Behind the ion curtain

As you may well be aware, this blog has a propensity to look westward across the Atlantic in its noble quest to source and dispatch TV wisdom to it’s small but discerning readership. With the Americans’ reputation for churning out shows such as the Soprano’s, Curb and The Wire, sorry Chavez, but cultural hegemony doesn’t always seem like such a bad thing.

Last week however, things were a little different. After having duped the Duchess into an Eastern escapade and bade a tearful “missing you already” to The Wire Series 1, I tossed the TV Guide and packed my bags as TV Casualty finally went Continental.

As any good guide book will tell you, the first thing you should do when you arriving in an unfamiliar country is channel surf your hotel box. Television can expose the best and worst aspects of a country, broadcasting everything from Olympic triumph to Regime change Through TV one can instantly access a rolling archive of the obsessions and intrigues that grip a nation’s collective consciousness at any given moment, and tap into the cultural life of a large swathe of its populous through the protective anonymity of a glass screen.

That said, you’re probably going to want to find an English speaking channel first to ease yourself into the culture shock. In this situation, BBC World is usually your best bet, merging as it does that familiar British presenting style with just enough extra international news to make you remember you’re on holiday. In its absence however Euronews should be more than enough to fill the gaping void. This isn’t because of the quality of journalism on show (Euronews somehow manages to cover Europe wide events with a level of scrutiny just below Newsround) rather it’s for the filler items in between news headlines.

One such filler is “No Comment,” where news footage is shown without narration, and little indication as to what is actually going on. While some of the footage is reasonably self-explanatory, some requires an altogether more creative approach from the viewer. Thus you can find yourself inventing all sorts of reasons why four men in grey suits should be walking into a building, and lets face it, whatever you make up is likely to be about 100 times less depressing than the truth.

Another filler item (and my personal favourite) is “Flashback,” in which a news story from exactly one year before is shown in surprising detail for Euronews, in doing so turning the whole concept of “news” on its head. Tuning into one of these bad boys can initially be incredibly exciting in a “Shit I knew this was going to happen!” way, but as the realisation dawns on you that you are neither psychic nor have you travelled back in time somehow, its actually quite interesting. Of course sometimes major events are reported that you have absolutely no recollection of, but I suppose its better late than never.

Having suitably reassured yourself that the English speaking world still exists, you may want to venture outside into new territories. On this occasion, I managed to stumble across Polska Nostrovia, a highly entertaining show in which Ladas and other Soviet era rust buckets are navigated around a variety of obstacles. This can range from contestants double parking on a yellow square to going hell for leather off road, mowing down cardboard cut outs of animals trying to cross the road, kind of like Top Gear meets The Animals of Farthing Wood. The fact that there is a language barrier doesn’t matter either, as the hilarity of bad driving is, of course, universal.

Other highlights include watching your favourite movies dubbed in German, which can range from being expertly done to absolutely ridiculous, as well as the ever popular music text in channels such as Viva.tv. Channels such as Viva serve not only to show that morons exist all over the world (witness XXX GUNTER IST SEXI XXX a few times and you’ll know what I mean) but also show that for all their enviable multi-lingual skills, lyrics written in English by Continental Europeans are all uniformly lame, alleviating somewhat that feeling of awkward ignorance implicit in travelling anywhere outside the English speaking world except possibly France.

With TV like this at your fingertips, it’s easy to see why people say travel broadens the mind.

Masterchef Goes Largish

The hangover has barely faded and Masterchef 2008 is already breathing its garlicky breath down our necks. Tearing a hole straight through eight weeks of BBC 2’s 8:30 weeknight slot (barring Fridays) Masterchef Goes Large 2008 is once again serving up generous portions of tears, triumph, (and a lot of the same) over the coming weeks and months. Under the critical gaze of large faced double act x and y, a whole battalion of food weirdo’s will be sweating it out in the Masterchef kitchen, each vying for that prized place in the final and the chance to “change their lives forever” with a guaranteed job in a “top kitchen” (and if they’re really lucky a shot co-hosting the Wild Gourmets or some similar drivel.)

At first glance a number of things jar in the Masterchef goes large format. For a start, while some of the contestants are old enough and far enough into their (mis)chosen careers to really benefit from the fast track to job in cooking, the increasingly younger make-up of the contestants make a less convincing case for the whole “one chance to realise their dreams” foundation on which the show trades. If they want to cook so badly, one asks oneself, why not just get a job in a kitchen? It could be that I’m missing the point entirely, or that getting what you want without working for it is actually looks good on a CV these days, but I don’t tune in to Masterchef now without my sceptic gun cocked and with the safety off.

It’s also painfully repetitive, with much of the show looking like it’s been directed by a computer programme. Each day the same lines are trotted out by the voiceover. “Accountant Robert is risking it all with…” describes anything technical or offbeat, while “but will that be enough to impress the judges?” is generally reserved for more conventional efforts. The emotional state of the contestants is similarly portrayed with a few easily recognisable rules. Stress and pressure are denoted by the Prodigy, while Keane usually kick in at the end accompanied by a group hug to portray the bond forged by the group and good will towards the emotional winner. Personally I’d want to kick him or her in the shins but then again I am solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

Yet despite these foibles, Masterchef draws me back, if intermittently, again and again. Chief among the reasons for this is the quality and thoughtfulness of the cooking on show. Most of the contestants display a genuine flair and passion for what they are doing, and the often inventive, risky and instinctual combinations (particularly in the first round) show approaches to food I might not usually consider. The earnestness of the contestants is another plus; many contestants look like their very life depends on the taster’s reaction to their laboriously crafted creations, and I can only admire the guts it must take to put themselves out there through their food. For these reasons, last years contest threw up some interesting finalists and made for a good season finish. This year some of those contestants have been invited back to undergo life-threatening 16 hour shifts in some top kitchens later in the series, so it’ll be interesting to see how this kink in the format works out.

Exploring a more sobering theme this week BBC 2 also kicked off the first in (another) series of films about the Iraq War with the badly titled The Boys of Baghdad High. This fly on the wall documentary follows the lives of four Iraqi friends as they try to maintain a normal life on the increasingly blood soaked streets of the Iraqi capital. Having been provided with video cameras the boys then recorded the various aspects of their day to day lives, be it singing along to a Britney Spears song or running the daily gauntlet to school and back. For dramatic effect, the friends were all from different religious backgrounds (though only two of them appeared to hang out with each other) giving a further twist to the tale.

Although The Boys of Baghdad High was rich in material and made for a unique on the ground insight of what is going on in Baghdad, the programme was badly let down by the editing. For some reason the four boy’s voices were dubbed into English (in wildly unfitting accents) while everyone elses were subtitled, affecting the fluidity of some of the scenes. In addition, the film was cut somewhat haphazardly, and seemed to be trying to manipulate the footage to show the boys everday life, i.e. hanging out or being nagged by their mothers, jarring with the stark realities of the war. This in itself isn’t necessarily bad, but instead of providing us with a stark contrast as the programme makers must have intended, it seemed to enforce a misplaced light-heartedness to some scenes when the truth was much grimmer. Although it did throw up the line “If Chemical Ali really wanted to destroy the north, he should have fired a rocket with Mohammed’s socks in it.”

There were some poignant moments, such as when two of the boys parted company as one relocated to the Kurdish north to escape the violence, as well as some truly terrifying footage of explosions and firefights, but somewhere in putting it all together the integrity was lost, and as such I doubt The Boys of Baghdad winning any awards for film making.

