The Cutprice Guignol

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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April 20, 2013

Doctor Who: Timeholes and Romantic Developments Involving Spirits

I love ghost stories. Oh, I bloody love ’em. I have never been as scared as I was reading Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come To You My Lad, the masterclass in tension by MR James. Something about ghosts freaks the bollocks off of me, and this week Doctor Who offered up its first proper ghost story in yonks in the form of Hide. And it was top.

Right off the bat, the episode set itself up as a classic, haunted-house story-the muted colour pallette, whirly-crackly ghosthunting equipment, the constantly flickering candlelight- a media student’s wet dream in terms of production. There’s a lot to be said for an ever-expanding Doctor Whoniverse, but if you are going to fall back on an old faithful, at least make it a good one. One that does not involve the Ood and instead involves a ghostbusting duo made up of a charmingly awkward Dougray Scott, a ballsily vulnerable Jessica Raine and a shoveload of crackling chemistry, for example. Chuck in a nice little reference to The Haunting of Hill House, and I’ve got a massive Who-on.

First and foremost, there’s a thumpingly good plot at the heart of this episode-the Doctor and Clara arrive at a creepy old mansion to aid a couple of supernatrual investigators in sorting out their witch problem (no, don’t worry, they haven’t brought back River Song). Of course there’s more of a sci-fi spin on it, but screw that: HAUNTED HOUSE!

But there’s a lot more going on; including a brilliant speech from Clara about the nature of the assistant in the show, the deeply enjoyable humanizing of the Tardis like a big, blue HAL, and the continuing questioning of the Doctor as the be-all, end-all hero. In the last few series, there have been various hints at the Doctor’s fallibility; it’s a brave choice for such an iconic leading man, but it’s one I like very much.

A few solid performances from guestars Scott and Raines cement and sell the story-did anyone else finally feel like they were looking at all the Doctor Who ships for the next four months every moment they shared the screen?- and a kick-arsingly creepy monster turns into teatime television at it’s best. Hide was a very, very good episode; advancing a few themes without letting it get in the way of the plot having a rollicking good time of it. Oooh, and you see next week? I got me the tingles I did.

But don’t think I didn’t notice how obviously you’re setting up Clara and the Doctor for a bit o’ romance later in the series, though-I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 18, 2013

A Meaninglessly Mawkish Meander Through Must-See Movies

I like movies, lots. If I didn’t have things to do, I would just laze around marathoning David Fincher movies and drinking beer. And I’d love it. Here I have compiled a list of movies I think everyone’s life would be improved by seeing. Like every movie list ever made, it’s essentially pointless; a vile, opinionated snobfest of epic proportions that everyone else will violently disagree with. Long live film criticism.

1. Saw

This film has slowly worked it’s way into my life to the extent that I get physical withdrawal symptoms unless a watch it at least twice a month. I think it’s a perfect movie; it’s put together beautifully, a considered, dark, unsettling piece which is not even close to being the torture porn it’s often sold as. Hostel it ain’t; it’s far more like Se7en in that it’s as much a meditation on what it actually means to be “living” and what separates a good person from a bad one as it is a film about the machinations of an evil genius and his ever-widening collection of hilariously horrifying “traps”. Okay, it’s not for the totally feeble, but it’s a damn good film, with superb performances from Cary Ewles and Leigh Whannel. And just a brilliant soundtrack which you should use to spice up your day-to-day events against the clock.

2. Muppet Treasure Island

I distinctly remember, as a po-faced child, my Dad taking me to see this and having to take him aside and have a serious discussion about him definitely not being allowed to sing along to any of the songs in the cinema. Now, I’m the one being taken aside and told the same thing. For pure, total, unpretentious fun, there is simply nothing better than this rollicking voyage of tunes, treachery and treasure, featuring a disconcertingly handsome Tim Curry as Long John Silver. And it features some properly pumping choons, including the insanely good When You’re A Professorial Pirate, which I like to rewrite as an anthem for male prostitutes. Listen to it now and replace “pirate” with “rentboy”. It works. Also, this.

3. The Skin I Live In

Yes, I’m a hipster so massive I’m on the brink of turning into a self-aware black hole. But fuck it, I love me a bit of Pedro Almodovar (a very little bit-pretty much only four of his films are worth seeing, but how), and this bizarre body-horror-cum-soap-opera-drama is a mad, disturbing and brilliant little gem. Featuring a properly sinister Antonio Banderas and perhaps the grimmest rape scene of all time ever, it’s still peppered with spots of humour and Almodovar’s penchant for picking up on great female characters. It’s not a perfect film, but damn, you’ll see nothing like it this year and you’ll be haunted by the image of a man in a tiger suit having sex for weeks afterwards. Eurgh.

