be said and so I’m obliged to conclude that it delivers the perfect end note.
Really, there’s a lot more to be said about Olives - it's one of those books that could easily become a talking point - but we would end up peppering the review with spoilers and, trust me, you’re better off giving it a read and allowing it to provoke your own set of thoughts. And provoke them it will.
Intelligent and accomplished, this is a well-judged thriller, smouldering at first but growing steadily more explosive and with a distinctive flavour of its own, courtesy of its setting and its author’s informed perspective. And if your understanding of Jordan extends little further than Katie Price, then you could stand to have your horizons broadened.
The walls of mainstream publishing are a long way off tumbling down. Meanwhile, there are a great many - too many - independent authors out there, clamouring for your attention. Picking out the good ones can be like finding the best tea leaf in a bag of Tetley.
But even if you don’t think this will be your cup of tea, go and have a read of the sample: HERE. (Click on the image to Look Inside)
If you like the taste, pop it in your Kindle, sit back and let it brew. Give it the time it deserves and this is a read that will reward.
SAF
Of course, if quality was the only gauge then the market wouldn’t be so flooded with high-profile dross from the big publishing houses and you wouldn’t find any good books remaindered and selling 3 for a fiver in your local bargain bookstore. (I’ve found them, although the challenge is finding 3 good ones at the same time to qualify for the offer.) It’s all about the publicity, the marketing, the prominence given to titles on the shelves – or, in the ebook world, on websites – and I can only hope Olives garners the recognition and attention it deserves.
To that end, this review.
Now, hand on heart, in the interests of full disclosure, I chose to buy myself a copy of this book because I know the author. The fact is, I often end up reading friends’ books, whether through volunteering to proofread the MS or, as in this case, simply because I’m familiar with the guy’s work and so there’s a trust that the book will be of a certain quality. Given the unfeasibly huge range of indie books out there, this might as well be one of the selection criteria. Anyway, with that in mind, I always do my best to be as objective and critical as possible, regardless of connection with the author or (in the case of TV, movies etc) anyone else involved, but by all means feel free to make allowances while weighing this review.
Olives is a courageous work, far braver than anything I’d venture to write. A white guy writing about the Middle East? Must be mad to try.
But McNabb has lived and worked in the region for decades and writes with an assured confidence, while taking the precaution of introducing his first-person protagonist a fish out of water. Indeed, Paul Stokes, journalist, never really reaches a full understanding of the world into which his career has thrown him and there’s a sense that no matter how much he learns he will remain to some extent out of his depth. It’s an admission most of us might make on Middle Eastern matters.
According to the publishing world – agents and editors, folks of that sort with their finger on the global pulse - readers aren’t going to be very interested in a tale centred on Middle Eastern troubles. Maybe I’m strange, but I shake my head at this wisdom - it seems to be lacking the full set of pillars – and at the risk of turning hippy it strikes me that we all need to embrace a little understanding if we’re ever to find peace. So while every bomb and shooting disinclines me to watch the news and while every arduous airport security check puts me off travel, I welcome this novel as a rare opportunity to lift the curtain on the region.
Rest assured, it won’t bore you with the issues. It’s not some stale classroom lesson or documentary. It’s fiction. It’s an initially slow-burning thriller, a deftly mixed cocktail of political and sexual tension that – very broadly – puts me in mind of The Year Of Living Dangerously: romantic heat against a backdrop of political troubles. And after drawing you in, it becomes genuinely un-putdownable at around the halfway mark.
Where it’s especially clever is in its deliberate eschewing of religious issues in favour of a far more fundamental concern – water – and a very human story of people embroiled in and affected by the long history of conflict. It takes care to offer balance too and I’m thinking particularly of a powerful scene involving an Israeli border guard that, for all its relatively incidental nature, provides the most effective reminder that there are far more lives – on all sides – touched by the violence than the central family to which Paul attaches himself.
The only faction who perhaps don’t receive an even-handed treatment are the British, as represented by the odious Gerald Lynch, but to say too much about him might entail straying too far into spoiler territory and I’m keen to avoid that.
For me, the only areas in which the book falls a little short of the mark are with the Swede, Lars - whose dialogue is peppered with faltering English and all the Scandinavians I’ve ever met have never suffered anything like that in the language department – and, curiously, in Paul Stokes himself. As a protagonist, Stokes is not unrealistic, but he spends much of the story as a hapless victim, only properly taking control in ending his relationship with Anne, when he’s cowardly and disingenuous, unable to fess up to the real reason it’s all coming apart: namely, his dalliance with Aisha. Not atypical male behaviour, by any stretch of the imagination, but it makes for a somewhat un-empathetic central character. On the other hand, it detracts not one jot from the engrossing and progressively compelling nature of the plot and, moreover, shifts focus of our sympathies onto other characters like Aisha - and even Lars. Thus, it becomes a book not about Paul Stokes, but about the people and the issues around him, which, for my money, is the way it should be.
In a similar way – without giving the game away – come story end, I found myself hankering for some additional coda, but against that, on reflection, I have no idea what more might be said and so I’m obliged to conclude that it delivers the perfect end note.
Really, there’s a lot more to be said about Olives - it's one of those books that could easily become a talking point - but we would end up peppering the review with spoilers and, trust me, you’re better off giving it a read and allowing it to provoke your own set of thoughts. And provoke them it will.
Intelligent and accomplished, this is a well-judged thriller, smouldering at first but growing steadily more explosive and with a distinctive flavour of its own, courtesy of its setting and its author’s informed perspective. And if your understanding of Jordan extends little further than Katie Price, then you could stand to have your horizons broadened.
The walls of mainstream publishing are a long way off tumbling down. Meanwhile, there are a great many - too many - independent authors out there, clamouring for your attention. Picking out the good ones can be like finding the best tea leaf in a bag of Tetley.
But even if you don’t think this will be your cup of tea, go and have a read of the sample: HERE. (Click on the image to Look Inside)
If you like the taste, pop it in your Kindle, sit back and let it brew. Give it the time it deserves and this is a read that will reward.
SAF
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Christmas Twee
Christmas is a time of miracles. One miraculous thing this year was my managing to avoid seeing any trailers or hearing anything about the Doctor Who Christmas special, beyond the title: The Doctor, The Widow and The Wardrobe. Obviously I could infer some Narnia parallels, but it made a nice change for it all to be wonderfully hype-free.
Expectations suitably contained then, it’s something of a miracle that it succeeded in disappointing quite so spectacularly.
I’m not even a hundred percent sure why. I was in fine spirits, receptive and looking forward to a generous helping of the unknown, the magical and – let’s be honest – the main thing worth watching on Christmas Day.
It begins with the usual gung-ho antics we’ve come to expect. Indeed, falling to Earth is getting to be a habit of the current Doctor. This time it’s sans-TARDIS and it’s fitting, I suppose, that the Grand Moff pulls off a Star Wars opening shot with the massive star-cruiser bearing down on the planet.
It also pays homage to ye olde Doctor Who in that the Doctor’s tumbling in a vacuum is, like a number of shots in the episode, a case of the visual fx ambitions over-reaching the budget. (See also the clumsy Androzani tripod harvester, in particular when viewed through the triangle window.)
There’s a sense throughout that the story’s straining to achieve something out of its reach. It has to work really hard to pull together its various elements, deliver a Christmassy adventure and arrive at a specific outcome. And it’s a shame because, for one thing, there is some magic on display and, for two, the outcome is exactly where you know the story’s headed from the get-go.
So, we have some welcome fantastical Narnia-isms – wartime kids visiting a country house, a portal into a winter wonderland – and large servings of Chrstmas motifs, with a planet full of Christmas trees, Christmas stars floating up to the heavens and, of course, a guiding star to follow. Individually, the ingredients aren’t so bad and there’s plenty of good seasoning, but when combined it’s all a bit hard to stomach. The shiny balls that hatch into Yule-log Ents are a terrific example of this tale’s constant stretching to bridge Christmas and sci-fi adventure.
Some of the wintry scenes are beautifully laden with menace; Claire Skinner plays the widow with delicate humour and poignancy, the kids – particularly the daughter, I think – were convincingly played, their template straight out of a CS Lewis storybook and brought effectively to life; and some of the dialogue exchanges between the Doctor and, well, pretty much everybody at times were spot on. Alexander Armstrong was a good choice for the dad and it was remarkably easy to forget his annoying contributions to the world of insurance advertising.
On the other hand, the inclusion of Bill Bailey – who I totally rate – felt like Armstrong’s game show vehicle, Pointless. Wasted and sadly now I doubt we’ll be getting to see Bailey in a real role in Doctor Who any time in the future. Bah and, it goes without saying, humbug.
That’s only a passing gripe though and doesn’t amount to a hill of brussel sprouts. But it’s symptomatic of the wider issue, which is that given the chance to do Doctor Who meets Narnia, far better could have been done with the materials.
All the aforementioned menace in the wintry scenes – and, to be fair, in the creaky old wooden folk - comes to nothing. They just want to be helped. Awww, bless. All the poignancy in Skinner’s bereaved widow comes to nothing, because she’s going to don a shiny crown and fly a mothership (groanworthy Christmas cracker joke) through the vortex to light her hubby’s way home. “Be a little impressed!” says the Doctor and it’s almost as though he’s appealing to us, as the audience, when really it’s not all that impressive. Indeed, by that stage proceedings are in the realm of ET’s magic moonlight bicycle-ride. Ladies and gentlemen, we are flying on pure undiluted sentiment.
It doesn’t even matter that the whole concept of plundering a world full of trees for battery fluid - using acid – is stupid. (How hard would it have been to change that to some other much-sought-after resource? I don’t know, maybe they could have been harvesting some pine-scented ingredient for the latest celebrity fragrance. It’s daft, but it’s – if the ads are any indicator – Christmassy. Anything, really. Just not battery fluid.) The main problem is it’s all sugar and no meat and potatoes. And right when your stomach’s turning at the thought of consuming any more sweets, it goes and ups the saccharine dose with the “Humany wumany” line.
The closing scene is a perfect dovetail, with Amy and Rory, and the Doctor touching a finger to his happy tear is much more the Moffat I admire, but schmaltz on schmaltz is not the basis of a nutritious Christmas meal.
It’s possible the Christmas special tries to be too Christmassy. For me, some of the best songs for getting me in the Christmas spirit aren’t even about Christmas. Far too many Christmas songs are too twee and jingly and, like this story, working way too hard to get their (jolly) message across. Sure, you want something that’s essentially uplifting, maybe even something that’ll bring a lump to your throat – but ideally not gag. And I can’t help feeling that now we’ve had Christmas-tree-shaped killer robots, Christmas-star-shaped ships and Christmas-tree-shaped beings that are all peace and light and starry souls, we may have scraped the bottom of the Christmas themed Doctor Who barrel.
Next year, Nestene decorations that strangle, shiny-ball Yeti control spheres, monster Christmas puddings? The Doctor could spend the entire thing exercising on a new Wii-Fit and it would involve a lot less stretching.
You expect some mess with a real Christmas tree. But it beggars belief that, with such a synthetic job, you’d end up with quite so much sap.
SAF
Monday, November 14, 2011
Kingston On Clyde
Continuing my irregular, if not random, reviews on some of this year's TV viewing, this time a bit of a curio and not my usual cup of tea...
My wife is good to me. When she was due to be away in the States earlier this year, she queued up a few treats for me on our DVD rental list. And decided that Alex Kingston could keep me company while she was gone. It was nothing untoward, you understand, only a TV series.