New Year Cheer

It turns out something other than a black hung over smudge was lurking behind New Year’s Eve after all, with a new American President, worldwide recession, and series 5 of Shameless all pitching up to make 2008 as hopelessly defiled as every other year since 1982.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy lolling about on the sofa in between bouts of galloping consumption (quite the opposite,) but the realisation that the New Year (difficult depressing and skint as it is) is like hitting the reset button on a stopwatch feels strangely liberating. Theres nothing quite like staring down the barrel of a brand spanking new 12 months in which to gush, bitch and abuse alliteration and brackets to the fullest before ending it all once again in a blazing fit of excess to lift the spirits. Frankly I find something comforting about the whole cyclical thing, and this no less applies to my visual entertainment.

But before I get ahead of myself dreaming of the new programmes, media events and rolling news coverage that will no doubt chop up and store 2008 in the memory banks until I’m at least 45, a respectful look back at the moments that defined Christmas in TV land is long overdue.

As promised, Eastenders cranked up the misery expertly as the Brannan dirty laundry tumbled out of the wash basket (and in the case of Tanya, straight down the stairs) in an explosive Christmas Day double header. Despite the fact that Good King Wenceles wasn’t played, it didn’t snow, and the pub was only half full, (proving I’m only right 99.9% of the time) it proved to be a tumultuous week in the square indeed. This was especially so as much of the action was played out in front of a huge photograph of Bradders and Stacey smiling with Max on their wedding day, and as if that wasn’t tragic enough, super straight “shop-your-own-son” shooter Kevin Wicks kicked it while driving a dodgy motor! If you ask me the Set and Irony departments of Eastenders deserve a raise (if they aren’t among the 6000 BBC employees getting fired this year that is.)

Also on the BBC Ricky Gervais broke his fall from glory slightly with the last ever episode of Extras offering a poignant end to this original if somewhat patchy series. A litany of cameos was laid on for the occasion, with only George Michael really getting into the self effacing spirit of the show as he cruised Hempstead Heath for chance encounters. Throughout both series Extras has shined when it has demanded self-parodying performances from its cameos, Daniel Radcliffe’s spoilt child and Orlando Bloom’s narcissist provided some truly hilarious viewing and gave me a new respect for both stars. However, when it demands little from its guests other that the same clipped and massaged media image we’re used to, such as the beatification of David Bowie in series two and Gordon Ramsay’s “tough guy” in the most recent episode, the show suffers, and Gervais appears like little more than the grubby little name droppers he plays so well. Despite this disappointment however, Extras ability to get under the skin of celebrity and fame while knocking out the jokes will make it a memorable feather in Gervaises bow.

As previously indicated much of my Christmas period was spent in the company of Arrested Development, a sort of serialised Royal Tenebaums with a lighter comedic touch and minus the sap. I only managed to blast my way through about two thirds of the 22 episode behemoth first series so I can’t say definitively, but this US effort was compulsive enough viewing to have me returning time and again. Following Michael Bluth as he tries to steer his wayward and numerous extended family through a tough patch after the incarceration of its criminal patriarch, Arrested Development is definitely character driven television. While the storylines can often be wafer thin and the voiceover grating, the well developed and original characterisation more than compensates. There is another two series of this, and while I’m not going to rush out and buy the box sets I’ll be on the look out for this one lurking around digital in the coming months and I recommend you do the same.

Finally, Shameless made it to the fourth series with a double helping via the old C4/E4 first look chestnut. I’ll reserve judgement for now, but the date for it’s return was certainly well placed, as watching Frank stumble around like a hobo made me feel (slightly) better about the previous night’s reverie.

TV Casualty's Christmas Crackers

Christmas was designed for TV. The combination of debilitating meals, cold weather, time off work and a high family member per square metre ratio conspire to make silently vegging out in front of the box an extremely attractive option. And just as normal concepts of time go out the window (can you truthfully see anything but a hungover black smudge when you think of the 1st January?) so too does normal scheduling. For these two or three days of the year we are a captive audience and the listings positively twinkle with festive delights – if you know when and where to look. All too often however the pressure of buying presents, talking to people and the omni present box set mean that some of the best shows are neglected, only coming to light days or weeks later with a passing glance at the TV guide as the Duchess tosses it into the recycling.

Therefore to avoid tears before New Year’s TVC, being the essentially philanthropic enterprise it is, has assembled the very best of viewing in one tragically under visited website. This means that all you have to worry about it whether to drag the TV into the kitchen or bring the mountain to Mohammed.

Surrender your senses to TV Casualty good citizen as we play spot the pun and fly – snowman style – through the wild and varied digiscape of Christmas TV land.

Kicking off Christmas Eve Gordon Ramsay sticks one to the yanks in Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares USA (C4, 9PM) where we presumably get to see Gordon hawk his highly sellable mix of humiliation and inspiration to our American cousins. As we all know by now, Gordon doesn’t mince his words and demands his subjects eat a large slice of humble pie so it will be interesting to see how this plays out across the pond. Completing his monopoly of prime time Channel 4 we are also being given The Best of The F Word (C4, 10pm) followed, bizarrely, by Ramsay’s “favourite film” Sexy Beast. (C4, 11:10pm)

If you couldn’t give a stuffing about Gordon or think his favourite flick is a turkey (It isn't, though I can’t imagine him sitting still long enough to watch one film, never mind enough to justify a favourite film) then ITV 2 is the place to be as they run a double bill of petrol headed thrillers The Fast and the Furious (ITV2, 9pm) and 2 Fast 2 Furious (ITV2, 11pm.) It may surprise you to learn this but behind the rapier wit and sophisticated veneer of TVC beats the heart of a moron, so this potent mix of cars, girls and guns will make its presents felt...

If none of that does it for you then back to back episodes of Father Ted (More 4, 9pm) should ensure a warm rosy glow in the living room before you hightail it up the stairs so Santa can fill your stocking in peace. If that doesn’t satisfy, your dead and I can’t help you.

Moving into the big day EastEnders (BBC1, 6:20pm & 8pm) stands out as a deal breaker. Bradders and Stacey have been grinning out of the cover of every TV guide worth its salt for the last few weeks now to maximise the effect as Max and Stacey’s affair is exposed to a stunned Brannan Family Christmas via the under-rated medium of video. Aside from that it will snow, Good King Wenceles will be played by a brass band and everyone will end up in paper hats in the Vic – a traditional East End Christmas.

As EastEnders begins its second showing of the day Harry Hill’s Christmas TV Burp (ITV, 8pm) gets underway on ITV. I probably should leave this out considering it is “an irreverent look at the Christmas TV schedules” and will no doubt expose TVC for the imitative, third rate sloppy mess it is, but that would be unprofessional. The man is a genius and as soon as I loose my hair and get a few shirts with outsized collars I’m moving into TV. Watch this.

Film-wise The African Queen (C4, 6:10pm) ticks the “they don’t make ‘em like they used too” box as Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn star as the drunken sailor and prim missionary taking lumps out of each other in the Congo, and The Motorcycle Diaries (C4, 10:35pm) biopics a youthful Che Guevara as a trip around South America sows the seeds of revolution in his soul.

If you’re still left groping in the dark despite this, you can turkey fart your way through back to back Peep Show (E4 from 9pm) while The Sopranos (More 4, 12:40am) continues to storm its way through the back catalogue heedless of man or religion.

Break out the box sets on Boxing Day as the schedule looks pretty bereft, I’ll be working my way through Arrested Development. Highlights for the next five days of Christmas include the last ever series of Extras (Thursday 27th December BBC1, 9pm) which includes cameos from David Tenant, George Michael, Gordon Ramsay and Clive Owen (?,) the first episode of the new series of Shameless (New Years Day C4, 10:10pm) and Meet the Fokkers (Friday 28th December BBC 1, 8:30pm.)