4. Little Miss Sunshine

Oh YES oh YES oh YES. This teeny little indie comedy follows a family as their daughter competes in the beauty pageant of the title. But it’s not about that; it’s about the failings and faults of every family member, from the hyper-sexed, heroin snorting grandfather portrayed by Alan Arkin to the gay, suicidal Proust scholar played by a superbly reserved Steve Carell. I love the clinky-clanky music, the way it elicits emotions without having to fire a nail gun of schmaltz into you, and the fact that’s it’s abso-bloody-loutly hilarious. Shout out to a baby-faced Paul Dano completely destroying the role of a voluntarily mute disengaged teenager, and also for being pretty.

5. Brick

I only saw it this year to get my Brownie badge for watching indie films, but hotdamn, I enjoyed it. Featuring an outrageously handsome Joseph Gordon-Levitt (whose name I always mispronounce as Goseph Jordon, which sounds like a prairie animal to me), this neo-noir teen crime sort-of romance thrillery thing is a strange little offering, but an interesting one. It transplants Dashiell Hammet into a high school, giving an aneamic Lucas Haas the role of the bizarely appealing villain and a collection of wonderfully suave femme fatales and mob thugs. Do it. Do it for me.

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April 14, 2013

Doctor Who: Tension And Rubbish Skaldak In Submarine

So I was wrong. And I was gutted. I wanted the Sea Devils so much that it cast a shadow over an otherwise very decent episode. Ice Warriors? Pfffffffft. I-sorry-iors more like.

Spewed forth from the genius pen of Mark Gatiss (incidentally, for anyone who hasn’t seen League of Gentlemen and incidentally has a very strong stomach for very dark comedy, I’d recommend it heartily), this episode was set against the wonderfully claustrophobic of a nuclear submarine-think Das Boot meets The Thing but in British teatime television format. It was, with no doubt, the weakest episode of the series so far-a complete damn cop-out of a third act saw to that-but that’s not to say Cold War didn’t have it’s warmer moments.

Game of Thrones alumni Liam Cunningham really got his ‘tache around the role of a u-boat captain with a deadly cargo. Another one of those real thesps who just seem to fall into roles in Doctor Who, the part isn’t particularly subtle or nuanced, but doesn’t need to be- he’s got the appropriate gravitas and urgency for the role, and that’s fine. Matt Smith continues the performance in a slightly darker vein- I couldn’t help but notice the lighting this week, often casting him half in shadow, half in light- I am a media student bastard so I desperately want this to mean something, but it probably doesn’t. Whatever, Smith did himself proud against the adversity of the questionable script, and Clara-facing her first real alien- also continued her streak of being both rather good and especially pretty.

Gatiss is a passionate horror fan, and this is palpable throughout his forty minutes-the whole John Carpenter fellatio aside, this episode had a lot of genuinely tense moments. The choice not to show the Ice Warrior (Skaldak, by the way) till the third act was a good one, especially considering it looked like a scaly turd with teeth and it was a whole lot less scary once you’d clapped eyes on it. Seriously. They must have blown all their special effects and prosthetic budget last week, and it bloody well showed.

But then-BAM!-the third act turned the whole thing on it’s head, just when it was reaching a wonderful emotional crescendo. This isn’t League of Gentlemen, Gatiss; you can’t just have outsiders turn up and make everything better. That said, I can’t wait-and I mean, can’t wait- for next week. No sea devils, but definitely ghosts. Hurrah! On a side note, the way the Tardis in the opening credits opened up onto the first scene was fucking awful. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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April 11, 2013

The Great British Television Revival

Britain, eh? Just sitting there, in the middle of the sea, getting the craic. My home and native land. What may not strike you about this teeny little craggy island drifting about like a philosophy student is that it’s television has suddenly become….well, very British.

You can’t click on anything on BBC iPlayer just now without being faced with some gurning “quintessentially British” personality or other fronting another show prefixed with “THE GREAT BRITISH” *insert seemingly arbitary activity here*. The Great British Bake-Off. Great British Railway Journeys. The Great British Sewing Bee, for Christ’s sake. Victoria Wood, grandmother of all British female comedians, can currently be found peering coyly out from the front page of iPlayer presenting a show about tea. The final of The Great British Bake-Off last season was watched by 6,743,000 people-just to put that in perspective, more people tuned in to watch Paul Hollywood make accidental double entendres about buns than live in the country of my birth. That’s mad, but also kind of understandable; I’d rather watch people baking than live in Orkney. It’s not just over here, either- Doctor Who, the gleaming jewel in the crown of the BBC’s schedule that’s celebrating it’s fiftieth anniversary this year, has been regularly broadcast in 48 countries-that’s means pretty much one in four countries in the entire world enjoying the exploits of a space cowboy with a light-up dildo.

