Frasier

In December 2013 I sat down to watch the first episode of eleven-season behemoth Frasier with my girlfriend. The pilot episode begins by panning across the city, showing its inhabitants listening to their local radio station KACL. The voice in the booth belongs to Seattle's prodigal son, Dr. Frasier Crane, a radio quack who dispenses three-minute diagnoses to the lovelorn and defeated. This return home has arisen as a result of a broken marriage foretold in prequel sitcom, Cheers. With an exclusive bachelor pad overlooking the city, Frasier appears to have the building block to help him re-build his life and ingratiate himself into Seattle high society. His spiritual convalescence is short-lived though because his father, Martin, is in need of a different recuperation. Smarting from a physical injury sustained as a policeman, he needs a home: Frasier and his brother, Niles, argue over who is going to provide it. Niles reasons he can’t go with him because his wife, Maris, would never sanction it (Maris is an Old Testament God in the sitcom: never-seen, but perennially referred to in anxious tones); Frasier, unmarried and unencumbered therefore draws the short straw and takes in his father. Accompanying Martin is Manchester-born Health Worker, Daphne Moon, a woman grounded in breeding but flighty in emotion. Essentially then, the sitcom is a comedy of manners with Niles and Frasier depicting the pretentious upper middle-class and Daphne, Martin and Roz (Fraiser’s Radio Producer) providing an earthy counter-weight.

Initially our climb up this box-set mountain was slow and arduous. Up until this year, my girlfriend and me weren’t living together, which meant, like a parent with a poor divorce lawyer, our access was stymied to weekend's. Now we’re living together, we’ve made up for lost time and worked really hard to gain ground on our gargantuan quest to reach the 264-episode milestone. We’re nearly there. Last night we finished Season 9 leaving us just 2 more seasons to complete. A future without Frasier is difficult to comprehend. I imagine Edmund Hillary and other mountain-climbers have expressed dissatisfaction at life after the mountain: once you’ve achieved the pinnacle, reached the summit and seen the sunset, life thereafter can seem a boring groan of banality. Frasier is that peak. I’m unconvinced a better horizon lies out there.

An American sitcom is different to a British one in terms of breadth and ambition. Because of British budgetary constraints, a sitcom can’t hope to run for a long time (Last of The Summer Wine being a notable exception), therefore there is more opportunity to produce something brilliant and not have it tarnished by over-saturation. In America where the advertiser is king, a sitcom that proves successful is treated as a cash cow, milked again and again until the thing is so dry its screaming for its own culling; typically then, what happens is a sitcom that should finish keeps going (see Friends). Frasier hasn’t suffered the same fate. To use an analogy, it is like a fine ballroom dancer: its effortless waltz across the screen belies the sweat of the rehearsal room. I guess what I'm saying is people may challenge the assertion that Frasier is the best sitcom of all time, but they would be hard pushed to find a better written one. Even when challenges were put in their way - actress Jane Leeves unexpected pregnancy being one of them – the writers found a way to make the sitcom work.

The secret of the success lies in the misnomer of the title: Frasier. Frasier and his naval-gazing look at love may be the centre of each episode, but there is enough in the other characters that means they could survive without him. In fact as the seasons progress, the secondary characters are given greater precedence, allowing the writers to explore other aspects of love. Daphne and Niles’ ‘will they, won’t they’ union is painted with all the painstaking patience of an Old Master, leaving us desperate to see the finished article; Roz isn’t like other sitcom women: she is empowered, an agent- not an object- of sexuality. And Martin only plays the archetype of the wise old man up to a point: he too pursues his predilections, showing the desire for love and sex is not forgone in retirement. Given the sitcom was written over the 90’s, it is highly progressive, drawing three-dimensional women that are sexy, sassy and fun, as well as fallible and deluded. Unlike some sitcoms the women in Frasier aren’t models of perfection, scenery dressing to admire, rather they are sentient creatures as capable of wit as they are idiocy. Also, there is much talk at the moment of the ‘grey pound’: how societal neglect of older people has led to a surge in cinema representing the demographic and their concerns; in Martin Crane Frasier was showing that the elderly were more than cantankerous, long before the success of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

If an aspect of the sitcom were to be highlighted for special praise, it would be its immaculate sense of timing. The sitcom is clearly inspired by British farce with stand-out episodes ‘The Innkeepers’ and ‘The Ski-Lodge’ paying homage to the improbable plots and slamming doors of Noel Coward's plays. To say Frasier is a sitcom that invokes the past though would be to do it a disservice; indeed episodes such as ‘Don Juan in Hell Part 2’ defy easy categorisation. In this episode, Frasier spurned by love yet again reflects on why he can’t get his love life in order. Whilst in the car he’s joined by the ghosts of female past, including his dead mother, whom physically play out his warring subconscious. Only in a sitcom as cerebral as Frasier could an episode take place inside the mind of the protagonist.    