Ignore this advice at your peril, and have a good Christmas.

Brannan vs Mitchell

My devotion to Eastenders has recently been on an upward trend as events in the soap begin to take a promising turn for the wretched.

Not since the Krays Chinese Smiled their way round the ol’ East End in the 50’s and 60’s has London seen the likes of what is about to kick off in the otherwise quiet leafy suburb of Watford. Mark my words, it’s going to be a red Christmas in the square as the cobbles get an overdue taste of Mitchell blood.

All the evidence points to a full scale war; Jim has gone into hiding, most likely to direct operations from a heavily fortified compound safe from Mitchell bullets. Bradders, masking an icy intellect behind his ruddy faced hang-dog optimism has taken control of the Market, weeks after suspiciously quitting a high powered city job to “assist” the Market Inspector (whereabouts currently unknown.) Jack, the Brannans’ “man on the inside” has duped his way into a controlling share in a Mitchell enterprise, while the loose coalition between the Brannans and the Beales looks set to become official as Lauren and Peter prepare to enjoin the families in blood.

In contrast the Mitchell Family has never looked weaker. Having failed to produce an heir of any substance in Ben, Phil has taken it upon himself to provide the sole muscle of the operation. Attempts to recruit a Soldier in Jason have so far failed, and while Peggy, Ronnie and Roxy managed to face down the bailiffs as an impressive trio of no-nonsense broads, recent in-fighting is causing divisions that will take more than a few vodka shots to heal.

The gloves are off, and despite loose cannon Steven Beale threatening the entire plan with a premature blazing of Mitchell’s Motors (note Stacey earning her stripes,) things are falling into place that could see the historic seat of the Mitchells change hands before the New Year rings in…

While one world disintegrated, another was saved as Heroes reached its foregone, if no less dramatic finale last Thursday, opting to end things in the time honoured tradition of a double-bill.

Although we never really expected the creators to inflict September the 11^th times a thousand on New York, the finale to this highly watchable if a little trashy American export lived up to the hype, and avoided the misty eyed American patriotism that I always suspected lurked at its core.

I wont give too much away, as I know for many this show is a hang-over box set waiting to happen, but its suffice to say its worth sticking around, if only for the Evil Dead –like leader into season two which is no doubt mere months away.

Crapford

The first few days after a dispatch are usually spent in blogger post coitus. I drift from Eastenders to the news then back, perk up for the Sopranos then float into bed for thirty minutes or so with Mario Puzo’s grinning Godfather and friends. I then slip into a deep slumber for a restful night dreaming of garrotings, two-tone wingtips and cannelloni.

Towards the end of the week however things begin to change. I get the itch, and realise I better watch something new soon or risk my reputation with dead air. This week however, the Greater Manchester Bender Weekender got in the way, and I arrived back on Sunday evening an emaciated, dehydrated, and very worried blogger indeed.

Despite the ticking clock however and in a move the great Don would have been proud of, I made a few key decisions and managed to consolidate my media consumption into a manageable 24 hour morsel, and in doing so stoked the fires once more for the informed, witty and ever reverential phenomena that you have come to love and hate as TV Casualty.

On Sunday night Mothers and Grans everywhere were no doubt boiling the kettle in anticipation of Cranford, the latest period drama to satiate the seemingly endless appetite among the British public for bonnets, bodices and bootstraps. Sunday night’s transmission was my second episode, and showed no change of pace as events lumbered on almost imperceptibly.

Set in a rural village in England, the storyline largely revolves around the goings-on and jolly hi-jinks associated with the arrival of a new young doctor in the town. When not giggling about the new doctor, the six or so women who make up the citizenship routinely go into fits about a new railway line and the Irish, who comprise an as yet unseen malevolent presence ready and waiting to corrupt everything they hold dear.

This episode saw Dame Judy Dench, (cast against type as strong, dignified and English) lose her sister then narrowly miss out on her last chance of happiness without shedding a single tear. Meanwhile, a rapscallion Scot with a twinkle in his eye causes good natured havoc, and the Lady of the Manor steps down from her perch to intervene in the wrongfully arrest of vagabond Jambo from Hollyoaks, in doing so saving him and his one hundred snivelling brat kids.

As you might of guessed, Cranford didn’t overly impress, and in a bid to redress the balance I opted to spend my day off in a dark room with strangers in search of something far more up my street.

Following the entwined fortunes of African-American Gangster Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) and the honest New York detective tasked with busting his smack ring (Russell Crowe) American Gangster puts a black perspective on the mafia power struggles that gripped New York in the 60’s and 70’s.

The action joins Lucas after his boss and mentor Bumpy Johnson dies, setting him out on the ambitious goal of flooding the streets of Harlem with cheap, good quality heroin from Vietnam. As his operation grows in size, so too do the difficulties involved with keeping the business safe from corrupt cops, rival gangsters and the investigation of Russell Crowe’s drug trafficking task force.

The film is a brave attempt to breathe new life into the genre at a point where my old friend the Soprano’s seems to have said all there is to say on the matter, which at times it succeeds in doing. However, a fatal flaw lies in the film’s apparent inability to adequately balance feelings of admiration and revulsion for the central character, the dichotomy on which all good gangster films make their bones. We never really get under the skin of Lucas, and he never gets under ours, with the end result that his fate becomes largely unimportant.

In addition, It is impossible not to draw comparisons between American Gangster and other mob movies. The poster, set in the black and white hues redolent of Scarface, practically begs it, while the title of the movie places it firmly within and up against the genre. This is a brave tactic and not one which always pays off, as the film balances familiar themes of fraternal betrayal (The Godfather,) police corruption (Serpico,) the dark side of the American dream (Scarface,) and the Irish (Cranford) with the business of telling the story at hand. One good thing to come out of the film however is the city itself, which takes centre stage as New York emerges as decaying and lawless city of bleached beauty and decrepit magnificence.

For fans of the gangster movies, American Gangster is a watchable if flawed addition to the genre, though less than avid viewers probably shouldn’t bother. Although the movie offers a different take on what has previously been dominated by Italian, and to a lesser extent Irish characters, it doesn’t say anything new or with enough eloquence to give it any stand alone appeal.

Ahh!

The MIGHTY Boosch

Somewhere around the third shit of the day it hits you. Something is not quite right.

What had been a curious but not unwelcome opportunity to catch up on your reading starts to take on more sinister and worrying dimensions. Your brain automatically googles “food poisoning” and that last sausage flashes up instantly. This is a bad time for you boy, and its not about to get any better.

Unfortunately, the same can often be said for the world of film and television. Take the Godfather trilogy. After two masterpieces of epic importance and pop cultural gravitas, part three bombed like New Coke and to this day casts an icy shadow over its predecessors. Likewise, Peep Show began to loose a little of its edge on its third run and I won’t even get started on the third Sting album.

Others however, rightly recognise the simple beauty of the couplet. Spaced did, prudently calling it quits before money or ego stretched the formula. Similarly, Fawlty Towers earned its place in Sitcom royalty on the back of a mere 12 episodes. These shows recognised the old showbiz adage that you should always leave the crowd wanting more, instead of subjecting us to a dragged out and undignified death the wrong side of primetime. It would seem therefore, that as with many other things in life, when it comes to TV (especially good TV) three is often a crowd, and gooseberries can be real shits.

