The Cutprice Guignol

The Ninth Year: The Haunting of Swill House

Category: Television Review

June 23, 2013

Death: XXX

I’ve expressed countless times, both on this blog and in endless pub arguments, that violence in entertainment is not just justifiable but traditional; for years, we’ve been entertained by every genre of generalized human suffering. Something I don’t think I’ve expressed as fully is my aversion to sexualised violence. I’m not sure why, but the addition of a sexual element to torture or murder or what have you makes me a little…uncomfortable. It could be my horribly old-fashioned view of sex as being best when shared with someone you love and care about, and when you start adding in, I don’t know, a naked woman frolicking in the blood of a beautiful, scythed young nymphet (yes, I fucking hate Hostel), it gets a bit rough. Nothing against the BDSM community, mind- Safe, Sane and Consensual is the general rule there. Three words, ironically that do not apply to 1000 Ways To Die.

1000 ways to die is your usual dumping ground for terrible actors, spurious experts and boundless “true stories”. Basically, it features dramatized versions of various horrible and unlikely ways people have met their maker. It’s hilarious viewing for the first episode or two-a sort of less-funny, poorly animated version of The Darwin Awards, accompanied by a hi-larious voice over which would be infinitely if it were just me with a swanny whistle and a whoopee cushion. By episode three, you’re feeling a bit grubby. By episode six or so, you’re weeping in a corner in a mixture of fear, disgust and heartbreaking self-loathing. I counted up, and, of the thirty-seven episodes of the first three seasons, there are forty-one stories involving sex in some way or another. And this isn’t all jolly larks, like a woman masturbating with a carrot (HAS SHE NOT HEARD OF YEAST INFECTIONS?!) and sending a deadly air bubble to her heart. This is someone mistaking a grizzly bear for a member of a furry group and having his intestines torn out. This is someone trying to seduce a builder and being bisected by a buzz saw. This is someone choking to death on a ball gag after his dominatrix mistakes his protests at his hitherto-unknown deadly latex allergy for moans of pleasure. This is Death: XXX.

And this is all rated TV-14. Right, I’m not getting into the ratings debate (again) but seems to me like this is cheating a little bit. Just because the show doesn’t people getting their guts ripped out or their genitals electrocuted or a frankly questionable amount of stuff to do with violent death and farts doesn’t mean it doesn’t put that idea in someone’s head. Now, I was a particularly neurotic and easily frightened child (I used to get terrified by the descriptions of CSI in the Radio Times), but even by age fourteen I don’t think putting the concept of pretty intense BDSM death or violent brain hemorrhage in MY violent brain hemorrhage would have been something I could cope with. Something like Saw incorporates hideous death into a story (or at least a semblance of one), but this show simply presents money shot after money shot as entertainment with no sense of moral or character or depth. It’s exhaustingly pointless-less compassion fatigue than sheer acceptance of your own limits as a human. Why is this harmless entertainment? Why is this acceptable because of a slightly sarcastic voiceover? If I make pithy comments over House of 1000 Corpses will it be required viewing in primary schools? Why isn’t anyone making me dinner? Where’s my wine? What was I… oh, forget it. I’ll keep fighting the good fight.

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June 15, 2013

Hannibal: Aye, Alright.

Well, hello, you elusive readers, you. I’d apologise for my lack of posting but I’d feel far too much like a lecturer breezing in late for a class everyone was hoping they’d forget to turn up to so I won’t do that. Essentially: I’m back.

Recently, I was forcibly coerced (ish) by my-well, now we’ve hit the boyfriend/partner barrier. I dislike the term “boyfriend” but “partner” feels wrong for an eighteen-year-old ah-tiste and a twentysomething version of Frasier Crane sitting around drinking wine and talking shite about litrechoor. Partner is someone you’re in the crucial stage of living with but not quite started to find physically repulsive. From now on, I shall simply refer to him as….my consort. Right, so, I was coerced by my consort (ah, so much better) into watching the TV redo of Hannibal, starring Mads Mikklesen as the eponymous Lecter and Hugh Dancy as Will Graham, yer usual brilliant-but-damaged investigator.