Hope Springs is something I wouldn’t ordinarily have chosen to watch. There’s a whole sub-genre of BBC dramedy, that I tend to think of as Ballykissmacbeth Of The Glen, where it’s believed that a hearty serving of regional flavour will cement a series’ charm and win us all over with colourful community spirit. It’s also a sub-genre in which Wales, as far as I can tell, has been sadly neglected – or will have been until my own script, Sheep Leeks, secures the recognition it deserves.
However, credit where it’s due, Hope Springs did break down my cynicism barriers with a warmth and sparkle that, in all fairness, is probably present in other series of its ilk if you take to the characters. Alex Kingston certainly helps this one along. Not only does she play a rough diamond brilliantly, her character is a strong, tough adhesive holding her band of sisters – and as a result the series – together.
Just about. It is, of course, a ludicrous situation: four ex-jailbirds band together to con a crook out of his millions, their getaway is postponed indefinitely when they lose their fake passports (when their fat friend expires on the luggage conveyor at the airport) and so they flee to Scotland where they elect to hide out and, in the meantime, run a hotel. Hope must have sprung eternally when this was being pitched to production companies. (Fawlty Towers meets Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels, yeah?) Still, it’s worth bearing in mind that it’s possible to summarise anything and make it sound ridiculous and on a very basic level this isn’t so far removed from The Ladykillers.
A bunch of crooks holed up, in this case, with a canny old dear in the shape of Annette Crosbie, who’s another linchpin of the series, playing her role with the credibility and conviction the scenario needs to prevent it from falling apart. The Highlands are a picturesque backdrop for what is unmistakeably sit-com turf and the plot progression for the dozen episodes is slightly off, such that it strains to maintain the situation part. Much as the gals scrabble around trying to maintain their cover, you can sense a degree of desperation on the part of the scripts to move things along while still holding out for the full run. (On a related note, there’s a particularly clumsy recap one episode, where the director chooses to repeat a scene showing the villain driving towards the village the villain driving towards the village which might have worked when viewed week to week but seen in close succession simply jars. See what I did there.) A few genuinely human touches, most notable being Hannah's (Sian Reeves) connection with poor abused Ina (Lorraine McIntosh), help to keep it just this side of real and a murder mystery that would have been at home in Midsomer is thrown in very early on as an additional hook.
But the key driving force is fun. There are more than enough antics, ranging from engaging to absurd, to keep the comic element alive. And in that spirit it succeeds.
The villains are exactly that – suitably exaggerated caricatures that, in another age, would have been seen tying ladies to railway tracks. This makes it easier for audiences to take when one of them has his arm severed and his corpse dumped in the loch, without loss of essential sympathy for the heroines of the tale. Alec Newman does well to play the JR Ewing of Hope Springs without straying into the realm of a pantomime nasty. But the one who shines with her bitchiness while engendering a measure of empathy is Ronni Ancona, who I’ll from now on consider entirely wasted in Alistair McGowan impression shows. She’s very good.
Where it’s weakest is in the rom-com stakes, presenting us with promising chemistry between Alex Kingston and Paul Higgins' stalwart detective that, of course, is doomed from the start. I mean, a crim and copper fall for each other, that can never end well, can it, guvnor. The series does at least have a stab at toying with our expectations on that score, with that romance hitting a dead end and being replaced with a surprise romance for the copper from another direction. Except that’s equally doomed because, after poor Gil Cameron (Higgins) has committed career suicide to save the ladies from jail, the gals all SPOILER off to foreign pastures, leaving their community friends in the lurch, to pull off another heist involving a bank vault and an ex’s severed finger.
Which is all as silly as it sounds and I got the impression the writers were really stuck for a good ending. I guess being a sit-com it had to go out on a gag but even in the wake of the preceding ridiculousness, it strikes as a bit of a misfire. A joke that I sense the writers probably thought far funnier than anyone watching ever did.
Like a lot of shows though it gets by not so much on its regional flavour, but more on the appeal of the central characters. They’re a charismatic bunch and I liked them all, so on the whole I enjoyed following their ups and downs, despite the silliness. Which makes Hope Springs sort of the opposite of Torchwood and therefore by definition a good thing.
SAF
My wife is good to me. When she was due to be away in the States earlier this year, she queued up a few treats for me on our DVD rental list. And decided that Alex Kingston could keep me company while she was gone. It was nothing untoward, you understand, only a TV series.
Hope Springs is something I wouldn’t ordinarily have chosen to watch. There’s a whole sub-genre of BBC dramedy, that I tend to think of as Ballykissmacbeth Of The Glen, where it’s believed that a hearty serving of regional flavour will cement a series’ charm and win us all over with colourful community spirit. It’s also a sub-genre in which Wales, as far as I can tell, has been sadly neglected – or will have been until my own script, Sheep Leeks, secures the recognition it deserves.
However, credit where it’s due, Hope Springs did break down my cynicism barriers with a warmth and sparkle that, in all fairness, is probably present in other series of its ilk if you take to the characters. Alex Kingston certainly helps this one along. Not only does she play a rough diamond brilliantly, her character is a strong, tough adhesive holding her band of sisters – and as a result the series – together.
Just about. It is, of course, a ludicrous situation: four ex-jailbirds band together to con a crook out of his millions, their getaway is postponed indefinitely when they lose their fake passports (when their fat friend expires on the luggage conveyor at the airport) and so they flee to Scotland where they elect to hide out and, in the meantime, run a hotel. Hope must have sprung eternally when this was being pitched to production companies. (Fawlty Towers meets Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels, yeah?) Still, it’s worth bearing in mind that it’s possible to summarise anything and make it sound ridiculous and on a very basic level this isn’t so far removed from The Ladykillers.
A bunch of crooks holed up, in this case, with a canny old dear in the shape of Annette Crosbie, who’s another linchpin of the series, playing her role with the credibility and conviction the scenario needs to prevent it from falling apart. The Highlands are a picturesque backdrop for what is unmistakeably sit-com turf and the plot progression for the dozen episodes is slightly off, such that it strains to maintain the situation part. Much as the gals scrabble around trying to maintain their cover, you can sense a degree of desperation on the part of the scripts to move things along while still holding out for the full run. (On a related note, there’s a particularly clumsy recap one episode, where the director chooses to repeat a scene showing the villain driving towards the village the villain driving towards the village which might have worked when viewed week to week but seen in close succession simply jars. See what I did there.) A few genuinely human touches, most notable being Hannah's (Sian Reeves) connection with poor abused Ina (Lorraine McIntosh), help to keep it just this side of real and a murder mystery that would have been at home in Midsomer is thrown in very early on as an additional hook.
But the key driving force is fun. There are more than enough antics, ranging from engaging to absurd, to keep the comic element alive. And in that spirit it succeeds.
The villains are exactly that – suitably exaggerated caricatures that, in another age, would have been seen tying ladies to railway tracks. This makes it easier for audiences to take when one of them has his arm severed and his corpse dumped in the loch, without loss of essential sympathy for the heroines of the tale. Alec Newman does well to play the JR Ewing of Hope Springs without straying into the realm of a pantomime nasty. But the one who shines with her bitchiness while engendering a measure of empathy is Ronni Ancona, who I’ll from now on consider entirely wasted in Alistair McGowan impression shows. She’s very good.
Where it’s weakest is in the rom-com stakes, presenting us with promising chemistry between Alex Kingston and Paul Higgins' stalwart detective that, of course, is doomed from the start. I mean, a crim and copper fall for each other, that can never end well, can it, guvnor. The series does at least have a stab at toying with our expectations on that score, with that romance hitting a dead end and being replaced with a surprise romance for the copper from another direction. Except that’s equally doomed because, after poor Gil Cameron (Higgins) has committed career suicide to save the ladies from jail, the gals all SPOILER off to foreign pastures, leaving their community friends in the lurch, to pull off another heist involving a bank vault and an ex’s severed finger.
Which is all as silly as it sounds and I got the impression the writers were really stuck for a good ending. I guess being a sit-com it had to go out on a gag but even in the wake of the preceding ridiculousness, it strikes as a bit of a misfire. A joke that I sense the writers probably thought far funnier than anyone watching ever did.
Like a lot of shows though it gets by not so much on its regional flavour, but more on the appeal of the central characters. They’re a charismatic bunch and I liked them all, so on the whole I enjoyed following their ups and downs, despite the silliness. Which makes Hope Springs sort of the opposite of Torchwood and therefore by definition a good thing.
SAF
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Domo A Como
It seems an age ago now that my wife and I holidayed in Argegno, a friendly and colourful village on the shores of Lake Como. A little over a year, as it happens. I wrote a blog post about the holiday, full of glowing praise for the scenery, the serene and stress-free days on the lake and the people – most notably the wonderful staff at the Hotel Argegno where we often dined and our brilliant and thoroughly entertaining host, Paul Wright, at whose B&B we stayed.
Unfortunately, my netbook went and died and took – amongst other things – that blog post with it. Luckily then, along comes this opportunity to revisit those memories and in the company of a terrific storyteller.
Of course, in staying with artist and author, Paul, we were spoilt, treated to huge helpings of local tales, at least as colourful as the setting, all washed down with plenty of dry wit wine.
In Paul’s book, An Italian Home, the authorial voice is, inevitably, an edited version of the man himself and that’s a shame, but to be fair it’s a bit like that common niggle we all make, that we perhaps enjoyed a movie but it wasn’t as good as the book. At the end of the day, if you haven’t read the book, then that’s not going to be a factor and besides they’re two distinct art forms, aren’t they, so they’re bound to be different.
So while there are some stories and turns of phrase that didn’t make it into print, Paul still writes an engaging account of his and his wife’s uprooting and relocating to in Italy. The small, friendly village of Moltrasio – rather than Argegno, where they now live – provides the main focus for the story, as Paul and Nicola do battle with the horrors of Italian bureaucracy, come up against unexpected cultural differences and struggle with the language barrier in their quest to hold on to their dream of a new life.
To be fair, it’s mostly Paul who has the struggles with Italian and he’s refreshingly blunt and honest when it comes to admitting his reticence and stubbornness as a language student. There’s none of the illusory effects of Paul’s trompe l’oeil paintings; he tells it like it is and while the world of Lago di Como is, take it from me, paradise – albeit with too much traffic – he gives a very clear picture of the daunting aspects of their adventure, right alongside all the warmth and enchantment that made the two so determined to overcome those hurdles.
The book breezes from chapter to chapter – interest only flagging (for me and my wife) when it explores some of the idiosyncrasies of Italian football, but that’s just our personal anti-football bias and it’s true to say that Paul’s own passion for the sport clearly shines through in the writing. And among the comic episodes (that we had the pleasure of hearing live) that did make it into print are the story of Paul and Nicola’s encounter with the local police chief, Signor Pompino, and poor Nicola’s faux pas (or whatever Italian for faux pas might be) when waxing freely about sticky fig juice in among some of her and Paul’s Italian friends. You will likely feel her embarrassment while laughing at the same time.
Although by no means a tourist’s guidebook, well worth a read, even if you’re only planning a holiday in the region. Guidebooks give you facts, while stories like this give you flavour. And if you’re entertaining similar dreams of relocation, well, you’d do well to read about Paul’s and Nicola’s shared dream, entertainingly told.
Dreams may not always come true, but with a measure of courage, determination and hard work, you can make them.
An Italian Home is available on Amazon, price £8.09.
You can also check out some of his artwork - and find out about his B&B - on his website.
SAF
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Chucks Away
Continuing our irregular review catch-up, a few words on Chuck...