These were the fears with which I nervously awaited the third series of The Mighty Boosh. Having found little to fault and much to love in the first and second series, the cautious and essentially pessimistic side of my hexago-nature warned me not to hold my breath for more of the same. However, as Machiavelli so consistently points out, you don’t get anywhere in life without taking a few risks, and Victory was definitely on the side of Barrett and Fielding last week as The Mighty Boosh stormed back for another crack of the funny bones.

Set in a shop in Shoreditch, the first episode finds Vince and Howard home alone as Naboo and Bollo go on a stag weekend. As the episode progresses we soon find we are on familiar ground as the trademark creepy characters, inventive sets and kitsch elements combine with an increased budget to conjure a kaleidoscope of offbeat and irregular comedy. The songs are still in there, as are the moon cut-aways, while the chemistry of the two main characters maintains the balance and equality that marks and elevates all good double acts.

Although this isn’t simply a rehashing of the earlier efforts; In this series, for the first time as far as I can tell, TMB is starting to turn its considerable strength outward against elements outside its world. “Eels” veers into Nathan Barley territory as the show takes a few pops at the Shoreditch elite and Nu-Rave in equal measure, suggesting perhaps a reflex to the increasing popularity of the programme as it drifts to the mainstream. However, with appearances by Razorlight and The Horrors scheduled for later in the series, the satire is unlikely to hack all the way to the bone. No bad thing in my opinion, as going too far down this path would risk sacrificing some of the fun of the show.

As such, those suspicious belly rumblings must have just been nerves, as TMB looks set to score a hat trick with the third series. For now at least, I can take solace in the fact that greater men than I have dared and won once more.

Also, dont worry if you miss it on thursdays, as its repeated eight times during the week

Round up

Eagle eyed readers will have noticed a distinct lack of new content over the last few weeks.

This is not, as my recent forays into the world of food writing might suggest, because I have sent my glowing friend in the corner to the naughty step. Rather, ever since I purchased my spanking new DVD Recorder, all traces of viewing diversity have all but gone out the window as the Soprano’s consolidates its vice-like grip on my life.

With all 86 episodes now being shown in a row by More 4 every weeknight after 12, prudence dictates I record each one, while compulsion makes damn sure I watch them. This all adds up to over 5 hours viewing per week, and with all the time it takes to hold down a job, eat, read (the Godfather, tackily,) watch the news and brush my teeth, there is very little room for anything else.

As such, after a brief flourish, democracy has once again yielded to autocracy, diversity overwhelmed by homogony, and freedom of choice brutally crushed by the all pervading influence and authority of Divine Right.

A few rogue elements have slipped through the net in recent days however, and it is with great personal risk and likely censure, that I bring you this week’s resumen de televisión, live from behind the ion curtain.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall. It’s not that I don’t like him, I’ve just never been particularly inspired by his pig-rearing, free-ranging grow your own or die approach to cookery, finding it a tad beyond my means. However, with River Cottage: Gone Fishing, we’ve made our peace. In the latest River Cottage offering Hugh takes his welly boots and straggly locks around Britain’s coastline in search of the best self caught seafood he can find. He then cooks it simply, and usually outdoors, before serving it up to old sea dogs and salt of the earth types who receive with all the gratitude they can muster for a double-barrelled land luber who just cost them a morning’s work. It’s a pretty simple formula, but proves interesting and educational, incidentally stomping all over The Wild Gourmets who tried a similar thing but failed miserably.

Also evading capture in service of the truth this week was Channel 4’s “contemporary re-telling of the story of the story of Exodus,” aptly titled of course, Exodus.

After being abandoned by his immigrant mother on a beach, Moses is adopted by evil right-wing leader Pharoah Mann, who brings him up in a world of wealth and privilege, albeit failing to impress any of his beliefs on his young son. After killing a soldier with one punch, Moses is exiled to dreamland, an old fairground complex turned internment camp that is home to criminals, refugees, and the dispossessed. There he quickly and quietly finds his old family, becomes a great leader, and leads his followers to the land of Milk and Honey.

At least I think this was the story, as I became increasingly less interested the more I watched Exodus, and infinitely more happy to amuse myself with facetious little musings on the inconsistencies of the premise.

I am usually a big fan of dystopian visions of the future, particularly when they involve some sort of authoritarian element, but Exodus unfortunately failed to float my boat. I admittedly should have sat through it until the end, if only to see how much the programme would deviate from the original story, but in a world of infinite media choices and unprecedented access to information, if you haven’t got me in the first 15 minutes, I’m not likely to stick around.

Also this week I tuned in excitedly to Kitchen Nightmares, which after a smashing first two episodes has dissolved into cynical rehashing of old stories, by way of Gordon “re-visiting” restaurants from previous series, and as such only needing to show about 25% new footage. I also went to see Planet Terror in the cinema, which proved gratuitous, vile, and thoroughly enjoyable.

Don't Stop Believing

Less time spent fucking around in restaurants and more time in front of the goggle box this week as I said good bye to an old friend and welcomed home another.

The Soprano’s reached its bone shattering conclusion on Sunday night and while most of my friends were out partying at espookio, I was firmly planted indoors so as not to miss the most important television event of the decade. Having stuck my fingers in my ears, shouted gibberish and physically threatened anyone who brought up the subject of the finale in the proceeding weeks, I had effectively shielded myself from the ending and went into the programme as much a plaything of fate as Tony Soprano himself. If you value your faith in television and didn’t tune in on Sunday, I suggest you do the same and close this page immediately.

This series has been something of a slow, steady burner, with the drama cranked up by increment over the nine episodes. Tony’s daily struggles with work and family continue, but this time against a background of seething tension with Phil Leotardo’s New York crew, threatening the Soprano Family’s very survival. By the time we reach the last episode, a few key members of the crew have been killed or seriously injured, and we’re basically tuning in to see if Tony’s going to get whacked.

While usually unflinching in its graphic portrayal of murder and violence (the superb scene in the model train shop where Bobby is felled by a hail of gunfire comes to mind) the last scene of the Soprano’s avoids a similar blood lust pay out for Tony, and leaves things altogether a lot more complicated.

With Leotardo dispensed with, a measure of stability has returned to Tony’s life. AJ seems to be improving and been dissuaded from joining the army, and a tentative reconciliation with a senile Uncle Junior has been reached. Carlo Gervasi has turned informant, so possible jail time lies ahead for Tony, while the imminent threat of death seems to have subsided. However, this is last scene of the last episode of the last series, so we know better than to expect such a simple conclusion. In a stomach twisting sequence of shots, our suspicion and paranoia become fused with Tony’s as a number of shadowy potential assassins emerge amongst the diner’s clientele. Tony selects Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing on the jukebox and just as the tension becomes almost unbearable the action abruptly cuts to black, holding a few seconds before the credits roll silently.

I won’t get into the “was Tony shot” debate too much here, as the internet is already brimming with analysis and counter-analysis as fans split into rival factions. This debate is likely to go on indefinitely, but it’s suffice to say that as finales go, this was a ripper, with even the Duch peeking up from behind her facebook to check it out. For what it’s worth, I side with those who believe Tony was shot, with the cut to black reflecting the closing of the window we had into Tony’s world, the abruptness of death having been discussed in an earlier episode by Bobby and Tony. Others amass evidence to contrary, but I think the creators’ wanted us to fill in our own ending, so unless they start up again or make a film, I’ll stick with that one.

In reality TV, often the simplest premise works best. Big Brother was good the first couple of series, but starting going downhill as soon as the producers starting fucking with it too much, but with Kitchen Nightmares Gordon Ramsey knows why people tune in and stays pretty close to the formula.

In the first episode of the fourth series, the infamous browbeater was in Brighton, home of seafood restaurant Ruby Tates as well as lots of gay people, as Gordon keeps reminding us.