So what’s brought this on? Well, we’ve got the obvious patriotic nonsense that’s we’ve been fish-slapped with over the last year-the Olympics, the Jubilee, the impending birth of a royal sprog. The whole year has been spent trying really, really hard not to talk about the Good Old Days-Christ, I’m surprised the Spice Girls weren’t strapped to a taxi emblazoned with “THE SUN NEVER SETS ON THE GREAT BRITISH EMPIRE”. As a nation, the BBC wants to think that we’re shakily saluting the flag with our eyes glistening with tears, and it’s reflected in their dredging up of every British insitution-cookery, industry, Stephen Fry- while we still care. And you know what? I’m alright with it.

Bloody hell. Anyway, next time: lols.

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April 9, 2013

Doctor Who: Terrifying Aliens Reasonably Discuss Infant Sacrifice

Several things have filled me with joy in recent days. Picking flowers after lectures like a bollocks Jane Austen character, wearing my hipster-vacumn-inducing pinstriped trousers that make me feel like a Sultan in public, eating crisps in bed. But none have filled me with more joy than Saturday’s episode of Doctor Who.

As I mentioned previously, these first few episodes are about establishing the role of the assistant. Rose was the Doctor’s moral compass, Donna was his mother figure, Amy was the girl who waited (to start acting), and Martha was….well, moderately attractive, I guess. And in The Rings of Unspellable, Clara set herself up as all of the above and more; Jenna Louise-Coleman (who I find myself falling further and further in love with every time she’s on screen) power-acted her way through being charmingly guileless, kick-arsingly ballsy, tenderly maternal and bloody gorgeous within the space of forty minutes. I am sold on her, and I like it.

There was a lot to recommend this episode- the wonderful prosthetics, the song that the plot hinged on, the special effects good enough wiping every memory of the Tardis pulling what was essentially a poo vaguely shaped like the Titanic through space- and all this was enough to negate the rather flimsy plot. But Matt Smit out acted- well, everyone on television, I’d wager. His climatic scene-facing off against a God who feasted on stories-featured one of the most jaw-droppingly audacious and powerful scenes I’ve scene on Doctor Who in years. It could easily have been cheesy or cheap or childish, but Matt Smith nailed it- and I mean, he nailed it. We’re so used to him being the kiddy, slapstick Doctor, but here he transformed completely, lines on his face standing out, replacing his mid-twenties charm with year upon year of bitterness and loss and betrayal. Backed by the breathtaking climax of the Murray Gold score, it really was a joy to behold.

Most excitingly, though-and this is purely speculation, but I’m calling it now- it looks like the Sea Devils might possibly be back next week. The fucking sea devils! Do you know how long I’ve waited? Those vaguely flatulent aquatic footsteps have haunted my nightmares for years. For years. Please, PLEASE. Either way, the twisted mind of the delicious Mark Gatiss spewed forth next week’s offerings, so I’ll be there with bells-and rings-on.

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April 2, 2013

A Wanker’s Literary Reaction: Skins

I finally watched Skins yesterday. Apparently a sublime comment on the yoof culture of drugs, sex, tits and booze, the series spanned from 2007 till…well, now, really, with a three-part special due for release later this year. Written by a father-son writing team for E4, it kick-started the careers of Nicholas Hoult and no-one else and remains to this day one of the more popular teenage shows Channel 4 has scattergunned into existence.

Nicholas Hoult is actually really rather good as Tony Stonem, mainly because I find him so monstrously attractive (those eyes. THOSE EY-), but the entire first generation was undermined by the inclusion of Cassie. Now, I have to make it bloody clear that I have nothing against people with any kind of mental health disorder. My issue with Cassie is the utterly awful performance (sorry, Hannah Murray, you seem quite lovely) and the fact she’s been written to seemingly test my nerves as much as possible. She often reaches a rolling rhythm of breathy”wow”s in one sentence, so I suggest forcing a piece of glass into your foot when you here the first one. Your screams of agony will be preferable to this, trust me. The second generation was tighter, across the board; in particular, JJ, played with awkward charm by Olli Barbieri, was superb. Although I don’t really get the attraction to Cook-he’s played to perfection by a carnivorous Jack O’Connell, supposedly some sort of roguish charm not dissimilar to Tony Stonem, but he comes off as a massive wanker with only his own interests and cock at heart. Believe me, I know the signs.