Don Juan in Hell.

Ultimately, Frasier is a genius comedy because it doesn’t talk down to its viewers. It references ‘high’ tastes of opera, classical music and wine without ever feeling elitist. The sitcom has great depth, showing the Crane brothers’ obsession for the finer things in life is part displacement activity for the love and community they’re missing in their own lives. To make heroes out of a couple of well-heeled asses is a vertiginous feat that isn’t easy. Perhaps, the current government could hire the Frasier scriptwriters to make them appear more human. They’re that good; it might just be possible.
In a month or two, we will watch the last episode of Frasier. The end-credit Jazz tune, a euphemistic paean to Frasier's radio callers, will play out one last time: ('And I don't know what to do with those tossed salads and scrambled eggs. They're calling again') and end one last time on that signature sign-off: 'Frasier has left the building.' I, along with my girlfriend, will be sad to see the good doctor go.

Nightcrawler

Think of our newscast as a screaming woman running down the street with her throat cut. 

(Nina Romina)

Asking a British person to name the things that makes them proud is like asking someone from the Amish community to name their favourite inventor. At a push a Brit might go for the NHS and the BBC: both of which find themselves under threat from government to privatise and commercialise respectively; the fact these plans have been met by only partial resistance give you some insight into the British psyche: we are the kind of cynical, apathetic people who will sleep through a burglary, then only be annoyed because they didn't take that sweater we hated.

The beauty of the BBC is that within its constitution is the requisite for impartiality. Opponents of the broadcaster often castigate it for being too left-wing- although former Scottish Nationalist leader, Alec Salmond, attacked the institution for being too right-wing in its Scottish referendum coverage. This is a good sign: the fact the broadcaster is being challenged from both sides must mean it’s doing something right and retaining its neutral ethos.

The same cannot be said for America. It is very clear when you watch American news what side of the political divide the news channel is on. Viewing clips of Bill O’Reilly and Glenn Beck online only makes me, as a Brit, aware of how lucky we have it: the objective of the news here is to be objective, to present the facts and leave the opinions to the viewers; whereas in America ‘the cult of celebrity’ has toppled journalists from their pedestal and in their place made monuments out of shock jock news(w)anchors.

Nightcrawler is a film that centres on the miasma of commercial news broadcasting.  In a market where the mantra is “if it bleeds, it leads," there can be no surprise at the lengths news outlets will go to get a story. The two principal characters are Lou Bloom and Nina Romina. Jake Gyllenhaal’s Lou is the eponymous nightcrawler, sweeping the streets at night for stories to sell. Nina (Rene Russo) is the embattled news executive desperate for the footage that will secure her victory over local competitors. Her idea of a good lead is one that piques the fears of Middle America or as she puts it: “We find our viewers are more interested in urban crime creeping into the suburbs. What that means is a victim or victims, preferably well-off and/or white, injured at the hands of the poor, or a minority.”  

In theory, journalism should operate outside of market forces: it should present stories that matter to everyone, not just its viewership. 

Nina knows the reality is different: the news is as much about demand and supply as any other business; give the viewer what they want and they will return for more: her currency is fear of the other, the immigrant, and any story that validates that prejudice will be bought again and again. All Lou has to do is use his police tracker to pick and choose the crimes that conform to this dogma and get in and film it before anyone else does.

Media bedfellows: Nina and Lou.

Lou is one of the creepiest characters ever put to screen. Gyllenhaal’s unerring portrayal of him is reason to watch the film in itself. The viewer is invited to see Lou’s moral code at the beginning of the film where he steals construction material and punches out an approaching security guard, pocketing his watch in the process. Lou is a man that will take what he wants without thinking of the repercussions. He embodies perhaps the cruel, cold heart of unfettered capitalism, a system unencumbered by human feeling. On a drive home in his 1985 Toyota Tercel he witnesses a camera crew get up close and personal with a road traffic accident, eager to learn more about this ignoble profession, he enquires into the finer details of the pursuit. Picking up the basics it’s not long before Lou has employed a navigator to help him catch his quarry before his competitors get there first. Watching his ascent to the top, symbolised in his upgraded car and camera, is eyes-through-the-hand enthralling: as the stakes are raised, Lou’s hand becomes more and more amoral, leading to a blurring of lines between gathering and shaping news.

Dan Gilroy’s film asks viewers difficult questions: Do you want the news to lead debate or respond to it? Who should the news serve: advertisers or viewers? What are the ethical ramifications of the news chasing ratings? In a country whose public broadcaster is under threat, these are questions we may soon have to ask ourselves. For America, maybe this film isn't a harbinger but a mirror; a warning that it's too late to be saved. The news has been sold by Lou's to Nina's. The price: ignorance.