It’s a familiar story; Ex-actor restauranteur Allan is losing £1500 a week and the chefs are lazy and incompetent, serving up dead mussels and warm fruit de mer. In comes Gordon, and with a unique mix of ritual humiliation and inspirational leadership, sets about turning a damp squid into the catch of day. This is done by changing pretty much every aspect of the restaurant down to the name, so by the end of the episode it is basically an expensive fish and chip shop, though with a profit of over £3000 a week and climbing.

Despite the fact that you can see the formula a mile off, Kitchen Nightmares remains pretty good telly. The F-word can seem like its trying to be everything to everyone all at once, which can get a bit tiresome but this programme fortunately knows what it’s doing and does it. The put downs and “bollockings” were a little toned down in this episode, but it remains to be seen if that will remain the same throughout the series.

With my favourite anti-hero now sleeping with the fishes, I need another show to indulge my passive aggression.

The Droogs of Society

Every dog has its day and this week it was the turn of the TV bottom feeders to bark. Bolstered by morbid curiosity and a peculiarly bereft schedule, I’ve recently been trying to score in some of the less salubrious corners of digi-land and this is what i turned up.

Excess all areas: Rock Stars was a remarkable Sky Three docu-druggy-drama that retold the final highs and lows of rock stars Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix with a unique mix of reconstruction, personal testimony and computer animation.

Interviews with close friends were cut with reconstructions of the errant rock stars eating out of bins, smashing up hotel rooms and generally making a nuisance of themselves before injecting, snorting or dropping their way into oblivion. At this point the graphics took over as the image dissolved into a representation of the stars insides, replete with heroin molecules attaching themselves to receptors inside their glowing exo-skeletans.

Terry Christian narrated in a cynical attempt to inject some cult cool into the travesty with the result that both Christian and the programme dropped a few notches more in my esteem. Towards the end I couldn’t even laugh at how shite it was, and had to turn off the TV before they showed Sid Vicious stabbing Nancy Spungen and telling people to fuck off a lot (although this might have been cool in retrospect.)

Over on More4, I’ve spent the last few weeks dipping into Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip to see whether it was something I could dig. As far as I can see this is little more than a shit programme about an even shiter programme.

Based around the lives and loves of a bunch of smart arse American media types as they quip their way through the production of what looks like one of the most boring programmes ever fictionally created, Studio (I’m doing that irritating thing people do when they try to make something sound better than it is by shortening the title) suffers a lot from its association with political cheeser The West Wing. Much of the programme is given over to proving that the actors can walk, talk and crack jokes at the same time, as well as demonstrating the quirkier sides of the characters’ personalities (which it becomes quickly clear is incidentally the only side of the characters’ personalities.)

I think there was a plot in there somewhere, and definitely something about snakes, but other than that the hour or so I spent watching this mush has pretty much been erased from my memory, heroes style, and that’s probably for the best.

As such Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip does provide something of a therapeutic function. In much the same way as high-powered executives like to submit to a dominatrix, watching this programme allows your brain to take a holiday from worrying about all your personality defects and making decisions such as whether to buy one of those new i-pods after all.

The rest of the week News 24 and BBC Parliament was pretty much the default option, as at least with it something exciting could happen. Sundays on the latter are taken over by C-Span, the American political channel and in my view, lengthy footage of the Senate’s ratification of the presidents Attorney General nominee trumps the Hollyoaks omnibus any day.

BBC Heaven

I’ve been all over BBC this week like some sort of computer rash. First up was Charlie Brooker’s Screen Wipe (BBC 4) where I dully had the extent of my plagiarism chopped up into little pieces and laid out on a plate for me.

Non-stop media came under fire this week as Brooker dismantled rolling news coverage and shone a floodlight through each component, calmly exposing the absurdity at the centre of most “breaking news” coverage and round-the-clock reporting.

Packed with sharply observed witticisms and pointed analysis, Brooker’s Guardian Screen Burn Column translates well onto TV. Having only recently started watching this, I was a little concerned that the column wouldn’t flesh out well to a half hour TV programme, but Brooker succeeds admirably as the show becomes a whole different beast altogether. Emphasis is very much placed on the processes behind TV, as Brooker exposes the trickery and manipulation “behind the story” and coolly lacerates the genre.

While unfailing in its sardonic humour, Screen Wipe also manages to be educational and informative, aided no doubt by Brooker’s clear, matter-of-fact presenting style. Any criticism I make of this would likely be out of bitterness, as it feels like there is literally nothing I can ever think or say about TV again that this man won’t already have expressed, in an infinitely more humorous way, ten years previously.

Next up against the wall was this week’s surprise gem Please Vote for Me, (BBC4) a documentary charting the tears and tantrums of the first ever class elections in a primary school in the city of Wuhan, China.

Screened as part of the BBC Why Democracy? season, the film captured China’s first baby steps into the unfamiliar as the class was introduced to the new and volatile concept of democracy, creating a hotbed of political intrigue and rendering a race as hard and closely fought as the toughest General Election campaign.

On the ballot was the incumbent, Luo Lei, challenger Cheng Cheng and Xu Xiaofei, the only girl in the race and its first casualty as the boys increasingly dominated the debate. Bribery, trickery and backstabbing became par for course as the three battled it out, egged on by over-ambitious parents and determined to keep their eye on the main prize that offered respect, power and privilege.

The subsequent election campaign alternated between the hilarious and downright dirty. During Xu Xiaofei’s crucial election speech, Cheng Cheng orchestrated his classmates to shout her down, reducing her to tears and adding a sinister twist to the contest. It wasn’t long before the whole class was in the throes of anguish and despair as the effect of their ill treatment of Xu Xiaofei became apparent. The next day, Cheng Cheng told her it had all been arranged by Luo Lei, and then once again led the class in a round of intensive heckling as Luo Lei tried to set out his own vision for the class.

This being China, however, Luo Lei managed to fight his way back with some good old-fashioned corruption, taking the whole class for a trip on the city monorail (managed by his fathers police department) and giving out gifts in a bid to secure their votes.

In the end, the incumbent’s advantage proved too great to unseat Luo Lei, as the class cast their votes by secret ballot and chose him to remain their class prefect, to the bitter disappointment of his rivals.

Please Vote for Me was a rare and interesting piece of filmmaking from a country notorious for its suppression of artistic licence and freedom of speech. As the drama unfolded, local director Weijun Chun had captured what he described as a reflection of the “tough yet hopeful democratisation process in China” and created a snapshot of a rapidly changing country that is facing new challenges and threats in the increasingly globalised world.

As the action cut between the classroom antics and the behind-the-scenes political management of the candidates parents, events unfolded seamlessly and without the need voiceover as Chun stitched together a story of power, politics and intrigue while keeping his eye on the wider social implications.

If this does indeed reflect the first steps in the long and arduous process of democratisation in China, it promises to be one that will have its fair share of corruption, mishaps - and Machiavellian eight year olds.

Fortnight foul up

A few particularly nasty hangovers and long working hours conspired last week to knock my writing out of sync, so this will be my first TV round-up in a fortnight. I feel bad for letting it slip and i would like to take this opportunity to apologise to both of the people who read this blog.

While incapacitiated i did manage to fix at least one bloodshot eye on the dream screen at various points over the two weeks however, and with my mind never far away from the mealstrom of faux indignition and excessive italics that is TV Casualty, I made some quick-deposits in the memory banks and wrote a few post-dated critical cheques.