When I first discovered Chuck I thought of it as something like Alias, but fun. Now that it’s reached the end of its fourth season and is on the verge of its fifth, that comparison holds true, albeit with a shift of emphasis. I.e. it’s more like Alias, with increasingly convoluted made-up-as-they-go-along storylines, and not quite as much fun. The characters, the colour, the charm and the humour are all still there in the mix, and there’s plenty of its own-brand warm-hearted action, intrigue and spy-jinks with geekdom and electronic retail on the side... but the show has started to feel tired, with a few too many treadmill episodes in between the highlights.
It’s like your favourite six-inch sub that's been around for too long – has all the same great ingredients you love – but it’s gone a bit stale. This is, I guess, only to be expected when you muck the chefs about.
Because Chuck’s future has been firmly in doubt since series two, saved by a Subway product-placement deal, but only ever handed temporary stays of execution – 13 episodes here, another 9 episodes there, and so on. Frankly, it must be a nightmare having to work to that kind of stop-start framework, when they’re endeavouring to construct more than standalone episodes. And in defence of the writers and production team one thing they have actually been consistently great at is working towards a succession of potential series finales. Whenever interest has begun to wane, my attention has been grabbed again in the run-up to the key 13th and 22nd or 23rd episodes every time.
Somehow they manage to wheel in the crash cart and shock new life into proceedings at around the same points in the series every year. But against that, they’ve demonstrated a persistent reticence to shake things up or play too adventurously with their formula. And if you don’t play with the dynamic from time to time, your show will lose some of its dynamism.
On the other hand some shows may be like replicants and have a built-in limited lifespan by virtue of their format or central premise.
Chuck’s premise is a nifty little one. Nerd becomes hero thanks to a huge supercomputer downloaded into his brain. Totally far-fetched, of course - a computer system requiring no daily updates? - but from the get-go suspension of disbelief was not a problem, courtesy of the tone in which it was all delivered. Not just in the tongue-in-cheek department, but as I say, it brimmed with warmth and charisma. And in amongst all the nerdish humour and spydom, it forged unlikely bonds (unlikely Bonds?) into credible, touching human relationships. It had heart.
And even when the product placement came along it was cheekily blatant and embraced as a running gag. Which, if you really have to embed advertising in your entertainment, I guess is the way to go about it.
It also boasted a brilliant ensemble cast of characters. From the wonderfully gruff uber-Republican, gun-loving John Casey (Adam Baldwin), to the kooky sleazemeisters of Jeff and Lester (to say nothing of Jefster). Big Mike in charge of the Buy More. Ellie (the lovely Sarah Lancaster, who would've made a great Wonder Woman) and Awesome (the hilarious Ryan McPartlin, who would've made a great Captain America), Chuck (Zachary Levi)’s devoted (and gorgeous) sister and his (awesome) brother-in-law. Morgan (Joshua Gomez), Chuck’s even more nerdish sidekick. And of course, Sarah Walker (the inconceivably gorgeous Yvonne Strahovski), Beauty to Chuck’s Geek.
They even added to this from time to time with extended family – parents of some of these characters – every one of them an absolute gem of perfect casting and every dad a starship captain: Scott Bakula, Bruce Boxleitner and Gary Cole. The inclusion of Chuck’s dad, as the mysterious Orion, makes for an especially well-woven and involving story arc and – particularly in the context of what can often be a very cosy series – his ultimate fate is a genuine shock.
Where matters begin to gang aglay, for my money, is when they bring in Chuck’s mum. Although brilliantly cast again, in the shape of Linda Hamilton (and maintaining that principle of hiring from the kind of cult-SF stable that will have that added appeal for nerds everywhere), it’s not so much that they introduce the character as part of an arc, it’s that they then fail to do anything really different with it. There’s a whole is-she-bad, is-she-good question that they run with for a while, but the answer is ultimately that of course she did everything for the best reasons and has Chuck’s (and Ellie’s) interests at heart. Just like his dad. And that is ‘nice’, but boring. Oh how much more fascinating it might have been if she’d turned out to be a bitch.
Other plot opportunities are similarly blown later on down the road, with a clear chance for Ellie (and perhaps even Awesome as well) to be zapped full of the Intersect. Or even their baby - for god’s sake, anything that might have shaken up the status quo and got the show playing something other than the same three chords. Of course, it’s also often true that a hero is only ever as good as the villain he’s up against, and they’ve fielded a reasonably successful bunch of baddies through the various (but not too varied) story arcs, culminating in Timothy Dalton putting in an exceptional star-turn as the ‘misunderstood’ Volkoff. Replacing him with his daughter has yet to properly pay off – the female of the species is supposed to be deadlier, but Lauren Cohen has yet to fully convince.
Meanwhile, the Chuck family has possibly grown too large and a number of the previously terrific characters have had to take turns in being sidelined – Ellie and Awesome frequently, and even John Casey on occasion. Which is borderline criminal. It’s at least in part owing to the decision to reinvent Chuck as a bona fide superhero, rendering his special agent backup somewhat superfluous. And the small ways in which the producers did attempt to play with the format – like having Morgan follow in Chuck’s spy footsteps – haven’t really worked.
Now I gather that the makers have decided this (fifth) will be the last season and whereas earlier (premature) reports of its demise were met with a loud “Oh no!”, I greet this news with a bit of a “Phew” to be honest. Because finally the writers and producers get to work towards an end that is under their control and I can hope that at least they wrap things up spectacularly and satisfactorily. (Especially after the series four finale! Eek!)
At the end of the day, although there has been definite flagging, I do care about the characters and they deserve a proper bow at curtain close. I hope that the writers will use these final episodes to be brave and bold and pull off a few big surprises to make up for the missed opportunities of the past two seasons and, above all, not just throw them away. Go out with a bang and not with a whimper. In short, go out in style.
Because while I (wholeheartedly) appreciate the principle of having Yvonne Strahovski (pictured above) dress up in different outfits each week like a sort of sexy Mr Benn, I don’t believe you can build a forty-plus minute show around it (although by all means send me the rushes and I'll reappraise its viability) and ideally there has to be something more to command audience attention week after week.
So to finish off this particular TV dinner, I’ll settle for a 13-episode sub, as long as it’s fresh.
SAF
When I first discovered Chuck I thought of it as something like Alias, but fun. Now that it’s reached the end of its fourth season and is on the verge of its fifth, that comparison holds true, albeit with a shift of emphasis. I.e. it’s more like Alias, with increasingly convoluted made-up-as-they-go-along storylines, and not quite as much fun. The characters, the colour, the charm and the humour are all still there in the mix, and there’s plenty of its own-brand warm-hearted action, intrigue and spy-jinks with geekdom and electronic retail on the side... but the show has started to feel tired, with a few too many treadmill episodes in between the highlights.
It’s like your favourite six-inch sub that's been around for too long – has all the same great ingredients you love – but it’s gone a bit stale. This is, I guess, only to be expected when you muck the chefs about.
Because Chuck’s future has been firmly in doubt since series two, saved by a Subway product-placement deal, but only ever handed temporary stays of execution – 13 episodes here, another 9 episodes there, and so on. Frankly, it must be a nightmare having to work to that kind of stop-start framework, when they’re endeavouring to construct more than standalone episodes. And in defence of the writers and production team one thing they have actually been consistently great at is working towards a succession of potential series finales. Whenever interest has begun to wane, my attention has been grabbed again in the run-up to the key 13th and 22nd or 23rd episodes every time.
Somehow they manage to wheel in the crash cart and shock new life into proceedings at around the same points in the series every year. But against that, they’ve demonstrated a persistent reticence to shake things up or play too adventurously with their formula. And if you don’t play with the dynamic from time to time, your show will lose some of its dynamism.
On the other hand some shows may be like replicants and have a built-in limited lifespan by virtue of their format or central premise.
Chuck’s premise is a nifty little one. Nerd becomes hero thanks to a huge supercomputer downloaded into his brain. Totally far-fetched, of course - a computer system requiring no daily updates? - but from the get-go suspension of disbelief was not a problem, courtesy of the tone in which it was all delivered. Not just in the tongue-in-cheek department, but as I say, it brimmed with warmth and charisma. And in amongst all the nerdish humour and spydom, it forged unlikely bonds (unlikely Bonds?) into credible, touching human relationships. It had heart.
And even when the product placement came along it was cheekily blatant and embraced as a running gag. Which, if you really have to embed advertising in your entertainment, I guess is the way to go about it.
It also boasted a brilliant ensemble cast of characters. From the wonderfully gruff uber-Republican, gun-loving John Casey (Adam Baldwin), to the kooky sleazemeisters of Jeff and Lester (to say nothing of Jefster). Big Mike in charge of the Buy More. Ellie (the lovely Sarah Lancaster, who would've made a great Wonder Woman) and Awesome (the hilarious Ryan McPartlin, who would've made a great Captain America), Chuck (Zachary Levi)’s devoted (and gorgeous) sister and his (awesome) brother-in-law. Morgan (Joshua Gomez), Chuck’s even more nerdish sidekick. And of course, Sarah Walker (the inconceivably gorgeous Yvonne Strahovski), Beauty to Chuck’s Geek.
They even added to this from time to time with extended family – parents of some of these characters – every one of them an absolute gem of perfect casting and every dad a starship captain: Scott Bakula, Bruce Boxleitner and Gary Cole. The inclusion of Chuck’s dad, as the mysterious Orion, makes for an especially well-woven and involving story arc and – particularly in the context of what can often be a very cosy series – his ultimate fate is a genuine shock.
Where matters begin to gang aglay, for my money, is when they bring in Chuck’s mum. Although brilliantly cast again, in the shape of Linda Hamilton (and maintaining that principle of hiring from the kind of cult-SF stable that will have that added appeal for nerds everywhere), it’s not so much that they introduce the character as part of an arc, it’s that they then fail to do anything really different with it. There’s a whole is-she-bad, is-she-good question that they run with for a while, but the answer is ultimately that of course she did everything for the best reasons and has Chuck’s (and Ellie’s) interests at heart. Just like his dad. And that is ‘nice’, but boring. Oh how much more fascinating it might have been if she’d turned out to be a bitch.
Other plot opportunities are similarly blown later on down the road, with a clear chance for Ellie (and perhaps even Awesome as well) to be zapped full of the Intersect. Or even their baby - for god’s sake, anything that might have shaken up the status quo and got the show playing something other than the same three chords. Of course, it’s also often true that a hero is only ever as good as the villain he’s up against, and they’ve fielded a reasonably successful bunch of baddies through the various (but not too varied) story arcs, culminating in Timothy Dalton putting in an exceptional star-turn as the ‘misunderstood’ Volkoff. Replacing him with his daughter has yet to properly pay off – the female of the species is supposed to be deadlier, but Lauren Cohen has yet to fully convince.
Meanwhile, the Chuck family has possibly grown too large and a number of the previously terrific characters have had to take turns in being sidelined – Ellie and Awesome frequently, and even John Casey on occasion. Which is borderline criminal. It’s at least in part owing to the decision to reinvent Chuck as a bona fide superhero, rendering his special agent backup somewhat superfluous. And the small ways in which the producers did attempt to play with the format – like having Morgan follow in Chuck’s spy footsteps – haven’t really worked.
Now I gather that the makers have decided this (fifth) will be the last season and whereas earlier (premature) reports of its demise were met with a loud “Oh no!”, I greet this news with a bit of a “Phew” to be honest. Because finally the writers and producers get to work towards an end that is under their control and I can hope that at least they wrap things up spectacularly and satisfactorily. (Especially after the series four finale! Eek!)