I thought the adult cast were unprecendently and undeservingly good-particularly Danny Dyer, who was actually excellent as a dense-but-well-meaning trophy boyfriend. Mackenzie Crook was sort of great as an imposing gangster, once I got the image of Gareth from The Office reciting ways to kill a man out of my head, and Bill Bailey is pleasantly sweary in an affable, beardy kind of way. They bounce of the younger cast and often make them look a hell of a lot better.

Fuck me, though-I expected a merry cavalcade of sexual experimentation, rampant drug abuse and pretty faces. Little did I know the damn thing’s about as good-natured as dental surgery by a drunken Ian McShane. I didn’t even get onto series 5, so utterly depressed was I by the viscous murder by fucking baseball bat at the end of series 4. When they did the whole death-of-a-lead-character thing in series 2, at least they killed off a character with some background for it, having put the poor boy through the mincer in every emotional, financial and physical sense anyway. Finish him off and put him out of his misery, I say.

Another thing that depressed me about the show was how little it resembled my life or the lives of pretty much anyone I had known that well. For the lucky few, I suppose this kind of debauchery just happens and you all prance around flashing your boobs at people with a joint hanging out of the corner of your mouth. For the rest of us, life’s not dissimilar to a celebrity autobiography at the back of a charity shop- quiet, irrelevant and occasionally getting fingered by ugly mouth-breathers. Hurrah for youth.

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March 31, 2013

Talent and Relative Decency In Space

I’m angry just now. This is mostly due to the fact I slept in the most comfortable bed in the world last night: not only did it have the consistency of a cloud wrapped in a condom of love, but it had enough room to fit both me and one other full-sized human in it without one of them, say, waking up to find her boyfriend has rolled completely on top of her in his sleep and all unconscious six-five of him is now planking on her. Just hypothetically. And by the end of the night I had become quite emotionally attached to the bed; we weren’t thinking long long term but I had invited it to move in at the end of April. When I was made aware that I couldn’t live here till I died fat and happy years down the line, I was not best pleased. And now I’m back home, in my bed, feeling like I’m nipple-deep in dirty needles and Aberdonians. And furious.

I feel very similar in fact, to the way I felt at the start of the last few Doctor Who seasons. I thought Freema Aygeman was a disgrace, Matt Smith was far too young to play the Doctor, and David Tennant wasn’t (swoon) Christopher Ecclestone. Something just wasn’t right. But, hand-on-heart, I loved this seasons rollicking opener, The Bells of Saint John.

Introducing the new assistant Clara Osmond, played by sexy Bambi Jenna-Louise Coleman, this episode focuses on something dodgy in the Wi-Fi in a Black-Mirror-style techno kiddy thriller. I mean none of that in the disparaging sense; I found, for the first time in years, a few scenes to be genuinely tense, mostly due to a fabulously pinched Celia Imrie basking in the delight of a classically villainous Milf-from-hell role. And I’ve never liked any assistant straight off the bat except Billie Piper, but Coleman was surprisingly inoffensive which is exactly what she needs to be right now. Let the Doctor do his thing and show off while the assistant gasps away and is alternately maternal and spunky-plenty of time to characterize her later.

Shout out to a supremely entertaining script from Stephen Moffat aided by some cracking direction from Colm McCarthy-this episode set a gold standard that, with two episodes penned by Mark Gatiss and one by legendary Neil Gaiman coming up in the next few weeks, looks set to be continued. But tonight wasn’t about what was to come in the rest of the series; it was tea-time self-contained adventure that was all nicely resolved in forty-eight minutes- clapping-my-hands-together-and bouncing-up-and-down throwaway reference to U.N.I.T the icing of the Tardis . It was, in short, Doctor Who at it’s best. Apart from their continuing bastardization of the theme song. I’ll have you yet, Moffat.

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March 27, 2013

If I Were Stephen Moffat

You know about the new series of that BBC rip-off of the Time Traveler’s Wife, yeah? That one with that pseudo-fun science teacher we all had in high school running about with his dildo torch? But once he was Hamlet and before that he had big ears (no, like, really big)? Aye, Doctor Who or something. Well, this Saturday it’s back. Despite my cunningly nonchalant air, I am borderline gnawing my own face and those of people around me with excitement. And I have some suggestions for Stephen Moffat, the lead writer and generally Mafia Don of the show. So, Stephen, if you’re listening (and you best be doing whatever I tell you after the Fiji affair), lick your nib and sit attentively.