Nigella Express hit the screen last week as the food seductress clambered in and out of taxi's, entertained friends and did some important looking work, all while planning what to have for supper that evening (a generic term which seemed to mean anything from a full blown meal with family to pudding in bed, the nuances of which presumably only the seriously well heeled can discern.)

Week One's menu included crispy calimari and some sort of pudding, all made with mountains of butter, sugar, fat, and the decadent abandon Nigella has traded on throughout her career. In this series we have been invited into her swank London pad, (metaphorically of course) to see how lazily and easily we too can whip up spectacular food while labouring under the demands of Modern Life.

While i admire Nigella's "I'm not prepared to sacrifice one meal" philosophy and her aversion to the Cook yourself thin mob, I thought the show didn't really measure up in the cooking, where it mattered the most. The food looked inviting, but in the process Nigella doesn't really impart any transferable knowledge, rather demonstrating a sort of Cook by Numbers approach and focusing more on the inordinate pleasure she seems to take from sampling her own creations. This programme made me hungry, but it didn't particularly make me want to cook.

Another new arrival to TV land last week was the return of Kath & Kim, the Aussie fem-fest chick-com so beloved of my own dear Duchess. Focusing on the bogan-ey antics of the mother and daughter of the title, the fifth (?) series features a new addition to the cast as baby Eppony-Ray enters the fray.

The first episode cranks up the comedy potential as Kim's no-good dad returns onto the scene and ends up conning his guileless daughter out of several thousand dollars, causing her and put upon husband Brett to move into the Day-Knight love nest, making for overcrowding and ensuing hilarity.

Opinions on this show are divided (usually along gender lines) but i generally find Kath & Kim to be watchable, if a bit hit and miss. The posh shop assistants at Fountaingate are about as funny as cancer, and you get the sense that some of the jokes are a bit too laboured when a more subtle approach would have done the job better. Despite this, Kath & Kim boasts some good characters, and the Australian Suburban Limbo in which it is set provides a good backdrop with plenty of comic mileage.

Considering i live with an obsessive, Kath & Kim is going to be an unavoidable part of my life for some time, and thats not a bad thing at all.

TV round up

My ability to come up with snappy TV-related titles for my weekly round up has apparently burnt out after a depressingly short period of time, meaning I have had to put my creative switch on standby, retune my rapier wit and generally fuck about with the aerial. However, there is apparently more to life than cheap puns on cheap punk songs, so without further delay, I’ll get going on this week’s TV round up.

This week, a fellow aficionado turned me on to Tribe, (Tuesday, BB2: 9pm) which involves “explorer” Bruce Parry travelling to some of the remotest parts of the planet to spend time with and learn about some of its most isolated people and their customs.

From the blurb this seemed like another boys-own adventure in the style of Donal MacIntyre’s recent Edge of Existence or BBC Macho-fest Last Man Standing, as Parry travels to Siberia to spend time with the Nenets, a tribe of Reindeer herders that follow the animals’ massive migration movements throughout the year, yet as the episode progressed it was clear that Parry offered a little more to what is otherwise often an ethically questionable genre.

Suited and booted in his winter gear, the episode began with Parry being helicoptered into the Nenet’s camp to meet his adoptive family and spend his first night inside his host’s reindeer-skin chum. Over tea that night the head of the family expressed his misgivings about Parry’s ability to adapt to their difficult way of life, a fear than was borne out over the course of the program as he immersed himself in their annual migration south.

Playing like a sort of “Cowboys of the Tundra,” Tribe offered a fascinating insight into the Nenet’s way of life, accompanied by some stunning Arctic photography and lightened by the presence of likable goof Parry (at one point he instigates a fashion parade as he shows off his new Nenet clothing to his companions.) The programme gave an idea of the harshness of the tribesmen’s life, but also of its uniqueness and the fundamental freedom it gave the Nenet’s, all of whom had houses in town and many who had left their professions to return to this way of life. The tribes apparent warmth and respect for Parry also cushioned what might otherwise have seemed like an an exploitative “call of the wild” adventure holiday, as did Parry’s willingness to chip into the workload whenever possible and frustration when he felt he was holding them back.

Most of the rest of the week cruised through without anything significant to report, the usual diet of News, Eastenders and repeats of Hells Kitchen featuring prominently, not to mention a two day TV sojurn caused by my own wilderness adventure. Until, that is, I was knocked sideways with little warning by the return of The Sopranos, with the first episode of the final nine on Sunday night.

My relationship with the Sopranos has been consistent in its respect and admiration but rockier in its diligence. Having shared in the family obsession with the series while at school, we grew distant when I went to Australia and the relationship floundered when I went to university, exacerbated by the move to E4. Chance encounters and the occasional attempt at reunion have dominated the years since making for a patchy knowledge with gaping holes, the last series being the first in a while that I watched with any sort of consistency.

Now however, with the final nine in a good reliable time slot (Sunday, 10pm) and with access to E4, I am in a perfect position to follow the monumental series to the last, and I’m looking forward to the next eight Sundays.

The first episode of the last series opened with a police raid on the Soprano family home, followed by trip to Tony’s sister and husband Bobby Bacala’s lakeside cabin to relieve the tension. As Bobby and Tony floated in a boat in the lake in a scene reminiscent of the murder of Freddo in Godfather II, the tension starts to ratchet up culminating in a drunken brawl over a game of monopoly gone awry, with Bobby as the unhappy victor.

Tony’s revenge is swift, calculated and total, setting the tone for the series and reminding the viewer that The Sopranos constantly challenges by simultaneously inspiring feelings of identification, warmth and revulsion in its characters, never allowing for complacency or one-dimensional analysis.

As the various threads of the last series come together, this promises to be an explosive coup de grace for possibly the greatest drama to series to come out of America for a generation. I know I’ll be watching.

Back behind the box where i belong

Newly paupered from my stint in the Big Smoke, I found it surprisingly easy to slide back into the old work – food – TV – bed continuum last week, as I refocused by retina’s and jumped aboard H.M.S Blinky to sail through to the weekend abyss.

First port of call was Jamie at Home (Tuesdays C4, 8pm) to watch the naked chef go feral in the back garden of his Essex mansion. Looking like he had had a few too many turkey twizzlers, a slighty rotund Jamie Oliver once again tore, mushed, dolloped and lovely jublied his way through a series of recipes designed to get the best out of “Mother Nature.”

On the menu this week was Barbeque, and Jamie demonstrated some interesting variations on the craft smoking Langoustines and Razor Clams in an upturned Pirex bowl over a grill, and testing out an antique spit roast with a large hunk of dripping, blistering, mouth-watering pig.

This was no Lidl-burgers-on-a-disposable-in-the-park affair, and as wave after wave of sizzling, blackened meat came off the barbie and straight into Jamie’s jabbering mouth, I couldn’t help but feel like the little git was taunting me, the Glasgow anti-summer having all but extinguished any hopes of having even a primitive variation on this classic feast this year

Annoying as he often is however, Jamie Oliver does offer some practical advice and he has a way of making cooking seem like a less precise and more everyman affair than some of his contemporaries, and this series isn’t a bad stab at demonstrating this ethos. Gone is the crusading character of some of his earlier efforts, with a greater focus on the food than whatever social ill he is attempting to cook away on that particular week. Gone too, curiously, are people. Save from the occasional appearance of a bemused gardener, Jamie is largely alone, delivering his cooking tips to an unseen presence just off camera, (an irritating habit) devoid of the family party feel of some of his earlier shows.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing (I feel like I know Gordon Ramsey’s kids better than my cousins) but it does lend a slightly melancholic air to the cheeky chappy at times.