At the end of the day, although there has been definite flagging, I do care about the characters and they deserve a proper bow at curtain close. I hope that the writers will use these final episodes to be brave and bold and pull off a few big surprises to make up for the missed opportunities of the past two seasons and, above all, not just throw them away. Go out with a bang and not with a whimper. In short, go out in style.
Because while I (wholeheartedly) appreciate the principle of having Yvonne Strahovski (pictured above) dress up in different outfits each week like a sort of sexy Mr Benn, I don’t believe you can build a forty-plus minute show around it (although by all means send me the rushes and I'll reappraise its viability) and ideally there has to be something more to command audience attention week after week.
So to finish off this particular TV dinner, I’ll settle for a 13-episode sub, as long as it’s fresh.
SAF
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Destiny's Child
Q: What do Amelia Lily and the other contestants summarily dumped from The X Factor last Sunday have in common? A: Absolutely sod all. (Heck, I'm not gonna even mention their names in the same blog post.) And I honestly trust that music industry execs recognise that.
According to news reports in the aftermath of the show, Amelia herself has described the 'surprise twist' as unfair (true and then some) but doesn't hold any grudge against her mentor, judge Kelly Rowland (gracious and yet more evidence of this talented young girl's maturity).
My own take? Well, for what it's worth, I felt that soul sister Kelly didn't have too big a clue as to what to do with a talented 'rock-chick' like Amelia, hence the unnecessary re-branding with the pink hair and giving her a rocked-up version of a Jacko song to perform on Saturday's live show. For my money, a poor choice of song, for all that Amelia then went on and aced it in spite of the 'unsuitability' factor. Seriously seriously good and if she hadn't been announced as a contestant, you couldn't have told her from some of the professional guest acts they have on the Sunday results shows. Come to that, she was *better* than a lot of the guest stars.
But that's part of the problem with The X Factor, in any case, isn't it? This week-by-week urge to hammer contestants into roles and songs where they don't fit. Fact is, there was no need to mould Amelia Lily. She struck me as an original from the get-go, a genuine talent.
At her audition, judge Tulisa was bowled over and told the (about to turn seventeen, then sixteen-year-old) girl, there were people in the business who'd been at their trade for years and still weren't at the level she, Amelia, had reached. (Never mind that in Saturday's show, Tulisa then attested that she hadn't really seen Amelia as a contender until her opening performance - er, a little less hippo in your crit there, Tulisa.) Also, back at the audition stage, Kelly and Gary were appropriately awed and Louis was heard to declare "A star is born." Well, yes and no. This star was born sixteen years previously - a real natural, gifted and so mature for her age - and was only waiting to be discovered.
In retrospect, it's interesting that the producers chose to play Beyonce's Best Thing I Never Had as a soundtrack to the tail end of that audition segment. Not because she's been denied her X Factor opportunity, but rather that she is, in my opinion, the best thing the show has never had. I do still love lil Janet Devlin and her enchanting vocal style, but Amelia Lily was the competition. There are other kids in there who might be moulded into something, but there's nobody left in there who so obviously had everything the show is always allegedly looking for. I can't think that they've ever had anyone who was so obviously a ready-made star.
All I can say to Amelia is, you're free of the circus and you can go on and write your own material and totally be yourself. Of course, I'm only sorry I miss out on 10-12 more probably stunning performances, but you're clearly so much better than the talent-show level already. Watching and listening to the few videos Amelia has posted on YouTube (see just one example, above), that much is patently obvious and a poor webcam mic in the bedroom is completely inadequate to show off her vocal talent.
And I hope Kelly Rowland's sincere about her offers of support. Because now that the Destiny's Child singer has seen fit to send her star home, I think the least she could do is open a few studio doors for her. And on the plus side I hope this might mean we get an Amelia Lily debut album all the sooner.
This girl's destined for great things.
SAF
According to news reports in the aftermath of the show, Amelia herself has described the 'surprise twist' as unfair (true and then some) but doesn't hold any grudge against her mentor, judge Kelly Rowland (gracious and yet more evidence of this talented young girl's maturity).
My own take? Well, for what it's worth, I felt that soul sister Kelly didn't have too big a clue as to what to do with a talented 'rock-chick' like Amelia, hence the unnecessary re-branding with the pink hair and giving her a rocked-up version of a Jacko song to perform on Saturday's live show. For my money, a poor choice of song, for all that Amelia then went on and aced it in spite of the 'unsuitability' factor. Seriously seriously good and if she hadn't been announced as a contestant, you couldn't have told her from some of the professional guest acts they have on the Sunday results shows. Come to that, she was *better* than a lot of the guest stars.
But that's part of the problem with The X Factor, in any case, isn't it? This week-by-week urge to hammer contestants into roles and songs where they don't fit. Fact is, there was no need to mould Amelia Lily. She struck me as an original from the get-go, a genuine talent.
At her audition, judge Tulisa was bowled over and told the (about to turn seventeen, then sixteen-year-old) girl, there were people in the business who'd been at their trade for years and still weren't at the level she, Amelia, had reached. (Never mind that in Saturday's show, Tulisa then attested that she hadn't really seen Amelia as a contender until her opening performance - er, a little less hippo in your crit there, Tulisa.) Also, back at the audition stage, Kelly and Gary were appropriately awed and Louis was heard to declare "A star is born." Well, yes and no. This star was born sixteen years previously - a real natural, gifted and so mature for her age - and was only waiting to be discovered.
In retrospect, it's interesting that the producers chose to play Beyonce's Best Thing I Never Had as a soundtrack to the tail end of that audition segment. Not because she's been denied her X Factor opportunity, but rather that she is, in my opinion, the best thing the show has never had. I do still love lil Janet Devlin and her enchanting vocal style, but Amelia Lily was the competition. There are other kids in there who might be moulded into something, but there's nobody left in there who so obviously had everything the show is always allegedly looking for. I can't think that they've ever had anyone who was so obviously a ready-made star.
All I can say to Amelia is, you're free of the circus and you can go on and write your own material and totally be yourself. Of course, I'm only sorry I miss out on 10-12 more probably stunning performances, but you're clearly so much better than the talent-show level already. Watching and listening to the few videos Amelia has posted on YouTube (see just one example, above), that much is patently obvious and a poor webcam mic in the bedroom is completely inadequate to show off her vocal talent.
And I hope Kelly Rowland's sincere about her offers of support. Because now that the Destiny's Child singer has seen fit to send her star home, I think the least she could do is open a few studio doors for her. And on the plus side I hope this might mean we get an Amelia Lily debut album all the sooner.
This girl's destined for great things.
SAF
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Quel Dommage!
Here in the gulf between Doctor Who seasons, it's customary to review 'other stuff' and as it turns out we have a few things in the experiential archive to catch up on... First up, a spot of crime impassionale.
Some things are doomed by their advance press. I mean, how often has your entertainment appetite been whetted, your expectations been built up by a trailer? Pretty frequently, I would guess, since that’s the trailer’s job. And then there’s word of mouth, which is allegedly the best form of advertising. Any form of advertising is only good though if the product lives up to the hype, while if it doesn’t, well, the product itself will suffer in the comparison.
Poor Engrenages (aka Spiral). It never stood a chance.
No trailers came my way for this, but I’d heard excellent things about it. Not least of which was – courtesy of a friend – that it was like the French cousin of The Wire.
In fact, it bears such little relation it seems like one of those long lost relatives who only show up out of the woodwork hoping for a share of the inheritance. For one, there’s none of the complexity or social layering of the American show, albeit that there is a political angle to proceedings. Sure, plenty of the characters are fils des plages (sons of beaches) but I can’t think of any who are as brilliant (and even likeable) as so many of The Wire’s lowliest lowlifes. It’s a different bête altogether. As such, it’s unfair to judge it in those terms, but unfortunately my expectations had already been coloured. And I daresay some of my criticisms will have arisen from that accidental letdown that had nothing to do with the series itself.
So bear in mind through my ramblings, s’il vous plait, that the series is by no means terrible.
It’s well-acted. The direction lends the whole thing a suitably arthouse, suspenseful and occasionally haunting quality and it’s structured to deliver a clever dramatic upper cut at each episode end. It’s probably well-scripted, although my French falls far short of being able to tell that and the subtitles are frequently lifeless and drab. Then there’s episode six or seven where the subtitler fell asleep or something and allowed some painfully clumsy and lazy faux pas to litter the translations.
What it has in spades is grimness. Its depictions of crime scenes and autopsies are uncompromising and never fail to genuinely horrify. As a gritty realistic portrayal of police – and judicial - work in la belle France, it convinces. (For all I know.) While as a drama, for me, it ultimately fell un peu flat.
Trying to be objective and leaving Wire comparisons out of it, the key shortcomings for me lay in the cast of characters. (NB Not the actors, none of whom I could really fault.) The only one I had any empathy for was Laure Berthaud (Caroline Proust), the female detective heading up the various investigations. The chief prosecutor (Gregory Fitoussi) is a big wet blanket, far too easily manipulated by his wife and his parasitic pal Benoit (Guillaume Cramoisan). Both of whom, by the way, whinge and complain about their lot, despite the fact that they each got themselves into their respective messes. And here a measure of contrast with The Wire is called for, because these French criminals are the socially privileged sort, far far removed from the disadvantaged, disenfranchised communities of Baltimore. So hearing them moan when their hands are caught in the metaphorical cookie jar is a test of patience.
There’s a washed-up junkie detective (Thierry Godard) who I think we’re meant to sympathise with, but he has none of Jimmy McNulty’s redeeming charm. And a number of characters spend time being enigmatic and impenetrable for no other reason I can fathom than they’re in a French production – like the bitch lawyer who buries evidence of a man’s false rape conviction because, er, well I guess because she’s a bitch. Possibly there were some subtleties there I missed, but they’re easily missable when there’s no emotional connection to the characters. There’s an aloofness and a distance to almost everyone - apart from the victims, who are, alas, generally encountered on a mortuary slab or mutilated and dumped on some patch of the city’s wasteland.
Storywise, while the tone is definitely one of mystery, the actuality is somewhat lacking and left me strangely unsatisfied. As initially compelling as the central case was, all leads appear to dry up shortly after the victim’s diary is appropriated by the criminals and the investigation largely dead-ends (or cul-de-sacs), until it’s left to bleating Benoit to fess up and the fate of the poor girl with her face bashed in is finally revealed to us in flashback. Rendering the whole thing a lot less spirally and less complex than it would have you believe.
We end, inevitably and perhaps predictably, on a shot of another unidentifiable corpse as a lead-in to the second series. But I can’t decide whether it’s promising better or more of the same.
At the very least, now knowing what to expect, a second series will stand a good chance of being judged entirely on its own merits. So I may be persuaded to give it that opportunity.
Until then, I can't be sure how much of my sense of dissatisfaction is down to comparison and how much is down to a simple matter of taste.
C'est la view.
SAF
Some things are doomed by their advance press. I mean, how often has your entertainment appetite been whetted, your expectations been built up by a trailer? Pretty frequently, I would guess, since that’s the trailer’s job. And then there’s word of mouth, which is allegedly the best form of advertising. Any form of advertising is only good though if the product lives up to the hype, while if it doesn’t, well, the product itself will suffer in the comparison.
Poor Engrenages (aka Spiral). It never stood a chance.
No trailers came my way for this, but I’d heard excellent things about it. Not least of which was – courtesy of a friend – that it was like the French cousin of The Wire.