There were several factors riding against my enjoyment of the series; firstly, and most importantly, I hate the character of Hannibal Lecter. Silence of the Lames is, simply and purely, one of the most overrated films I’ve ever seen-I admire Anthony Hopkins as an actor, and Jodie Foster put in a very good performance, but I find Lecter himself to be an intrinsically silly character precisely because they don’t embrace the silliness of the role. All horror and horror-related roles have to accept that, at their heart, it’s all a bit daft. Hannibal was presented with such po-faced sincerity I instantly hated him. He can stick his head up his qiante.

In addition to this, Laurry Fishburne was in it. By which I mean, LAURENCE FISHBURNE: ACTOR. He was Larry Fishburne and wonderful in Apocalypse Now, then he was LAURENCE FISHBURNE: ACTOR and terrible in The Matrix (which is one of the most Godawfully humourless films I’ve ever seen, but I digress). And here he was doing some PROPER ACTING. Fuck.

However, I was actually pleasantly surprised by the debut episode as a whole. Hugh Dancy was excellent as the real crux of the show, helped along with a liberal sprinkling of clever visuals and sharp plotting. I liked that the show shifted focus from LOOK HE’S A CANNIBAL! BUT HE’S ALL CHARMING! OOH HE’S EATING LUNGS! LOOK AT HIM THERE, EATING THOSE LUNGS! to Lecter as a very intelligent bloke who happened to have a taste for human flesh. Mads does a grand job of somehow bringing a wry self-awareness to the role, and much credit has to be given to the beautiful cinematography; the first time we see Lecter, lit to look like a skull, the camera casually deepening the focus of the shot till we finally set eyes on his taut stare, is simply perfect. You should have heard the noises I was making, close as I was to televisual ecstasy. And because the show isn’t all about him, Larry (I said it) reverts back to being a very strong supporting actor, a vein shot through with rationality against the slightly supernatural Dancy. It wasn’t perfect- my consort pointed out rightly that two characters were just stapled to the plot in order to chug out some useful exposition, and it didn’t do much in the way of tension building.

But hey: this is the first episode of a television reboot of an iconic franchise that’s been mostly film-based up till now. There are going to be kinks to be ironed out, and I trust Dancy, Mads and-dare I say it- Larry to do what they can. I’m interested to see the rest of it, and that’s really not too bad an opener.

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May 28, 2013

A Wanker’s Literary Reaction: The Voice UK

So, The Voice UK. You knew it was coming; I, as a purveyor of taste for people who never asked in the first place, and the biggest new talent show to hit Britian since oh Fuck I don’t care I really don’t were destined to meet in a corridor of our mutual mediocrity and matching sense of futility and lack of tangible future in our chosen fields.

The judges in this are hilariously annoying. Tom Jones, who I love and (this is a FACT) who’s voice could literally turn any woman’s insides to cottage cheese with first eight lines of “It’s Not Unusual”, for no real reason other than why not, has cropped up crying and nodding in a big chair. Luckily, he just falls under bland, and therefore the least objectionable of all the judges, because he is Welsh and we’re all secretly reminded of Rob Brydon whenever we hear a Welsh accent and thus cannot feel hate. Then there’s Jessie J, who I used to quite like, who now I do not. She’s quite simply outstandingly irritating, powerfully dull, and utterly vapid, though, in her defence, her hair is really shiny. So distracting is her hair that I sit there, hypnotised, as she makes some other odd rising-inflection comment about how someone moved her with their pelvic-thrusting or something. Next, with have will.i.am, who I hate, and I hate some more. I loathe him so badly, that every time he opens his mouth to release another nasal, whispery shriek or does this bizzare head-nod thing whenever he likes the music, I feel a tumour appear and grow in my brain. It’s about the size of a Terry’s Chocolate Orange just now.