Nightcrawler is available on DVD now.

Every Brilliant Thing

My favourite show at the Edinburgh Fringe this year was Every Brilliant Thing, a play written by Duncan Macmillan and performed by Jonny Donahoe.

Following its humble beginnings at the Ludlow Fringe Festival in 2013, Every Brilliant Thing went on, in 2014, to garner hugely positive reviews at the Edinburgh Festival. It is a testament to the show’s enduring spirit that is was welcomed back this year and is yet again enjoying critical and public acclaim.

The show begins before the beginning with Donahoe giving slips of paper to most of the assembly, and chatting to individuals in the round. Having received no slip of paper, my curiosity was piqued: how would these props come into play? After a few minutes it would become abundantly clear why Donahoe chats amiably, navigating the room before the performance starts: he needs us for the piece to work.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

Every Brilliant Thing commences with Donahoe the narrator informing us: “The list began after her first attempt. It was a present for my mum – everything worth fighting for. Things that at seven I thought were really good; not necessarily things my mum would agree with."

Number 1 (an audience member stands up and says): Ice cream.

Number 2 (an audience member stands up and says):Water fights.

Number 3 (an audience member stands up and says):Staying up late and watching TV.

Number 4 (an audience member stands up and says): The colour yellow.

Number 5 (an audience member stands up and says): Things with stripes.

Number 6 (an audience member stands up and says): Kind, old people that aren’t weird and don’t smell unusual.

Our narrator stands in the round telling his story about his list of ‘every brilliant thing’: how he came to write it, return to it and share it with the people he loved. It opens with him recounting his first brush with mortality: when he became cruelly aware of the precarious nature of being. He recounts how his dog's visit to the vet awakened this realisation in him. Here, the audience sees how this won’t be a typical play: a coat is co-opted from the audience to play the role of the dog, and a bearded student, plucked from the crowd, is through the magic wand of theatre turned into the Vet. Donahoe narrates his dog’s plight and gives the lines to the Vet to say. Suffering mild embarrassment in being turned into a participant, the ‘Vet’ smiles through his line about putting the dog down. Consequently, Donahoe breaks the forth wall, gently chastising the audience member for being the grinning face of euthanasia, and asks him to deliver the line again but this time with a modicum of respect for the lad's feelings. This audience participation is returned to again and again in the play with Donahoe’s background in circuit comedy (he is frontman of musical comedy duo, Jonny and the Baptists) allowing him to break character and respond quickly to whatever the ‘volunteer’ does.

Taking the dog to the Vet.

Donahoe then recounts the time when he first heard his mum was unhappy. His dad had come to pick him up from school, which he knew was a bad thing as his mum usually did it. Donahoe as a middle-aged man inhabits the tone and gesture of a child beautifully, accurately conveying bewilderment at a broken routine. The conversation between father and child isn’t re-enacted by the performer adopting two voices, instead he enlists a man in the audience to play the role of Dad. The man is given a sheet of paper with his part to read and instructed to pause after each line. As the Dad tells his son of the mum’s unhappiness, Donahoe’s boy responds with “why?” each time. The incessant repetition of a child is a well-known trope, therefore warm laughs of recognition are evoked; but alongside that is the poignant realisation that the child is asking these questions to comprehend the ineffable: Why is someone unhappy? They just are, sometimes won’t suffice. Within the opening ten minutes then there is a euthanasia scene and tacit reference to suicide, the fact that the tone remains warm is a credit to the writer who alleviates tension with well-timed jokes.

The story of Donahoe’s Narrator continues into adolescence where we’re updated on his mum’s progress. His mum is no better, which causes him to return to the list, but this time it isn’t done through wishful thinking: the naivety of believing it will remedy his mum’s illness is gone, rather it is done out of catharsis, the hope that in documenting joy he won't slip into his mother's despair. Donahoe calls a number and the audience member holding the corresponding sheet stands up and declares the brilliant thing. These call and response sections, placed between Donahoe’s moving narration, sweeten the pill, allowing us to find a fuse box of hope in the blackout of depression.

Donahoe with his pieces of paper.

A final thing worth mentioning is the music in the play. The Narrator mentions how his dad is a Jazz aficionado and how he could ascertain his father’s mood from the type of Jazz being played. Numbers by John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman punctuate this exposition. The Narrator inherits this musical passion and talks effusively about the records that have shifted and lifted his weariness. In one beautiful scene he welcomes two audience members to come onto stage to hold a keyboard, advising them to move in a circle so the audience in the round can see the performance. At this point, the Narrator has met Sam, the apple of his eye and another number on his list; she has come for dinner and in true family tradition they take it in turns to sing songs round the piano. Donahoe's singing of Sam’s selection, Some Things Last a Long Time by Daniel Johnston, is a thing of aching beauty.