In fact, it bears such little relation it seems like one of those long lost relatives who only show up out of the woodwork hoping for a share of the inheritance. For one, there’s none of the complexity or social layering of the American show, albeit that there is a political angle to proceedings. Sure, plenty of the characters are fils des plages (sons of beaches) but I can’t think of any who are as brilliant (and even likeable) as so many of The Wire’s lowliest lowlifes. It’s a different bête altogether. As such, it’s unfair to judge it in those terms, but unfortunately my expectations had already been coloured. And I daresay some of my criticisms will have arisen from that accidental letdown that had nothing to do with the series itself.
So bear in mind through my ramblings, s’il vous plait, that the series is by no means terrible.
It’s well-acted. The direction lends the whole thing a suitably arthouse, suspenseful and occasionally haunting quality and it’s structured to deliver a clever dramatic upper cut at each episode end. It’s probably well-scripted, although my French falls far short of being able to tell that and the subtitles are frequently lifeless and drab. Then there’s episode six or seven where the subtitler fell asleep or something and allowed some painfully clumsy and lazy faux pas to litter the translations.
What it has in spades is grimness. Its depictions of crime scenes and autopsies are uncompromising and never fail to genuinely horrify. As a gritty realistic portrayal of police – and judicial - work in la belle France, it convinces. (For all I know.) While as a drama, for me, it ultimately fell un peu flat.
Trying to be objective and leaving Wire comparisons out of it, the key shortcomings for me lay in the cast of characters. (NB Not the actors, none of whom I could really fault.) The only one I had any empathy for was Laure Berthaud (Caroline Proust), the female detective heading up the various investigations. The chief prosecutor (Gregory Fitoussi) is a big wet blanket, far too easily manipulated by his wife and his parasitic pal Benoit (Guillaume Cramoisan). Both of whom, by the way, whinge and complain about their lot, despite the fact that they each got themselves into their respective messes. And here a measure of contrast with The Wire is called for, because these French criminals are the socially privileged sort, far far removed from the disadvantaged, disenfranchised communities of Baltimore. So hearing them moan when their hands are caught in the metaphorical cookie jar is a test of patience.
There’s a washed-up junkie detective (Thierry Godard) who I think we’re meant to sympathise with, but he has none of Jimmy McNulty’s redeeming charm. And a number of characters spend time being enigmatic and impenetrable for no other reason I can fathom than they’re in a French production – like the bitch lawyer who buries evidence of a man’s false rape conviction because, er, well I guess because she’s a bitch. Possibly there were some subtleties there I missed, but they’re easily missable when there’s no emotional connection to the characters. There’s an aloofness and a distance to almost everyone - apart from the victims, who are, alas, generally encountered on a mortuary slab or mutilated and dumped on some patch of the city’s wasteland.
Storywise, while the tone is definitely one of mystery, the actuality is somewhat lacking and left me strangely unsatisfied. As initially compelling as the central case was, all leads appear to dry up shortly after the victim’s diary is appropriated by the criminals and the investigation largely dead-ends (or cul-de-sacs), until it’s left to bleating Benoit to fess up and the fate of the poor girl with her face bashed in is finally revealed to us in flashback. Rendering the whole thing a lot less spirally and less complex than it would have you believe.
We end, inevitably and perhaps predictably, on a shot of another unidentifiable corpse as a lead-in to the second series. But I can’t decide whether it’s promising better or more of the same.
At the very least, now knowing what to expect, a second series will stand a good chance of being judged entirely on its own merits. So I may be persuaded to give it that opportunity.
Until then, I can't be sure how much of my sense of dissatisfaction is down to comparison and how much is down to a simple matter of taste.
C'est la view.
SAF
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
X Factory
No Doctor Who next weekend, boo hoo, so perhaps a good time to look at another source of Saturday night popular entertainment...
And it’s that time of year again when the workers have clocked in, the products are all lined up on the production line and the rest of the music industry hangs its head and/or probably wishes it had come up with the idea before Simon Cowell.
People knock The X Factor. And justifiably so. It’s a circus. Complete with performing animals, although some of them prefer the title ‘judge’.
Louis the Leprechaun chuckles all the way to the bank to collect his pot of gold every year, surely with no actual aims or hopes of ever seeing one of his category emerge as a winner. He’s the one who’s consistently seen pushing through the joke acts and the sub-Eurovision wannabes. Seen, because I’ve every confidence there are those at work behind the scenes nudging the clowns and contentious as far through the competition as they can to generate the appropriate level of ratings and tabloid coverage.
But the show is a guilty pleasure for many, myself included. Originally I think I ended up watching it in a fit of Saturday night boredom some years ago and finding myself entertained by the long line of execrable early auditions. A lot of vocal Verbal Kints in a row of Unusual Suspects. And not a single Keyser Soze among them, but some just as scary all the same. But then what would happen a number of years would be that a handful of actually pretty good singers would show up in the mix and you’d end up supporting them through to the live shows. Might be down to my imagination or my tastes, but it seems to me that’s happened more often latterly.
And on those (admittedly rare) occasions when you come across a real star in the making, it’s scarcely a guilty pleasure at all. Just an unashamed treat.
Those who mock and state that true talents are never discovered in this way demonstrate a limited grasp on reality. You might as well say that true writing talent is never discovered through hard graft, countless submissions and pure dumb luck of landing on the right editor’s desk at the right time. Come to that, I’m currently prepping a submission for a writing competition; the only thing that prevents it from being such a circus is that it’s not being televised. And, after all, who would stick a writing competition on the TV? (Trust me, this stage is not very exciting – essentially a lot of tapping at keyboards, procrastination, banging heads on desks and frequent frustration with the standard of prose.)
Heck, it’s impossible for me not to relate to some of these young hopefuls, chasing their life’s dream. Been there - still chasing and still, if not young, then not exactly grown up. Comic asides aside though, there’s a great deal for aspiring authors to empathise with and even to envy. Would that we had that kind of platform, eh, to publicise our talents. HarperCollins’ authonomy site was a step in that direction and, in its own way, as much a circus, but let’s face facts, it could never command the same ratings.
In terms of music competitions, well, I do believe there’s room for one. (Because The X Factor isn’t that.) Indeed, I’m surprised the Beeb hasn’t shown a little more creativity – hmm, what am I saying, this is the channel that brought us Don’t Scare The Hare and Epic Win – in launching a rival reality show that focuses on bands (you know, actual bands, with instruments, not groups of boys or girls lining up for a go at the autotuner) instead of promoting another singing comp in the form of The Voice.
Still, never mind that, this is the 21st century – sorry, all those lute-strumming Luddites out there – and if you’re not using YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and all the rest to raise your profile, then you’re doing yourself out of an audience. Likewise, as long as ITV are providing the opportunity, then singers might as well avail themselves of the chance for some proper wide-reaching media exposure. These days, you can even fall at a relatively premature hurdle and still get noticed or even signed up for an album contract.
It’s not for everybody, sure. And while that stigma remains attached in some people’s eyes, I guess it *could* be as effective a career-killer as a career-launcher. The main risk you run in the pre-live-show stages is getting passed over in favour of one of Louis’ gag acts. Which, I appreciate, would be gutting. But to my mind, I think the only real potential career-killer is that crucial debut album. Followed by, assuming you survive that first one, the even more crucial follow-up album.
It’s not the winning – or the coming second or third etc – it’s what you do with it that counts. Last year, I was a firm supporter of Matt Cardle, Rebecca Ferguson and Cher Lloyd, all of whom have albums on the way. So far, Matt_Cardle’s singles haven’t impressed as much as his songs from his pre-X Factor Seven Summers album, but they’re pleasant enough pop songs that could use a bit more memorability. While Cher Lloyd’s Swagger Jagger is appalling and all too memorable. I detect the hand of Will I Am at work there, buy whoever’s to blame, it’s too easy for producers to funnel these youngsters into something they’re not. Cher Lloyd was a wonderfully spiky sort of peg and, unless there’s better material making up the rest of her album, I fear she’s been hammered into a god-awful square hole.
This year, I’m championing Amelia Lily:
And little Janet Devlin:
Seen above in 'home video' mode. Both 16, both amazing.
The girls were the strongest category by a bazillion miles and although I personally don’t feel they were whittled down to the absolute strongest four (I’d have put lil Melanie McCabe through for sure – and I’d add, to the likes of Melanie, just remember the X Factor is an opportunity, no more, no less – it’s not the be-all and end-all - *nobody* should buy into this horribly pervasive idea that, if they don't make it through, that's it for them, it's all over), they’re the only category with a clear winner (two, in fact) at the outset.
The boys are an odd mix and I’d be hard pushed to tell you their names, although James, I think it is, strikes me as the best of that bunch. Frankie seems like a mini-Robbie and therefore so far from my cup of tea as to be chamomile, which I find (for the record) horrible and not at all calming. The groups are doomed. Poor Tulisa, she started out by impressing me as someone who knew her business, but she has her work cut out for her there. In fairness, she had precious few materials to work with, but she went and broke up the one group that seemed to have something – throwing away The Keys, in favour of cobbling together another group on the spot. And the Over 25s are, apparently, there to pad out the numbers and provide the comedy and controversy. That would have been even more the case had Goldie not turned down her spot on the show and you have to wonder how Sammi feels, being told, sorry it’s such short notice and I know we initially rejected you and all, but our chief gag act couldn’t make it, we’d like you to take her place. This year’s Mary Byrne replaces this year’s Wagner, while – thank heavens – we still have this year’s Katie Waissel, in the shape of uber drama queen Kitty, to divide the nation. Yawn.
But Amelia and Janet, for my money, are genuinely exciting and it doesn’t matter that this is the arena in which they were discovered, they’re authentic talents. X Factor mentor, Kelly Rowland, whatever you do, don’t mess with them too much. (I was a bit concerned with the makeovers that have been inflicted on them for the live shows and just hope it doesn’t too dramatically alter what they are in the minds of the viewing public.) Janet Devlin perhaps needs a teensy bit more work to get her to pop-star status, but only in the confidence department. And even then, when she sings, she’s perfectly at home, her Ellie Goulding/Cranberries-esque, unaffected but wonderfully affecting voice naturally transforming anything she sings to make it very much her own. Amelia Lily, meanwhile: pop star name, pop star image, rock star voice. Such a mature sound for her age, incredible. Ready made star, you might as well just go ahead and record her album now.
Inspirational. Love em both.
If just those two alone are what comes out of the pop-singer factory this year, then that's all the validation this annual process needs.
So, sure, in summary, The X Factor’s rubbish. But it’s nothing worse than a televised slush pile. You have to hope the best of the talent rises to the top. Unlike a slush pile, at the very least, they’re going to get noticed.
Go, Janet! Go Amelia Lily!
SAF
And it’s that time of year again when the workers have clocked in, the products are all lined up on the production line and the rest of the music industry hangs its head and/or probably wishes it had come up with the idea before Simon Cowell.
People knock The X Factor. And justifiably so. It’s a circus. Complete with performing animals, although some of them prefer the title ‘judge’.
Louis the Leprechaun chuckles all the way to the bank to collect his pot of gold every year, surely with no actual aims or hopes of ever seeing one of his category emerge as a winner. He’s the one who’s consistently seen pushing through the joke acts and the sub-Eurovision wannabes. Seen, because I’ve every confidence there are those at work behind the scenes nudging the clowns and contentious as far through the competition as they can to generate the appropriate level of ratings and tabloid coverage.