I refuse to even type the name of the total wanking cuntbucket of the fourth judge. Ooh. No, no words, no tags, no mentions, no whispers. He can fuck off back to The Scriptures or whatever. Off my television please.

The competitors are never the problem with these shows; they are simply blank blobs for the TV demographic people to sketch their own faces and personalities on to in order to attract whoever they want to attract. I mean, some of The Voice competitors are outstandingly bland; I refuse to watch an entire series because did you ever honestly expect me to, but even just the episodes I’ve watched, there have been practically nil discernable personalities on show. There’s a little blonde puff of air called Emma-Jay (Jade? Jane?) who constantly looks like a semi-finalist for Miss Margate, and some bloke with very long blonde hair who I instantly took a liking too because he looked like he’d crawled out of the most middle-class mosh pit on earth. But most of them are cut-and-dried from the usual crop of gameshow contestants: the larger lady with a great voice, the ugly one, the hipster-girl crush in skinny chinos, the “alternative” one, the handful of girl-band rejects, the arrogant one, the one from Landan. Yeah, they can all sing, but why do we continue to put so much importance on just singing as a talent? We’ve proved with scores and scores of gameshows from all over the world that plenty of people can sing. Fuck, turn up at karaoke down the union on a Tuesday night and I promise you’ll find a handful of people with decent voices. It’s about having the drive, the charisma, the sheer musicality to carry that through to a career without having to go in front of Jessie J in a big chair. Yes, that’s incredibly unfair and bitter, but we’re still seeing people get to the top on their talent alone. It IS possible. This is not about singing. It’s about, as it always is, emotional arcs and the forced creation of a narrative (I’m picking on The Voice here, but almost all shows of this type do it). But you know what: if i makes you happy and entertains you, I’m no Tom Jones on a big chair. Who am I to judge?

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May 25, 2013

Dark Matters: Terrible But “True”

It’s been a very, very busy few days. On Wednesday I finished my first year at university, moved into my beautiful, beautiful flat which everyone I know is absoloutley sick of hearing about or being dragged to so I can give them tea on the lawn, and generally done a lot of running back and forth and being a little nervous that my new roomate has an ice axe. I’ll just be doing the dishes then, will I? Yes. Thought so.

But you’ll be glad to hear that all these wonderful things have not gotten in the way of my overriding cynicism and general loathing for the world (although I imagine I’m the one at the centre of most powerful loath-storms in history, having selected the computer with the most clattery keys in the library and merrily tapping away as though there’s not eight people considering throwing me through a bookcase), so I’m here today to discuss the glorious magnificence that is Dark Matters: Twisted But True.

I actually watched this show back-to-back while studying for my exams, stunned into blogular silence by the sheer, crushing enormousness of everything that was wrong with the show, yet curiously unable to articulate it or curb my enthusiastic enjoyment of the absurdity. It’s a sublimely awful bit of television; narrated by the sonorous thesp John Noble, it tells ridiculous tales of scientific experiments gone wrong and the like. Think The Men Who Stare At Goats as realised by Hammer Horror.

Either Noble has completely given up on his career altogether or he understands how fucking insane most of what this show dredges up is. Some of it, I happen to know, being a conspiracy theory nut, comes with an element of moderate scientific background to it, while most of the stories are hilariously crass reconstructions of events that barely happened in the first place. Take thier representation of what happened in the French town of Point-Saint-Espirit (Noble getting his mouth around the French pronounciation is a delight, by the way), where a batch of bad bread, presumed now to have been contaminated with the hallucinogenic fungus Argot, poisoned 250 people and caused mass hallucinations all over town. But no: according to Dark Matters, it was for certain a CIA field experiment gone wrong, and here are the reconstructions to prove it: a woman being chased by poorly designed CGI wasps, a man screaming in weakly articulated horror as his hands appear to catch fire, the entire village overrun with terrifying visions of the Rapture. The Rapture, featuring confused actors doing crap French accents.