That is only a short section of the play. We find out more about the Narrator’s Mum and his relationship with Sam. We also get to hear more items on the list of Every Brilliant Thing. (When someone you lend a book to reads it) (When you watch a person watching your favourite film) (The way Ray Charles sings 'You') If I was to start a list, this play would be on it. High up the list, alongside ‘last minute winners for my home team,’ ‘recognising a pub has a quiz machine’ and ‘seeing a child be kind to another child.’ This play would be right up there because it treads a dark path very lightly, making sufferers of mental illness feel less alone. More importantly, it is an important play that wears its importance loosely. It isn't pious or moralising. It is tender and kind. 

It's my pick of the Fringe. 

Every Brilliant Thing is on tour from September. Details can be found here:  http://www.pentabus.co.uk/every-brilliant-thing

See below for the tour schedule and details on how

Nina Conti's 'In Your Face.'

Dictionary definition:

Ventriloquism:  the expression of one's views and attitudes through another.

What do you think of when you think of ventriloquism?

• ·      Rod Hull and Emu?
• ·      Keith Harris and Orville?
• ·      Organised religion and its followers?

Well, I think Nina Conti and Monkey.

I first saw Nina Conti in 2013 on Christopher Guest’s disappointing comedy, Family Tree. Starring alongside Chris O’Dowd, Nina effectively played herself: a ventriloquist struggling to communicate without her puppet. Unbeknownst to me, Conti was by then a stand-up act of some repute, with a reputation for doing something wholly innovative with the much-maligned 'vent' form.

Family Tree suffered from being compared to its ancestors, Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind.

Being in Edinburgh it’s easy to become bored with straight stand-up. Wanting to watch someone deviate from the norm, she seemed a good bet. By the end of the show I really felt like I was holding the winning ticket. The performance begins with a demure Nina entering to rapturous applause. She coyly curtseys the audience acknowledging their approbation. Explaining the show, she tells us that this will one be looser than normal, mainly improvised with few pre-prepared set-pieces. She is charm personified. Then, she asks if we would like to meet her friend. The audience assents. Reaching into her holdall, a Monkey appears. It’s not long before we question whether, rather than a bag, it’s Pandora’s box that’s been opened.

Because Monkey is not like Nina.

Monkey is Hyde to Nina’s Jekyll. While Nina is the cut-glass child of British ‘thesp,’ Tom Conti, Monkey is the cut-throat progeny of her disturbed psyche. She is the face of British politeness; he is the mouth of vituperative outbursts. Nina walks the stage chatting amiably to the front row, asking them friendly albeit banal questions on jobs and relationships; Monkey listens, not out of decorum, but rather out of necessity, hoping they’ll give him something to feed on. It materializes that a family are in the front row; their relation to one other so confusing Monkey cuts to the chase and harangues: “All we want to know is who is fucking who?” Next, a young gentleman with hipster top-knot is addressed; he’s a theatre critic: Nina is all milk and honey, trying to seduce the reviewers pen into a positive review; Monkey finds this play for approval unctuous and gives the pen and paper man a piece of his mind: ‘Scum!’ The fact that Nina apologises profusely for Monkey’s outbursts means the audience is lulled into doublethink where they know the abusive puppet is being pulled by its master, whilst being so absorbed they forget this is the case.

Beauty and the Beast.

Later in the show, Conti returns to the more interesting characters of the first row. Smiling demurely, she asks/insists they come on stage. Leading them to a coat stand, she rifles through her selection of masks, before selecting one she deems most suitable for the audience member. The masks are then tied around the back of their head, covering the bottom of the face, leaving only the person’s eyes free from Nina’s control. In Nina’s hand is a remote that allows her to move the mouth of the mask and turn the participant into a ventriloquist doll. It is here where Conti shows her worth: the mouth of the person can be controlled, but their body can’t, which means Conti has to laugh when they’re barrelled over or ask quick-fire questions when they seize up. Here, her mind works feverishly to build upon the crowd-work she did earlier in the show. For example, she has the critic come on to close the show, arguing with his experience he must know what a good closing routine looks like. Her benevolence and bonhomie creates a collaborative atmosphere where the audience are only too pleased to do her bidding, so when she puts the words, ‘I’m going to fly” into the critic’s mouth we’re unsurprised when the star-awarder becomes the star, flapping his hands to the cheers and whistles of the audience. It’s quite an ingenious idea to have a critic end the show: if it goes badly, they’ll only have themselves to blame.

Conti is a spontaneous treasure of British comedy; I recommend you be more pre-prepared and book to see her on tour, as tickets are sure to sell fast. I would say you would be foolish to miss out on seeing her, but I wouldn’t want to put words in your mouth. I’ll leave that to the master.

Nina Conti's tour dates can be found here: http://www.ninaconti.net/live