But the show is a guilty pleasure for many, myself included. Originally I think I ended up watching it in a fit of Saturday night boredom some years ago and finding myself entertained by the long line of execrable early auditions. A lot of vocal Verbal Kints in a row of Unusual Suspects. And not a single Keyser Soze among them, but some just as scary all the same. But then what would happen a number of years would be that a handful of actually pretty good singers would show up in the mix and you’d end up supporting them through to the live shows. Might be down to my imagination or my tastes, but it seems to me that’s happened more often latterly.
And on those (admittedly rare) occasions when you come across a real star in the making, it’s scarcely a guilty pleasure at all. Just an unashamed treat.
Those who mock and state that true talents are never discovered in this way demonstrate a limited grasp on reality. You might as well say that true writing talent is never discovered through hard graft, countless submissions and pure dumb luck of landing on the right editor’s desk at the right time. Come to that, I’m currently prepping a submission for a writing competition; the only thing that prevents it from being such a circus is that it’s not being televised. And, after all, who would stick a writing competition on the TV? (Trust me, this stage is not very exciting – essentially a lot of tapping at keyboards, procrastination, banging heads on desks and frequent frustration with the standard of prose.)
Heck, it’s impossible for me not to relate to some of these young hopefuls, chasing their life’s dream. Been there - still chasing and still, if not young, then not exactly grown up. Comic asides aside though, there’s a great deal for aspiring authors to empathise with and even to envy. Would that we had that kind of platform, eh, to publicise our talents. HarperCollins’ authonomy site was a step in that direction and, in its own way, as much a circus, but let’s face facts, it could never command the same ratings.
In terms of music competitions, well, I do believe there’s room for one. (Because The X Factor isn’t that.) Indeed, I’m surprised the Beeb hasn’t shown a little more creativity – hmm, what am I saying, this is the channel that brought us Don’t Scare The Hare and Epic Win – in launching a rival reality show that focuses on bands (you know, actual bands, with instruments, not groups of boys or girls lining up for a go at the autotuner) instead of promoting another singing comp in the form of The Voice.
Still, never mind that, this is the 21st century – sorry, all those lute-strumming Luddites out there – and if you’re not using YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and all the rest to raise your profile, then you’re doing yourself out of an audience. Likewise, as long as ITV are providing the opportunity, then singers might as well avail themselves of the chance for some proper wide-reaching media exposure. These days, you can even fall at a relatively premature hurdle and still get noticed or even signed up for an album contract.
It’s not for everybody, sure. And while that stigma remains attached in some people’s eyes, I guess it *could* be as effective a career-killer as a career-launcher. The main risk you run in the pre-live-show stages is getting passed over in favour of one of Louis’ gag acts. Which, I appreciate, would be gutting. But to my mind, I think the only real potential career-killer is that crucial debut album. Followed by, assuming you survive that first one, the even more crucial follow-up album.
It’s not the winning – or the coming second or third etc – it’s what you do with it that counts. Last year, I was a firm supporter of Matt Cardle, Rebecca Ferguson and Cher Lloyd, all of whom have albums on the way. So far, Matt_Cardle’s singles haven’t impressed as much as his songs from his pre-X Factor Seven Summers album, but they’re pleasant enough pop songs that could use a bit more memorability. While Cher Lloyd’s Swagger Jagger is appalling and all too memorable. I detect the hand of Will I Am at work there, buy whoever’s to blame, it’s too easy for producers to funnel these youngsters into something they’re not. Cher Lloyd was a wonderfully spiky sort of peg and, unless there’s better material making up the rest of her album, I fear she’s been hammered into a god-awful square hole.
This year, I’m championing Amelia Lily:
And little Janet Devlin:
Seen above in 'home video' mode. Both 16, both amazing.
The girls were the strongest category by a bazillion miles and although I personally don’t feel they were whittled down to the absolute strongest four (I’d have put lil Melanie McCabe through for sure – and I’d add, to the likes of Melanie, just remember the X Factor is an opportunity, no more, no less – it’s not the be-all and end-all - *nobody* should buy into this horribly pervasive idea that, if they don't make it through, that's it for them, it's all over), they’re the only category with a clear winner (two, in fact) at the outset.
The boys are an odd mix and I’d be hard pushed to tell you their names, although James, I think it is, strikes me as the best of that bunch. Frankie seems like a mini-Robbie and therefore so far from my cup of tea as to be chamomile, which I find (for the record) horrible and not at all calming. The groups are doomed. Poor Tulisa, she started out by impressing me as someone who knew her business, but she has her work cut out for her there. In fairness, she had precious few materials to work with, but she went and broke up the one group that seemed to have something – throwing away The Keys, in favour of cobbling together another group on the spot. And the Over 25s are, apparently, there to pad out the numbers and provide the comedy and controversy. That would have been even more the case had Goldie not turned down her spot on the show and you have to wonder how Sammi feels, being told, sorry it’s such short notice and I know we initially rejected you and all, but our chief gag act couldn’t make it, we’d like you to take her place. This year’s Mary Byrne replaces this year’s Wagner, while – thank heavens – we still have this year’s Katie Waissel, in the shape of uber drama queen Kitty, to divide the nation. Yawn.
But Amelia and Janet, for my money, are genuinely exciting and it doesn’t matter that this is the arena in which they were discovered, they’re authentic talents. X Factor mentor, Kelly Rowland, whatever you do, don’t mess with them too much. (I was a bit concerned with the makeovers that have been inflicted on them for the live shows and just hope it doesn’t too dramatically alter what they are in the minds of the viewing public.) Janet Devlin perhaps needs a teensy bit more work to get her to pop-star status, but only in the confidence department. And even then, when she sings, she’s perfectly at home, her Ellie Goulding/Cranberries-esque, unaffected but wonderfully affecting voice naturally transforming anything she sings to make it very much her own. Amelia Lily, meanwhile: pop star name, pop star image, rock star voice. Such a mature sound for her age, incredible. Ready made star, you might as well just go ahead and record her album now.
Inspirational. Love em both.
If just those two alone are what comes out of the pop-singer factory this year, then that's all the validation this annual process needs.
So, sure, in summary, The X Factor’s rubbish. But it’s nothing worse than a televised slush pile. You have to hope the best of the talent rises to the top. Unlike a slush pile, at the very least, they’re going to get noticed.
Go, Janet! Go Amelia Lily!
SAF
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Married Bliss
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the sight of blog, to witness The Wedding Of River Song. If anyone here knows just cause or impediment as to why we shouldn’t consider this an entirely fitting and perfect finale to the season, they should speak now or forever hold their peace.
Well, there’s the title, for one thing. I remember back in the golden age when we had ‘Of’ titles, they’d be like Planet Of The Spiders, The Hand Of Fear, Horror Of The Daleks, The Evil Of Doom, The Curse Of Fatal Death, all that sort of thing. Now we get The Wedding Of some woman or other. Honestly, I ask you, where’s the unbridalled terror in that?
But, in the modern TV fashion of overstating the obvious, this is not a serious complaint. There are, yes, a few little gripes here and there and doubtless more will occur when the honeymoon period is over, but in the context of everything it had to achieve, this was as perfect a season finale as you could ask for.
As much as I was entertained by Let’s Kill Hitler, it didn’t feel like a follow-on from the mid-season closer and that’s because it wasn’t. This, but for a few details to join the dots, is the other half of the excellent A Good Man Goes To War.
There’s a huge amount of common ground in tone and its early stages involve something like A Good Man’s planet-hopping vignettes, with the Doctor here, instead of roaming time and space in search of a maginificent alien seven, doing his utmost to track down the Silence. It’s not quite as magical as its precursor, but what can you expect when you don’t have a lactating Sontaran nurse, a lesbian Silurian adventuress and a fat blue man among your guest characters. In their place, you have a couple of strange geezers with eyepatches, a shape-changing robot crewed by little people and, oh yes, a fat blue man’s head. In a box.
Dorium’s return is welcome – even though the poor chap has lost a lot of weight – and the various settings we’re treated to – the ‘live’ chess tourney and the ‘cave of skulls’ – are more evidence of Moffat’s twisted imagination on overdrive.
And of course, it’s all preceded by that fantastically madcap opening set in London, April 22nd 2011, 5:02pm. Where all of history is happening simultaneously, but time is stuck in the same single moment. It’s all utter nonsense, of course, and would take a better temporal physicist than me to analyse, but (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again) Moffat’s a magician. An illusionist. It’s all sleight of hand and keeping the show moving so, crucially, you’re not generally asking too many questions at the time. You’re more frequently hanging on the next scene, too intrigued by what’s going to happen next.
The only question I recall in my head at the time was “WTF?” But in a good way. In fairness, at the very start, I wondered if I was watching a car ad – there’s one with cars suspended from balloons – but when you’ve thrown in steam trains chuffing out of the Gherkin on viaducts, Do Not Feed The Pterodactyl signs in the park (ha! you think those predators are bad, you should see the seagulls preying on unsuspecting holiday makers in some of our Cornish resorts), Charles Dickens (Simon Callow, yay!) on BBC Breakfast, and Churchill, the Holy Roman Emperor, presiding in Buckingham Palace, you kind of have to just nod, accept the madcapness of it all and say, okay, Steven, you’ve got my attention.
The construction of having the Soothsayer Doctor relate events to Churchill could have slowed things up, but the bouncing between storytelling and past events was skilfully handled and what’s more there’s a wonderful progression in the Churchill scenes where the Doctor’s been making tally marks on his arm. A signal of the Silence’s presence that we should all have remembered from the season opener, The Impossible Astronaut/Day Of The Moon. Deftly done and culminates in that fantastic reveal with the Silence hanging vampire-like from the ceiling.
Followed swiftly by the arrival of Pond, Amelia Pond on the scene. Brilliant, laugh out loud moment, and eyepatch or no Karen Gillan looked, if possible, better than ever. And on a less superficial level, she, like pretty much everyone here, was on top form.
First eyepatch geezer was a bit bland, maybe, and second eyepatch geezer was little more interesting than a Buffy demon-of-the-week cast-off, appearance-wise, but they did their part in adding a touch more colour to the whole Silence mythos. I will say that the shot of eyepatch-demon being consumed in the pit of skulls struck me as dead dodgy. A spot of CGI trickery that wasn’t quite up to the task set by the script. Still, it’s over and done with shortly enough and the jarring effect is fleeting. The captain of the Tesselector is still dull. Sorry, but there it is and it’s only the way many a captain in Doctor Who has gone before. Dorium’s great. And it’s a pleasure to have Iain McNeice back in the role of Winston, a reminder of one of the best aspects of Victory Of The Daleks.
The regulars are all deserving of a far grander label than ‘regular’. I believe I may have mentioned how much I’ve enjoyed the chemistry of this team and I’m still steadfastly clinging to the hope that Arthur Darvill and Karen Gillan will be rejoining the Doctor on his travels next year. This goes double now. No, screw that, go ahead and multiply it by the average Sontaran birth rate. The alternative reality Amy and Rory were wonderfully written, beautifully played, with the notion of their love as a constant throughout different realities – Amy will always find her Rory – providing a terrific balance of romance and out and out laughs. Loved the artist’s impression sketch Amy had done of her fella and then Rory’s ready acceptance of her suggestion of a date and marriage. Hilarious and touching at the same time. The darker, harsher edge the story gives Amy is very real and there’s tremendous power in the revenge she visits upon Madame Kasabian (Frances Barber). Wow. Brave, ferocious stuff. Her return to save Rory with a hail of gunfire is pure gung-ho grandstanding action but for such an ostensibly violent scene there’s also a smidgen of rom-com about it. Moffat’s something of a matchmaker like that, able to mix these conflicting ingredients freely and somehow concoct a bizarre kind of harmony.