But I love it. I do. It’s completely silly and over-the-top, but it has managed to crawl into my head and peel back that disturbingly large part of me that secretly loves conspiracy theories and would happily spend several days gurgling with pleasure while an ex-Lord of the Rings actor told me about them. It’s a terrible, terrible, womderful programme; I’m more conflicted about it than I was about illustrating it by using a metaphor about losing my virginity. But that’s fine. Because it struck me watching the last few episodes that the whole thing probably only exists in my own head and therefore I’ve become a conspiracy theory myself, thus bringing he experiment to an end. Have to dash now as I’m getting some sideways glances from a suspicious-looking man sitting opposite me and I really don’t fancy my cha

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May 20, 2013

Doctor Who: Tenacity, Alcohol, Rollicks: In Summary

So, two days ago, Doctor Who came to an end (till FUCKING NOVEMBER ), with a stonker of an episode from the Machiavellian mind of Moffat. It’s difficult to sum up the episode in a few sentences (although I will admit that the first thing I remember from the episode was the title and the writers credit coming up and exclaiming, horrified, “JESUS, I’VE BEEN SPELLING HIS NAME WRONG ALL THIS TIME!”), because it so satisfyingly brought the first Clara arc to an end, let us spend some more time in the presence of the imitable Richard E. Grant, and delight in the lesbians-and-potato men sidekicks which shouldn’t work but do.

I will spoil nothing for no man, but here are the best things about The Name of The Doctor in ascending order: the increasingly hilarious Strax (“Surrender your women and intellectuals!”), the almost total absence of the kids from last week, the classic Moffat mind-bending plot, Matt Smith writing a formal and very convincing letter to the BAFTA committee to split the awards between him and SteVen next year, Jenna Louise-Coleman proving she’s the best choice of assistant since Sarah-Jane, a beautiful, truly touching and almost redeeming apparition of River Song, Vastra and Jenny having more girl-on-girl eroticism than me and half an hour with my Special Drawer, an appearance by a very lovely British veteran that had me almost spewing with glee, and an ending so superb you’ll want to watch it twelve times in a row with your eyes pressed to the screen till every frame is seared onto your brain forever.

It’s tempting to go for a big, wanky summary looking back over the last couple of months of episode, but I’ve had a better idea. Hop on iPlayer, get all the episodes set up, get some sort of vaguely classy spirits on the go, and get prepared to get pissed with my patented Doctor Who Drinking Game (I was going to try for a pun on Tardis, but I’ve done NOTHING BUT GIVE to you people on that front for weeks and I’m tired. I have a headache, alright? Stop jabbing it into the small of my back.),

1. Take one shot for every time the Tardis is shown in flight, crash-landing, or not liking one of the Doctors lady friends because she’s a Jeremy-Kyle level possessive bitch.

2. Take a drink every time Matt Smith delivers a line with reaLLY WIErd emPHASIS.

3. Take a drink every time a British institution appears onscreen.

4. Take a drink for every episode Clara is wearing a very short skirt of some description.

5. Take a drink for every secondary character actor you’ve seen in another British television show.

6. Take a drink for every time the Doctor is really touchy with someone he probably hasn’t even shagged yet.

7. Take a drink for every time the villain/alien is revealed for the first time in an episode.

8. Take  a drink for every time Matt Smith thinks he’s David Tennant.

9. Take a drink for every time the adventure music starts playing.

10. Drink continually till November 23rd when we get the blessed show back.

 

So now you’ve turned my brain inside out, fustrated me, delighted me, and ruined my liver. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

2.