1. No More River Song

There comes a time when people gather together. People of every class, every colour, every creed, bind together as an unoppresible, silent army against some monolithic enemy, and they take a stand. An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. And sometimes all it needs is one voice, one single voice against the darkness to make a difference, to hold their own against what might be Hell itself. And that voice says “ENOUGH.”

Seriously, Stephen. Get your head out of your arse. I was bored of her by the third episode.

2. The bloody Ood.

If you bring back the Ood, I will forfeit my Whovianship. Now, now, Stephen, stop crying- I know it seems harsh for a big shot télévisioñ critic like myself to threaten you so. But you’ve done well the last few seasons (aside from fucking up the Angels. I don’t care how many violent arguments I have about it, I never wanted to see them move), so if you bring back the less criminally and more a-convincing-argument-for-capital-punishment-lly overused Ood I will see no reason to continue watching your show. Though, I’ll admit the name is pretty fun to say. Ood. Ood. Oooooood.

3. I want the Master back.

You could find a loophole into heaven, Moffat, don’t say you couldn’t, and I want the Master back. Not the magnificent John Simm, obviously, but no-one else can stand in for the Doctor’s real nemesis. I have a few suggestions, too: Benedict Cumberbatch would be great but almost too obvious, so I put forward Jeremy Clarkson or Neil Patrick Harris, or maybe my brother. He’s pretty tall.

So, that’s what I’d do. If I were Stephen Moffat. Which I’m not. I’m just his next regeneration. Do do dooo……

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March 20, 2013

Murphchuck and Horror Stories

I’ve just finished watching the entire series of American Horror Story. I’m deeply skeptical about horror TV shows, usually, because tension is difficult enough to maintain over an hour and a half movie, let alone a ten-part serial. And I was even more deeply skeptical when I discovered that the makers of Glee, Ryan Murphy and Brad Flachuck, (Murphchuck?) were the brains behind the piece. Apropos to nothing, the title also looks like a placeholder name the schedulers forgot to change before release. And this didn’t fill me with faith either.

The first series is set in the “Murder House”- a house with a horrific history that is revealed bit by gruesome bit- the story focusing on the Harmons, the new owners, and their relationship with the houses questionable past occupants and their new neighbors, the Langdons. The cast wavers between decent and utterly superb- a particular nod to Jessica Lange as the Southern-Belle-from-Hell Constance Langdon, a soaring psycho bitch with just the right balance of sugared sarcasm and genuine threat. Zachary Quinto and Teddy Sears remain my favourite duo, the fabulously catty Quinto and alpha-gay Sears playing a heart-wrenching couple coming apart at the seams but trapped in a dysfunctional relationship when the horror of the house takes hold. Most of the main parts are thankless but solid- that said, I love Evan Peters as Tate Langdon, the last word in gorgeous teen hearthrob madmen. Though every time I look directly at him, my eyes ache a little with his beauty, making it difficult to properly judge his performance.

What really sold me on the first series was the gleeful way it ascribed to all the old horror archetypes-the haunted house, scores of creepy children, the mysterious backstories and Something in the Basement. But the writing is solid and throws in handfuls of black humour to keep the show properly entertaning, and the Charlie Clouster (SAW YEAH SAW!) theme is simply superb. All in all, it’s an outstanding season with a satisfyingly chilling payoff.

The second season is, bravely, completely unrelated to the first, set in an asylum in the 1960s. It’s literally impossible to even give a comprehensive outline of the plot without peppering it with spoilers, but suffice to say someone ends up wrongly imprisoned in the deeply questionable Briarcliff Mental Institute. Much of the cast returned for this series, with Jessica Lange and Zachary Quinto being the stand-outs once again, with Quinto getting a much meatier, much darker, much more understated role that he absolutely nails (perhaps an unfortunate choice of words). Bizarelly, Chloe Sevigny pops up playing a irresistible nymphomaniac who suffers a terrible fate at the hands of the deranged Doctor Arden (a patchy but screen-dominating James Cromwell). I can’t honestly say I enjoyed the second second series as much as the first, as I was far more interested in Quinto’s Oliver Thresdon than the writers seemed to be. But I’m hopeful for the third, especially after the Mother Superior of the series Jessica Lange has been confirmed tor return, and Kathy Bates (yes, THAT Kathy Bates) will be joining the cast too. Glee is Dead; Long Live Horror Story.

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