Or Melody, even. Yes, I’m biased, but Alex Kingston gives another star turn as Melody/River Pond/Song. Never mind the absurdities of the monochronological clashing histories, the fact that it’s her selfish passions and her love for the Doctor that’s brought this all about is utterly credible. She sells it completely. And while my poor mind will never quite get around the idea of Alex Kingston as Karen Gillan’s daughter (that’s time travel for you), she sells that relationship too. Moffat gives the character the appropriate closure - with the added option to have her return – and while we know that, in proper Pulp Fiction style, her life ends in The Silence (no relation?) In The Library/Forest Of The Dead, she’s left here living the dream, adventuring with the younger Doctors. Strewth, no wonder poor old Billy Hartnell’s Doctor first showed up with white hair and not long for this world.
The kiss that restores time to normal could have been so dreadfully corny, but wasn’t. The one thing that does, unfortunately, nudge it ever so slightly in that direction is that irksome and totally unnecessary LCD digital clock caption slapped over the money shot. What the hell was that for? An annoyance and a distraction at an otherwise magical moment. Even if someone (writer or director?) was concerned we wouldn’t get that time marched on without some visual cue, there had to be a better way. A shot of Churchill at his desk, the clock ticking onward? Whatever. Embed it in the scene, don’t emblazon it across the bottom of the screen.
Like the duff CGI in the skull pit, it’s a minor grumble, but it’s one of the few flaws that struck me at the time of viewing and hence worth a mention.
Meanwhile, a word about the groom. Matt Smith delivers a Doctor who, despite being given to the occasional maudlin self-absorbed speech, manages to engage in a way that, for me, the TennantDoc didn’t. He has an eminent likeability – the avuncular quality that Terrance Dicks always spoke of as an essential characteristic of any Doctor - and his misery in the face of impending doom is nowhere near as pervasive as his predecessor’s. (And just to clarify again, this is no reflection on Tennant’s excellent performance, but rather on the direction in which the character was driven by the writing.) Smith and Moffat work fantastically well together as a couple, actor and material complimenting each other perfectly.
The absolutely note-perfect homage to the passing of Brigadier Lethbridge Stewart – as moving a tribute to any past character and the actor who played him as the series has ever done – is an exquisite piece of writing that has the beneficial side-effect of reminding us that the death of the Doctor is as much about others – all the lives he has touched during the course of his own - as it is about himself. It’s the brilliant flip side of the message from A Good Man: heads, there’s the figure of fear and hatred the Doctor has created among his enemies; tails, there’s the man who’s loved by so many.
His resolution here is a wily one and although in essence a ‘cheat’, you don’t feel cheated. Fixed point or no, you know the Doctor isn’t actually going to die, but Moffat – for all his ‘time can be rewritten’ standard – is not about to simply undo what he’s shown us. Rule 1: the Doctor lies. And so does Moffat. But it’s in the manner of an illusionist, you know he’s not showing you everything and there’s going to be a trick up his sleeve. You have to read between the scenes, is all.
This season handed us two shape-shifting herrings of varying shades – the Flesh and the Tesselector – and it was always going to be something along the lines of a copied Doc getting shot and torched there at Lake Silencio. In that sense, the resolution is a predictable one, but it is – like a wedding dress that needs no alteration – a perfect fit. The ‘look in my eye’ reveal is a triumph, no matter if you did see it coming.
The question of The Question was predictable too. Doctor Who? Hidden in plain sight, it was the only question it could be. The main danger Moffat presents for himself is, in setting that up, he may be faced with the task of answering it and I’m naturally wary of anything that perhaps promises to lift the veil on our beloved hero. Ultimately, it’s a matter of degrees though, and so far Moffat has demonstrated a talent for subtely in amongst all the marvelous madcappery. And I’m encouraged by the Doctor’s resolve, in the wake of his fake demise, to withdraw a little, to play a quieter role. It’s the reining in that the character perhaps needs.
A less powerful Doctor – or a Doctor who is less given to exert that power – leaves more room for the universe – and those all-important threats and menaces – to grow around him. The next time a million – or even fewer – Daleks or Cybermen show up, we need to fear them, instead of them fearing the Doctor quite so much.
A satisfactory tying of several knots, hand in hand with a lot of promise for the future. Can I just slightly unsweeten these heaped spoonfuls of praise by requesting a teeny bit more attention on some of the individual stories in between all the brilliance?
All in all a memorable event. And there was a beautifully decorated, multi-teared cake. I’ll have another slice of that, please.
SAF
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Only Fools And Cybermen
Last night saw the return of the show’s spin-off sitcom Two Pints Of Vraxoin And A Packet Of Jelly Babies, penned by Gareth Roberts and currently enjoying a season of only one episode a year. This time it’s The One With The Cyberman In The Changing Room and, like The One With All The Football, it’s funny stuff.
Unlike the Cybermen, our hero Craig (James Corden) has progressed, becoming a dad and the episode gives us a far more credible portrait of a father struggling to cope than Doctor Who’s earlier (and less hilarious) Night Terrors. This rarely falls short of being entertaining, liberally peppered with laugh-out-loud lines – and even Corden is liberally peppered at one point – with pepper – as customary guest star, the Doctor, does a dazzling bit of faffing about in the kitchen shortly after his arrival. It’s just one of many inspired touches of visual comedy to go with the positively fizzing dialogue. And Roberts does a good job of running with Moffat’s idea that the Doctor can speak baby. You’d have to be a fool or a Cyberman not to find this amusing.
Indeed it’s so good, the sooner Gareth Roberts lands a BBC 3 sitcom commission and retires from Doctor Who, the better for us all.
Briefly, I had to cast my attention back to what I wrote about The Lodger last year, because as I pondered the delights of this episode I grew wary of repeating myself. Because – very like the Cybermen – this is exactly like the previous iteration but slightly worse. For the framework for all the domestic comedy antics, I can only imagine Gareth retained the original script and did a quick cut and replace on a few details. Hidden TARDIS-like ship upstairs becomes hidden Cybership downstairs, defeated by the combined psyches of the two singularly unadventurous protagonists becomes destroyed by emotional feedback from one of said protagonists.
Honestly, Mr Roberts, did you deem your own story so forgettable that we wouldn’t notice? Lazy, abysmal stuff. Utterly unworthy of most of the writing that fuels proceedings, insulting to the audience and the people who paid your cheque, and about par for the Gareth Roberts course.
I remember being pleasantly surprised by The Lodger because, finally, it seemed that Roberts had found his appropriate level and delivered something that wasn’t entirely expected. (1. The Shakespeare Code: comprehensively unsurprising Who-meets-Shakespeare-by-numbers, feeble resolution. 2. The Unicorn And The Wasp: atrocious and puerile Who-meets-Agatha-Christie-by-numbers guff, feeble resolution. 3. the 'special', Planet Of The Dead. Overblown and shallow Pitch Black imitation, feeble resolution.) The Lodger is still his best offering – on this steeply downward sliding scale - but unfortunately now this new (sitcom) format seems to be the new pro forma.
In Who writer terms, Roberts always strikes me as the equivalent of one of those X Factor contestants who really shouldn’t have been let through to the judges’ houses but, you know, Louis Walsh insisted because they were ‘fun’ and camp enough to promise some basic lowest common denominator popular appeal. Jedward or Wagner, say. In this regard he does, I suppose, realise his potential.
It’s a shame, because there’s cleverness at work here and there and the man plainly has a gift for funny lines. But ultimately his tales fall over like, well, Cybermen in the face of pretty much anything.
Far from my (admittedly remote) hopes for realising the Cybermen’s potential, this tale blatantly fesses up and admits just how crap they really are. I don’t know what it is exactly, a syndrome or a disease, but for the series ‘second best’ monster, they’ve been treated abominably by their writers over the years. Here, only the poor deluded Cyberleader believes that six would be enough to conquer the world. I’m only stunned that the Doctor doesn’t contest this point, shrug off the ‘threat’ and go and have a nice dish of fish fingers and custard with Craig and little Stormageddon. An army of them would be about as dangerous as the stockpile of Iraqi WMD we all went to war over a few years back.
Through the course of the series, these poor machine creatures have been susceptible to radiation, gravity, gold stars for mathematical excellence and a zippy silver-clad mime artist. Here, they reach their saddest nadir yet, courtesy of the emotional inhibitor chip introduced in modern Who, defeated by a father’s love for his wee bairn. Awww. (I’m reminded at this point of that great sound effect from The Five Doctors of a Cyberman throwing up.) Spare parts? Spare us.
What makes this painfully worse is that the Cybes have apparently downgraded their conversion process to an eminently reversible process of ‘donning a suit of armour’. This regression is in keeping with their modern clunky, trudge-dread aesthetic, but it beggars belief that, in a universe where technological advances outpace evolution by a factor of umpty-gazillion, a machine-race are not constantly evolving. Hate to say it, but Star Trek:TNG’s rather plodding and pedestrian Borg addressed the perpetual adaptation concept better, even if it was only to add the occasional bit of hosepipe or groinal socket attachment.
Worst. Cyberman. Story. Ever.
Ah, but of course it’s not a Cyberman story. It is, as stated, a story of a guy struggling with his recent promotion to fatherhood. That’s the key and it’s echoed in the way this episode opens with a nod to Rose (assistant staying late to close up shop, something lurking in store): Who is less about Auton mannequins breaking out of shop windows to terrorise the nation; it’s much more about the people who work in that shop. The late, great Barry Letts (whose role Steven Moffat now occupies, albeit in the modern capacity of ‘showrunner’) told me that his mission was simply to produce entertaining sci-fi action adventure and, despite inheriting a setup he didn’t want – a time and space traveller stranded on contemporary Earth – succeeded, for the most part, in investing a succession of alien invasion and mad professor stories with respectable degree of variety and creativity. Back in his day, incumbent Doctor, Jon Pertwee, said that "there's nothing more scary than coming home and finding a Yeti on your loo in Tooting Bec", as opposed to in some alien environment. And there’s something to that. The contrast between the alien and the everyday and mundane makes for a potent mix.
New Who follows that recipe to a large extent, but the balance of ingredients has shifted. Character and emotion has been brought very much to the fore and this is a good thing. But I do wonder sometimes if this hasn’t been at the expense of the sf adventure side. A lot of these 45 minute episodes barely present scenarios, rather than fully fledged stories (at best, this week’s would have made for a poor if amusing short story in an anthology) and perhaps a greater deftness of touch is needed to give equal weight to both elements.
We live in a world where ‘getting away from it all’ is increasingly difficult. While on holiday, I’ll usually make a point of going offline as well as away somewhere. My mobile phone’s available for emergencies, of course, but escape – let alone actual isolation – is a challenge in this increasingly interconnected society of ours. Thus, we see this reflected in Doctor Who – at one time the ultimate in escapism – where we have companions, whisked away in the TARDIS, all of time and space opened before them, and a string of strong, independent female companions possessed with a need to frequently touch base with home and family. Once was okay as an exploration of that facet of the time travel experience, but to have the experiment repeated ad nauseam was a bit too much for my tastes.