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May 12, 2013

Doctor Who: Tin Aliens Rile Davis In Space

I was not looking forward to this weeks episode of Doctor Who. Firstly, there were children, who would undoubtedly stink up the Tardis with childish glee and the smell of yoghurt (all children smell like yoghurt. They do). And then there were cybermen. Stephen. Now, Stephen. Didn’t we discuss this? I SPECIFICALLY VETOED  recycling of villains before the series began, and yet you continue to defy me. And while I’m on the subject, why the cybermen? Big, mechanised dullards with the face of a very specific fetish doll. Boo. BOO.

But. BUT. This episode? Actually, it wasn’t too bad. At all. Neil Gaiman was at the helm of the story, patently wazzed off his spunk on something I’d like to get my hands on, and rolling about in Matt Smith’s acting talent like a pig in space-shit. The cybermen were gratifyingly played with a little, with the episode splitting itself between Clara leading the traditional Who misfit soldiers (including the adorable Will Merrick, who played Alo in Skins) against an army of the metal monsters and the Doctor playing a high-stakes game of chess. The prize? HIS OWN MIND. The kids were annoying- Christ, and how- to the point of eliciting an enthusiastic middle finger from my viewing companion every time that bratty little girl one rolled her eyes like a fucking pinball machine. But, to the credit of the episode, they were essentially muted by some sort of cyberman brain slug thing at the end of the first act. Good shout, Gaiman.

Matt Smith simply went mad with this episode; playing both the normal Doctor and the part of him that was being taken over by some sort of Cyberman ubermensch. Most of this psychological battle took place in a floating low-res galaxy, which was pointless but very fun, and seeing the good Doctor playing against the more nasty Doctor in one episode was so very wrong that it became completely excellent. Seeing Clara being a bit ballsy and Doctor-free was a nice change, but Jenna-Louise, honey? That chemistry is a massive, nationwide cock tease. Somebody fuck somebody. On another note, Warwick Davis cropped up to bring some class to the episode, even in a comedy aviator hat (his performance very nearly wiped the taste of Life is Short out of my mind’s mouth), and, like every guest star, looked delighted just to be anywhere near a Tardis.

To be honest, the reason I enjoyed this episode so much was because my standards were so low. But Nightmare in Silver went somewhere I didn’t expect it to go, and with the balls-to-the-wall silliness and Gaiman’s glorious verbosity, it went to the right place. But was that River Song’s name I spotted in the promo for next week? I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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May 5, 2013

Doctor Who: Terror and Rather Delightful Inherent Sapphicity

So, last week, I was printing out some tosh or other (actually, it was a Betjeman poem that I wanted in hard copy to put on my wall, but that stays between us) when I idly pulled back the curtains of the print room to look at the mossy bank beyond. There, barely a foot from me, was a mother duck scrambling about with about twelve, teeny, fluffy, snuggly ducklings. I mean, glee doesn’t cover my reaction. I was standing there with a lopsided, beatific grin that looked like I’d found out I’d been cast in the Saw reboot. I was happy happy. But even tiny avian womb-hummers didn’t come close to making me as smack-facedly joyful as Doctor Who this Saturday. This weeks episode, The Crimson Horror, comes to us from The North (requiring Matt Smith to do a frankly erogenous Yorkshire accent), following the tale of the creepy Winifred Gilliflower and the strange goings-on in her institute. 

Now, I really, really dug this episode. It was the 100th episode broadcast since the revival in 2005, and it saw the centenary in with style; it was a proper rollick, allowing us another three-quarters of an hour with the lesbian lizard, her girlfriend, and the potato-head war machine from the Christmas special. The story was a prime example of how tight the writing can be on DW- oneliner after oneliner (“Oh, God, attack of the supermodels…”) and ridiculous throwaway sequences wrapped around what was, at it’s heart, a creepy and compelling story. The chemistry of the extracurricular trio with Clara and the Doctor was superb, as ever, because the writers haven’t quite cottoned on to it yet; as soon as they do they’ll be overused to hell and I want them to be a highlight instead of a third (, fourth and fifth) wheel. 