Later in the week BBC 2 proved a suitable place to drop anchor with the return of Saxondale, (Thursday BBC, 9:30pm) Steve Coogan’s character driven sitcom about an aging pest-control rocker coming to terms with suburban domestication. Reluctant as I am to give advice, I would like to offer a quick tip: Never attempt to watch the first episode of series two of Saxondale with three girls who have been drinking cider in the sun for a good part of the day. Lacerating my viewing pleasure with shrieks of “That’s _ out of _” every time a new character came on the screen, it was at times difficult to hear through the din and adequately assess Coogan’s latest offering to a degree which you, Dear Reader, should have come to expect by now.

As such, I’ll keep the champagne on ice and hold back the dogs for another week. A closing line did suggest that this could be a grower however; when a downcast Saxondale is roused from his misery by an invitation to party with the guys, his wife asks him what she should do with his dinner. “Put it by the microwave – I’ll heat it up lay-ter” he drawls as the van screeches away, holding a beer in one hand, and making a horn sign with the other. Amazing (possibly.)

The week ended ship shape with the announcement by Channel 4 that it would be freeing up around 29 hours of schedule in January by cancelling Celebrity Big Brother as well as cutting adrift some its more mindless pap to instigate a “creative renewal.”

The programmer plausibly cited the so-called Jade Goody race row and a reluctance of celebrities to appear on its show as a few of its reasons, and it will be interesting to see what they come up with to fill the gap. With most remotely intelligent programmes now farmed out to More 4 however, I wouldn’t be surprised if How clean is your Brat Camp topped the bill.

TV Party!

bbSome monumental lifestyle changes were afoot this week as i commandeered my first working digibox, in one fell swoop expanding my channel range tenfold and consolidating my power. I won't forget in a hurry that first golden night when, giddy with excitement i left the side of a slumbering Duchess and after a quick and suprisingly uncomplicated set-up, devoured a Father Ted and double Curb, basking in the digital light that had entered my life.

By fated coincidence, however, i had spent earlier that night in the company of one of the old guard, BBC 2, and the ominously titled TV Junkie, the video diaries of American journalist Rick Kirkham chronicalling a decade or so of crack addiction and family disintegration.

Compiled from thousands of hours of footage, the programme presented a seamless and self shot account of Kirkham's battle with drugs and alcohol. Aside from a few background titles at the beginning and end, the video speaks for itself, allowing the viewer to piece together the story and draw their own conclusions.

At times, Kirkham uses the camera as if he's making a special report, leading to bizarre "I am now using a makeshift pipe to smoke the cocaine" type pieces-to-camera, and at other times he uses it as a confessional. At other moments it becomes clear that the camera is another addiction, as he keeps it rolling through some excrutiating moments.

I genuinely did not know where this was heading, and was somewhat surprised when it finished with him making an emotional speech to a group of whooping graduating students after six clean years. A cheeseball to the very end, his boys and ex-wife joined him on stage for a group hug.

TV Junkie was good, and at times harrowing tv, and although Kirkham never really inspires feelings of like or sympathy, you had to admire his courage for sharing his lowest points.

Still running high on my Monday night fix, i spent the next few days content with a Mighty Boosch DVD and a rare mid week trip to the cinema. I'd watched a few Mighty Boosch episodes when they were on TV but the DVD really helped fill in the gaps. Having been beseiged with references and quoted out of more than a few conversations, some vital viewing was necessary - if only to wind people up by finding (and loudly declaring) it to be shit.

Fortunately this wasn't to be as i found the Mighty Boosch to largely hit the mark with its fantastically original plots, characters and sets. The bits with the moon let it down slightly, but other parts, such as old gregs "Do ya love meh?" have entered into the dailylexicon of my existence.

Dragging myself away from DVD and digital delights, I actually left the house to see The Simpsons movie on Wednesday night, adding another medium to my seemingly endless capacity to stare quietly at a screen with my mouth open. Reports from the front line had been that the movie was ok, suprisingly funny but nothing amazing, and i found this to generally hold true.

The movie comes in at a higher level than the latest from the TV series, which having been dismal for some time is starting to improve slightly, but is lacking in alot of the intellectual weight of the earlier episodes.

In saying that, there are still alot of good jokes in there, and it explores some darker territory when dealing with Homers familial neglect and poor parenting. All in all, it is a good way to spend a few hours (though i did fade a little in the middle) and i would watch it again quite willingly.

TV Party?

Despite tuning the TV and normalizing the situation in the new flat, viewing was AGAIN unacceptably weak this week. I could blame this on books, the game cube and friends (the real kind – not the TV programme) but I know that the responsibility ultimately lies on my own shoulders and for this I apologise, dear reader.

While I never really built up any sort of consistency or pace, the week was punctuated by stolen moments and fleeting glances at the humming idiot in the corner, and I managed to snatch the following from its gaping jaws.

For some reason BBC thought it would be a good idea to screen a Dragon’s Den catch up on Wednesday and Thursday night. These episodes involved catching up with the winners and losers of last season and documenting their various (mis)fortunes, run along side interviews with the “Dragon’s.”

When Dragon’s Den started a few years back I enjoyed it. It was interesting to see the workings of entrepreneurship and gain an insight into the world of investment, marketing and business. However, in the last few years the show seems to have denigrated somewhat to become an uncomfortable exercise in ritual humiliation of the desperate by the powerful. This is owing in no small part to the success of The Apprentice and the bankable Sir Alan Sugar’s onslaught of put downs, jibes and ultimate dismissals painting a not altogether pleasant image of the viewing public as a jeering, bloodthirsty hoard.

What the producers of Dragon’s Den miss however, is that The Apprentice steadily builds up and exposes the contestants considerable personality defects, showing them up as greedy, ambitious and generally unprincipled shits who have bought into idea of the supremacy of wealth and power, making the viewer unsympathetic when that wealth and power turns against them full force in the wrath of Sir Alan. With Dragon’s Den, however, we aren’t given the chance to like or despise the contestant, making it unpleasant when they are rejected, and dull when they are not.

Moving briskly on, visual diversion later in the week came in the form of David Lynch’s prequel to Twin Peaks, the chilling Fire Walk With Me. (DVD) As with so many things in life, I was something of a Johnny-come-lately to the whole Twin Peaks franchise, so this was the first time I saw this movie, and I can say it has whetted my appetite for more.

For anyone familiar with the original film, Fire Walk With Me follows the series of events leading up to Laura Palmer’s death, ending with the discovery of her cellophane wrapped body at the lake shore (the first shot in Twin Peaks.) Lynch himself takes a role in this, as a cryptic hard of hearing FBI chief, with Kiefer Sutherland and Kyle MacLachan also making appearances.
Watching this film suprised me a little with its brutality. While Twin Peaks ambles along quite steadily, slowing drawing the viewer into the darker side of this quiet mountain town, Fire Walk With Me jars and jolts the viewer with scenes of prostitution, drug–use, rape and violent death almost from the beginning. It quickly becomes clear that Laura Palmer is no angel, and a cast of potential killers lines up to sharpen their knives amid the mysterious disappearance of the investigating agent in a previous murder. As with the first film Fire Walk With Me is visually mesmerising, exuding the Lynchian sepia-like style crossed with sexualised ultra-violence it shares with Blue Velvet.

Expect to read ramblings from the box set in the very near future.

Rounding the week off, Skateboarding documentary Dog Town and Z boys made adequate viewing for a sober Saturday night. The documentary follows the history of the infamous “Z-boy” skateboarding team from poverty-stricken southern Santa Monica as they swapped surf boards for skate boards, drained pools to skate in, then variously found their own paths to fame and fortune or otherwise. Played out as a sort of “punk-rock on four wheels” (emphasised by the unnecessary presence of Henry Rollins of Black Flag and Ian McKaye of Minor Threat and Fugazi in some of the interviews) Dog Town and Z-Boys nevertheless provided a good background to the former sub-culture turned international money spinner that is modern skateboarding.