Now at last we have the domestics packed up and travelling with us, with Rory and Amy’s relationship centre stage in the TARDIS, but – much as I love em, I really do – their love has been often been put under the microscope, pushed to the forefront and, coupled with the arc concerning their daughter, has often nudged the framing SF adventure story into peripheral vision territory. As I've noted here before, there's this too-frequent appearance of an "It'll do" attitude, as though the importance of a strong scenario has been comprehensively underestimated in terms of selling us on the emotional import at the heart of the presented situation.
At the same time, the tricky issue of Amy and Rory missing out on raising their own child has been conveniently swept under a carpet – sure, the temporal shenanigans have rendered it somewhat moot from a practical perspective, but I think it creates an odd disconnect with the powerful parental – and particularly maternal – bond. It’s something that was clearly in evidence after the birth, when Amy was pleading with her captors against the baby being taken and demanding that the Doctor get her back. And it’s an especial oversight in such an emo-centric incarnation of Doctor Who. It’s as though the (laudable) aim to lend these adventures extra depth goes hand in hand with a desire to keep things simple.
Roberts exemplifies this modus operandi. Hence we have this effective domestic sitcom married to a token hidden alien ship scenario and a resolution straight out of the appalling Doctor Who For Dummies handbook. It has its merits – yay, verily, it abounds with merits: the humour is consistently above most current BBC1 sitcoms (not fantastic praise, I know, but still), forget the BBC 3 ones; there are some nice guest characters (must mention Lynda Baron, much more successful than her panto pirate turn in Enlightenment); I loved the inclusion of Rory and Amy, and the nice little extra of Amy stopping to sign an autograph, as the face of the perfume. (Although it fills me with this niggling feeling that Amy and Rory have been given a future and a life together so, maybe – noooooo! - they won’t be returning, after all. Grounds for an upside down smiley at the very least!) And the Doctor’s little talk with Alfie at the end would have been thoroughly lovely if only not undermined by the sinking feeling that we’ve been there before. Oh dear god, it’s TennantDoc all over again, getting all maudlin and self-absorbed about his impending end. May I make this humble request: in the future, when or if the Doctor is actually about to meet his ultimate demise, can he please please not know about it in advance? All this prophesy and foreshadowing is getting a teensy bit lame and tiresome. Fair dues to Smith, he subtly underplays it to a welcome degree and there’s none of the self-referential “I don’t want to go” mopeathon to which we were subjected in Tennant’s final stages.
But viewed on its own with all the episode’s undoubted strengths in mind, I just can’t see where the harm could have been in framing all this in a smarter, more involved and – oh, what the hell, let’s go all out here – original story with a resolution that didn’t suck lemons.
Emotional feedback is a long way off destroying Doctor Who, but this isn’t the first tale this year that has suffered its effects. Emotional weight, like good CGI, should serve the story and ideally the story should serve that emotional weight. What would have been so wrong with embedding the good material in a decent Cyberman story? (Assuming such a thing could ever be written.) If you have something worthwhile to say, give it all the thought and attention – and the story - it deserves. Just a suggestion.
As it is, yeah, that was amusing. Next.
And talking of next, we can’t let this pass without touching on the promise of the impending season finale. The transition, through the young eye-witness accounts, to River Song and the lead-in to next week, was skilfully done – Moffat at work, maybe, tail-ending Roberts’ efforts? – even down to the minor detail of the Doctor liberating his ominous blue envelopes from Sophie’s stationery supplies. Nice.
Fair warning, Mr Moffat: we anticipate great things. Because there is at least one writer who has – apparently – crafted a complex and fiendishly clever story to the credit of all the themes and character relationships he is out to explore. At least, he’d better have. Since the arc has been so pervasive and all-important throughout this and the previous season, the longer term investment warrants a greater return.
The banks may have slashed interest rates, but in the closing stage of this patchy season (patchier than a one-eyed pirate dog named Patch) I’m trusting Doctor Who will not end up doing likewise.
SAF
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Fawltless Towers
Pictured Above: Distant cousins.Faith. You gotta have faith. For preference, mine comes in the form of Eliza Dushku, but whatever your personal brand, it pays with Doctor Who to always trust that, no matter how disappointing an episode – or even a run of episodes or a season - might have been, there will be better along soon enough.
This week’s, The God Complex, was my cup of tea. In many respects, everything that the preceding instalment, The Girl Who Waited, should have been. A strong emotive concept, this time brilliantly executed. For one thing, it doesn’t rely on people being stupid. In fairness, this one probably had as many inconsistencies of internal logic but it cleverly weighted all explanations towards the tail end so that I was properly hooked and engaged in the story from the get-go. The questions it raised were of the ‘Ooh, I wonder what the hell is going on?’ variety, rather than the ‘How utterly dumb and contrived is that?’ sort.
The Toby Whithouse experience has been a variable one. School Reunion was a tale of two halves – on the one hand a powerfully emotional exploration of the Doctor-Sarah Jane relationship and the impact on a companion’s life post-Doctor; on the other a fairly feeble story of aliens taking over a school, ultimately to be defeated by K9. The best of Who, the worst of Who, but ultimately still magical in the memory thanks to the Sarah Jane thread and a parting scene that tugs on the heartstrings in all the best ways. Vampires Of Venice, veering more towards ordinary, although definitely with merits (including but not limited to hot vampire babes). And now this, The God Complex, outstanding in every respect that counts.
Gorgeously creepy and ever so slightly insane, it opened with shots of empty corridors just waiting for people to run up and down them. The direction was superb throughout, painting this already bizarre scenario of the mock 1980s hotel in a singularly surreal light. Freaky montages, extreme eye close-ups, warped views of corridors stretching away forever, a consistently dark tone expertly interwoven with the chintzy decor,and a perfectly measured restraint in the reveal of the monster. Shadows, more ocular close-ups, ominous sounds and an exquisitely framed shot through glass when the Doctor first confronts it face to face. And it’s a monster which, quite frankly, you’d be seriously tempted to show off.
A beautifully realised creation. It must be said. Sure, yes, it’s ultimately ‘just’ a minotaur, but a fantastic bit of animatronic workmanship. Not quite Farscape's Pilot level, but fantastic all the same. When Amy says he’s beautiful, she’s not wrong. Kudos to the production team on that alone. The line about it being a ‘distant cousin of the Nimon’ is comedy gold.
Loved it, loved it, loved it.
And I understand now why The Girl Who Waited couldn’t have been set in a prison with lots of individually tailored nightmares. Unless these stories could have been combined somehow. Hmm.
Such speculative food for thought aside, this for me is the best standalone story of the season so far, up there with Neil Gaiman’s The Doctor’s Wife, with perhaps a few extra trimmings on top. There’s a deftness of touch ranging from the simple facet of set-dressing – the pictures of previous victims on the walls, for instance – to the characterisation of the lovely Rita (not a meter maid). Actress Amara Karan and script conspired to invest her with a similar ‘instant companion’ quality to the likes of Sally Sparrow (sigh) and I for one would have welcomed her recruitment as a regular at the end. Of course, it’s all engineered so that we properly feel for her in that horrible, wrenching scene of her demise. A true shame, but the engineering is pure craftsmanship.
Memory cheats, but I do recall wondering, back in ye olde times during (the somewhat overrated) Curse Of Fenric, whether the Russian captain was intended as companion material, before he met is fate. There’s other Fenric common ground here as the Doctor endeavours to break his companion’s faith in him, only this time the scene involves actors instead of Sylvester McCoy.
The initial hypothesis that the creature is feeding on fear is the stuff of bulk-standard DW monsters, preparing us for a foray into familiar Orwellian Room 101 territory, but thought has gone into the range of hot and cold running fears on offer in the hotel rooms. Clowns and ventriloquist dummies are obvious ones, of course, but you would need the more common fears in amongst the quirkier ones. The conspiracy-theorist geek’s fear of girls and that single shot of the huddle of girls all talking and laughing about him was again deftly done and told the character’s whole story in as few seconds as possible. Naturally there’s a burning desire to know the greatest fears of the regulars – the Doctor most particularly - and the episode frustrates us with its restraint in this regard, but it’s pitch perfect. Any more would have been wrong, as would any less. As the story progresses, we know there has to be more to this than just fears and when the question of faith then rears its head, further fascination is folded in with the suspense.
And the range of faiths is as creative as the range of fears. Faith in conspiracy theories, faith in luck. And how fantastic to have a practising Muslim in the mix. In passing I did wonder whether the Doctor’s reference to pointless superstitions and faith was ill-judged, in the light of Rita’s religious beliefs, but it’s clear that he respects and admires her. It’s fitting that a Time Lord with a God Complex, eponymous or otherwise, would be something of an atheist, but I couldn’t imagine him being so glibly dismissive of the deeply held beliefs of a person so clearly valued and recently lost.
As dark and potentially heavy stuff as all this is, there is comedy aplenty. All that was missing in this hotel from hell was a guest appearance from John Cleese. We had David Walliams – not in the same league, all due respect – but he puts in a good turn as the cowardly alien from the most-invaded planet in the universe. The fact that this snivelling spineless Orc survives when better people have lost their lives is simultaneously galling and inspired.
Like all good things it comes to an end. But we have to hope that at least part of the end is temporary. When the illusion of the hotel is stripped away and all that’s left is a Tron-like virtuascape, bringing into sharp focus the isolation and loneliness of the minotaur’s death. His line about one so drenched in blood embracing the end was, for me, so clearly referring to the Doctor it didn’t necessarily need spelling out, but it’s at least not as bluntly hammered home as, say, the end note in Moffat’s The Beast Below. But that’s ultimately the extent of my quibbles with it, really, because as I said it managed to sell me on the scenario and fully hook me in, before any triggering of the internal critic could occur. Damn it, it even managed to have me feeling sorry for the beast, without any sense that anyone was ham-fistedly trying to push my buttons. Even the music was – gasp!! – understated for a (blimmin welcome) change.
So in the end not quite entirely faultless, but perhaps as close to it as Doctor Who ever comes.
Still, with all that praise heaped upon it, I must balance it out by adding that Toby Whithouse is a bastard. Sure, he can claim he was only following orders but that doesn’t alter the facts that responsibility lies with him – for being the man who wrote Amy and Rory out. You utter git, sir. Shame on you!
Of course, if this had occurred at season’s end, I would be more convinced – and horrified – at the prospect that this was indeed their actual final departure. But I can’t buy that this is really the last we’ll see of them. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, maybe it’s because I’ve been fed on a diet of more recent companions who always return no matter how final their departure seems. Mostly though it’s because Matt Smith, Karen Gillan and Arthur Darvill have been for me the best Doctor-companion combo since Tom Baker, Lis Sladen and Ian Marter and that’s something real special. I have faith that they will be back.
In grudging deference to Mr Whithouse, he delivers a beautiful departure scene which does the relationships justice. The bastard writes terrific tear-jerking farewells. So, in case there’s any misunderstanding or in the remotest case Mr Whithouse is paying attention, ‘bastard’ is in this instance a term of respect and admiration. With the blame, sir, comes due credit.
That final closing scene of the Doctor’s isolation and loneliness inside the TARDIS is as perfectly judged as most of this episode and this is the first time in a few weeks now that the episode itself has honestly outdone anything in the NEXT TIME... trailer at the end.
NEXT TIME has a lot to live up to now and unfortunately it features Cybermen – and the modern clunky, trudge-dread ones - which puts it at a disadvantage before it’s begun. Let’s hope we finally get a story that realises their potential.
Looking further forward, I’ll be hoping for more Amy and Rory soon. And more from Toby Whithouse next year. He’s definitely earned his place as a regular guest at the Doctor Who hotel.
SAF
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