It was another good episode for a very smoochy Matt Smith, playing the fun Doctor for the first time in your ages, smashing things with chairs and getting a very nicely pitched scene with Rachael Stirling towards the end of the episode that provided emotional closure without souring the mood at all. Diana Rigg, who awoke every pubescent sexuality in the country, was great as the kind of demure psycho bitch Doctor Who specializes in, reveling in the grandeur of the setting and getting to do a funny accent on top of it. But this wasn’t an episode of performances, or monsters, or special effects; it was an episode of attitude, that attitude being “fuck it, let’s have fun”. More, please.

Not so good, though? Both the promise of the Cybermen AND child actors next week. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 30, 2013

The Glee Project: Nope.

So, as some of you know, I’m in an abusive relationship with Glee. I want to leave- dear God, after the school shooting episode followed shortly by the molestation special I want to leave more than I want to have already finished flat-hunting. And since last season, we’ve had regular croppings-up of the wheat harvested from the hours of chaff that make up The Glee Project.

The premise is piss-simple- twelve talented youngsters compete for a guest-star role on Glee, taking part in singing, dancing and music video challenges, whearapon a group of judges, including series co-creator Ryan Murphy, eliminate one human. Thing is, that there are only about two or three actual personalities for each series- and they are, without exception, bastards. Of course, we had the “personalities”-the sort of people who could be summed up by a single, medium-volume klaxon noise.”EEEEEEEEEEEHHHHH”.  Often, this translates into “OMG I’M SO QUIRKY/FLIRTY/CRAY-CRAY” (delete as appropriate) but is no less irritating, generic or shite.

But the only people who stand out in my mind are the people who were genuinely awful. I understand that editing makes villains of us all, but some are truly indefensible. Take Lindsay Pierce-unbelievably beautiful, voice like a filthy angel, the sheer charisma and draw that consistently drags my eye back to her- who certainly did herself no favours, ever, at any point. Yet what pisses me off about the whole affair is that the winners have consistently been the least offensive participant-yeah, Damian Mcthingy, Samuel Boredom and Blake Jenner-ally-nobody-cares are all supremely talented and I don’t begrudge them winning at all, but they were also the contestants who made nil impression apart from both seeming like really sound blokes. Glee is about huge personalities and dramatic personae, but this isn’t reflected in The Glee Projected Growth of Income. Personally, I felt the really fantastic performers were made out to be dicks and chucked out come round six or so. Grumble, grumble.

Can I interrupt myself to point out the only person from The Glee Project who didn’t feel like an unsubtle bolstering of the show was Ali Stroker, who had a single cameo in one episode? All the other characters have been ruined. RUINED. Dragged back and forth through the shit-heap of romantic couplings, unlikely backstories and scattergun sexuality, it’s no wonder I came to the show with a big thumbs-down over the actors that they were helpless to prevent.

You see Ryan Murphy? Don’t like him. I mean, let’s not get me wrong here- I LOVE his television. American Horror Story, Nip/Tuck, a lot of Glee-it works for me. But as a human being, he really pisses me off, and I don’t know why. I want to like him, want him to be a reflection of his brilliant, wry television, but he comes across as a humourless, actively dislikeable borderline-bastard. Nul Points. I like to think that when the show began he was a charming casanova, but Glee has driven him to this hypercritical, beaten-down souleater that we see before us. I know that’s what it’s done to me.

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April 27, 2013

Doctor Who: Tedium and Really Dark Industrial Scenes

Doctor Who this week continues a theme from early last season; the exploration, both physical, emotional and borderline sexual (I’m sorry, but there are far too many protuberant knobs and far too many lonely nights) of the Tardis. In this episode, Clara ends up trundling around lost inside the Tardis with the Doctor pretty much impotent (let’s call it a “usefulness semi”) to help her after yet another crash landing. AND this episode comes from the heaven-blessed quill of Sherlock scribe Stephen Thompson.