Sensually, the film was enjoyable as old skating footage was spliced with present day interviews and a snarling Iggy pop soundtrack, set in the backdrop of a decaying California beach resort. However, while the Z-Boy team was undoubtedly talented, pioneering many of the sport’s moves and clearly blowing every other team out of the water with its trade mark slouched surfer style, the documentary did drag on a little as it descended into a round of back slapping and self-mythologizing.

Most of all, a lot of these guys reminded me of some of the skateboarders who used to hang around St Anne’s in Belfast before the council bulldozed it, with their aggressive localism, hierarchy’s and super-sized egos. One particular scene where a guy reminisces about throwing breeze blocks at outsiders especially springs to mind.

However, by and large the skating speaks for itself, and as one interviewee rightly points out, you have to be at least a bit of an asshole to be that good at something.

Later Losers.

View from the Arse End of the Week

N.B. This entry should have gone online on Sunday, but immeasurable difficulties with our new Broadband connection has caused delays.

One of the central ironies of writing a TV related blog is that it leaves less time for actually watching TV. Combine this with me and the Duchess relocating to a new hate nest, TV viewing has been regrettably light this week.

With a mindful eye on the schedule, however, I managed to prioritise my workload, and was witness to the birth of televisual phenomenon Heroes, sneaking a couple of elicit after hours episodes of The Thick of It into the bargain.

Sweetened by a series of breathless reviews from my square eyed Comrades, I awaited the arrival of Heroes (BBC 2, Wednesday 9pm) with bated breath. This heavyweight offering from the other side of the Atlantic has been hyped as a sci-fi revolution of sorts, picking up where lost nose-dived and tipped as Spiderman without the spandex.

Going by episodes 1 & 2, I could be spending some serious downtime with this one over the next few months. The season opener begins on solid foundations as we are introduced to the central characters and given a taste of the action to come, and Heroes has plenty to play with. Making an appearance are a time travelling Japanese office worker, flying politico and his dead beat brother, an indestructible cheerleader, and future predicting junkie artist scum Isaac. There is also something weird about a reflection going on, and the pace is set by a pater-avenging Indian Doctor, while the cheerleader’s evil adoptive dad lurks ominously in the wings.

True to form, this is comic book TV, and expect faux philosophy, page turning plot-lines and a trash clash of good against evil as its bread and butter. Heroes does, however, give the impression that it offers something more than the standard American diet, and it will be interesting to see how the story develops and the characters interact. I have a feeling that the stars and stripes are going to creep in there somewhere, but even this could (possibly) be forgiven if it’s done right.

Occupying a 40 minute slot on BBC 2, Heroes is also mercifully devoid of big brand sponsors who can’t seem to resist offering mini-sketches which look like they were thought up by humourless advertising drones taking five in the chill out room of their open plan creative work spaces. It also means you can watch uninterrupted, and don’t need to spend 20 minutes of each episode as one of those little shit wipes target audience, reminding me why I should pay the TV license.

At the risk of turning this entry into a BBC love-fest, The Thick of It (DVD) is another good reason to pay your fees. Created by Armando Iannucci, this fly-on-the-wall political satire offers a scathing and irreverent take on the corridors of power.

I missed the series when it was on TV, and having recently splashed out on the box set (can it be called a box set if there are only two discs?) I’ve been savouring these babies slowly but surely. Set in the fictional Ministry for Social Affairs (“What the hell does that even mean?” muses Chris Langham’s character in one episode) the plot follows the daily mishaps of Minister Hugh Abbot as he lurches from one political crisis to another. There to help him along the way are ambitious aide Ollie, SpAd Glenn and pragmatic spoil sport Terri.

The lynch pin of this series is without doubt, however, the PM’s Scottish “Policy Enforcer” Malcolm Tucker, who browbeats, cajoles and profanitizes his way through Whitehall like a tornado in a razor blade factory. With a visceral hatred of the Press and penchant for ruining careers (“He’ll be copy and pasting Hollyoaks extras tits in the the Sport by tomorrow”) you have to wonder how much Alistair Campbell there is in Tucker. Sharp, ruthless, and endlessly creative in his put downs, he satirises the spin and power politics of present-day Government to a brutal degree.

That’s what I call a Hero.

Another week down the tubes...

TV watching was for some reason relatively light this week - though i still managed to rack up a good couple of hours in front of the idiot box.

Here's what stood out:

After a disappointing first week, Indian Food Made Easy, (Monday, BBC 2, 8:30pm) once again failed to inspire. Terminally patronising presenter Anjum Anand this time took her mission to prove that "anyone can cook delicious Indian food" to her old unversity friend, the creepily intense and somewhat bemused Alex.

The action centred around Alex's FA Cup final party with the boys, for which Anjum devised "a chilli themed feast," and proceeded to lead Alex through its execution with exclamations of "its that easy" every five or so minutes.

After having watched in horror as Anjum added cheddar cheese to a tandoori marinade in Week One, (Indian Food Made Queasy) I never really had very high expectations for this one. The food looks ok, but Anjum seems to have a knack for making you feel like a scolded child for not cooking Indian food every waking moment of your life.

That said, i'll probably tune in next week for the chilli porn.

Coming straight after, Twentieth Century Battlefields (Monday, BBC 2: 9:00pm) brought some much needed quality programming to the screen with a tactical retelling of the Faulklands War. Father and son team Peter and Dan Snow present this fascinating series which retells shell by shell some of the most bitterly fought conflicts of the last one hundred years.

With a heavy focus on military tactics and strategy, the Snows cast aside moralising to deliver a forensic account how some of the most influential events in shaping our world played out, replete with archive footage and aided by computer generated diagrams. Twentieth Century Battlefields is an example of public service broadcasting as it should be.

Later in the week, the second episode of the oddly titled Cape Wrath (Tuesday, C4 10pm) did little to redeem to disappointment of the series opener. Despite a promising premise (Meadowlands is a town inhabited solely by people on witness protection) Cape Wrath unfortunately borrows from too many different elements (Lost, Desperate Housewives, Twin Peaks) to really pack a punch of its own.

The story centres around the dysfunctional antics of the Brogan family, Meadowlands newest arrivals and most troubled residents. Within hours of moving in, Mr Brogan has killed someone, Mrs Brogan starts making eyes at the local doctor (played by a Tim Henman lookalike) with kids, ice-queen Zoe and emo basket case Mark, getting in on the action elsewhere. Comic relief is provided suprisingly effectively however in the considerable form of Jezebel, the 16 Stone scouse "beauty" next door.

Idolised and revered by her neighbours for her unparalled beauty, the character offers a glimpse of originality which makes me suspect series could develop into something more than the sum of it parts. After the first two episodes, however, i don't think i'll be sticking around to see if the gamble pays off.

Rounding off the week, My Name is Earl (Thursday, C4, 10pm) proved once again that it knocks seven shades of shit out of every other American comedy currently running on terrestrial tv. It's not particularly edgy or advanced, but its great one liners "Do monkeys worry about their looks?" and slapstick storylines prove that in the age of The Office, Curb and Peep Show comedy doesn't always have to be an unnerving experience.

This season does rely a bit more on the trailer trash gags than the last, and the show does occaisonally veer into shmaltz but My Name is Earl remains one of the best reasons to shun social interaction on a Thursday night.

Stay tuned.