Without a doubt, the stellar circular plot was stronger than last weeks, but, sadly, the periphery characters-a three-brother salvage team in space-didn’t prove as likeable as Dougray and Jessica. Though the introduction of a straight-up android was pretty cool, I couldn’t get the image of Kryten of Red Dwarf out of my head. Luckily, Matt Smith and Jenna-Louise Coleman (looking very fetching in a dress I decided relatively quickly I couldn’t pull off) just get better and better as the series goes on, especially Coleman who has to carry the brunt of her scenes alone. And the slightly abrupt advancement of the Clara/Doctor plot was actually pretty decent, Matt Smith gratefully flexing his dark-Doctor muscles once again. The episode was gorgeously filmed, too-lots of balletic cameras up corridors and off-kilter shots creating that sense of the vastness and history of the Tardis that we’ve never really been physically privy to before.

This is a proper madman-with-a-box episode -the Doctor goes all kamikaze in his quest to recover Clara, ostensibly setting the Tardis to self-destruct and then hurtling around scolding the angsty Chuckle Triplets for the rest of the episode. My tone may belay my disappointment here, and I won’t apologize for it- yeah, the interior of the Tardis lived up to expectations spectacularly and the Silent-Hill-esque monsters were really cool, but there was lots of “OOOOOOH the Tardis has FEEEEEELINGS” and “OOOOOOH don’t annoy the TARDIIIIIS” which we knew already. Gives us some motivation-why? What drove her to it? And, by the way, “The Timelords were clever” won’t do. Maybe they’re setting it up for an even longer plot strand later in the series, but this was a prime bloody episode to advance it and they just kept it as-really- a perfectly serviceable adventure romp. It’s my own fault for expecting something more, but-hang on- a rift in space and time? Sounds familiar. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 23, 2013

Not Being a Dick: Broadchurch

Well, sorry for anyone who came here for the jokes or the endless pessimism or the bastarding, relentless cynicism. For once, I’ve found something I can’t fault. I’m not planning to be a little bitch and nitpick; no, no, this is straight-up adulation.

Broadchurch finished last night. Me and my viewing companion were literally sitting on the ITVplayer page at five past ten, refreshing hysterically and with disturbing constancy, because we HAD TO KNOW. I watched the whole series begrudgingly on Saturday and declared it to be one of the best things I’ve ever seen. It follows the story of the murder of eleven-year-old Danny Latimer in the small coastal town of  Broadchurch, tailing both the emotional drama and the police investigation.

Just reading that back, it never sounds like something I’d enjoy this side of middle age. But, without a shadow of a whisper of a doubt, I loved it. The final episode (no spoilers, fear not) was a glorious bit of television; emotionally harrowing doesn’t do it justice. But there was no sense of cleavering a reaction out of you-the series slowly built to a heart-shattering crescendo that genuinely had me in tears. It earned every second of the drama with patience and unpatronising charectirisation.

And, mother of balls, was that some acting. Olivia Coleman less hit it out of the park than out of the stratosphere with a fucking astonishing, completely heartbreaking performance that just screamed “Bafta” as one of the police investigating the case, and partenered with a gruff but sympathetic David Tennant finally throwing any residual memories of the Doctor into the sun, the pair just killed it. But that goes for so many of the cast; mad-good Andrew Buchan (remember 24 Hour Party People? Aye, nothing like that, and better  for it), doe-eyed Arthur Darvill, Jodie Whittaker verging on going all Chenobyl for the whole series, Pauline Quirke vaulting the line of good acting and transcending into utter brilliance…

I’m really trying hard not to bitch on too long (though there’s more Broadchurch-fellatio if you want it): I can only say bloody watch it. Even if it’s not something you think you’d enjoy, you will. Then we can start speculating about series 2. Oh, and as for guessing who killed Danny Latimer? NAILED it.

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