Sightseers

This week I’ve been watching Sightseers

Catching Sightseers has been a long time coming. Since its release three years ago, my flatmate Dec and I have been planning to watch it, but due to work commitments we’ve only now found the time. (Life is busy. We both work part-time, pursuing solo projects: Dec as a classical guitarist; me as a comedian. Conceivably, this ‘gained time’ should be spent creating something that will one day get us listed in the Guardian Guide, instead it is spent in front of Netflix, drinking tea, questioning how that hack guitarist/comedian got a gig in that venue).

Sightseers is a film by Britain’s most daring filmmaker Ben Wheatley. Wheatley began his career on low-budget crime drama, Down Terrace. Shot in eight days on a measly budget, the film garnered praise for splicing splashy violence with side-splitting humour. For this, the term ‘Britain’s Tarintino’ was soon bandied about.

Ben Wheatley

His next film though put pay to the idea he was a Tarintino copyist, as Kill List owed more to Britain’s folk past than LA’s postmodernism. Its story of two retired contract killers returning for one last pay day has the creeping unease of a Hitchcock thriller and the pastoral unease of Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man. Simply the film couldn’t have been made by an American, neither could his next, Sightseers.

While Wheatley wrote his first two films, Sightseers is penned by comedians Steve Oram and Alice Lowe. Oram and Lowe met on the character comedy scene, a double act soon emerged, which eventually led to them supporting Steve Coogan on tour. Whilst working together they conceived the idea of Sightseers; originally they thought it might work as a sketch or sitcom, but in researching the project they found there was enough material to make a film. It is easy to see why the project appealed to Wheatley; for the story has the self-same gore and comic uproar that typifies his own work.

Steve Oram and Alice Lowe

The story begins with Tina at home with her mum. The camera pans around the living room, showcasing the pairs love of dogs: framed pictures of hounds abound and diploma certificates celebrating Tina’s dog skills are rife. On top of this, Tina’s mum is a big fan of snow globes, an apt metaphor for the closeted life her and her daughter live. Chris, Tina’s boyfriend, is a threat to the hermetically sealed humdrum and sets about shaking it up by inviting Tina on a caravan trip. Naturally, Tina’s mum is indignant and does not want her daughter to go. Tina though has fallen for Chris and intends, with her woolen crotchless negligee, to turn the National Trust sojourn into a sex-filled odyssey.

The darkness at the heart of Chris’ nature though is revealed on the driveway when Tina’s mum brands him: ‘Murderer.’ Initially we think this is the senile cry of the jilted, but when Tina retorts: “It was an accident, Mum,” we’re not so sure. The two depart for their caravan holiday to the sound of Soft Cell’s, ‘Tainted Love’- a portent for things to come.

The first stop on their romantic break is the Tramway Museum. Together the two sit on one of the oldest trams in circulation; a careless man drops his litter on the floor, and despite Chris’ reminders to pick it up, he obstinately refuses. Chris, a seething beard of rage, cannot countenance how someone could do such a thing. But with Tina determined to have a good holiday, he ensures her he’ll forget it.

Chris is not a man who forgets.  

He is a man who has been slighted in life and won’t be slighted again. On leaving the Tramway Museum, Chris reverses into the litterbug, disposing his brains all over the car park. Naturally trusting, Tina believes it was an accident, worrying only whether it will “spoil their holiday.” However as Chris’s ‘accidents’ grow, Tina’s manipulation does too. When a rambler accuses her of dog fouling, she calls on Chris to administer rough justice. Hypocritically turning a blind eye to his girlfriend’s littering, Chris is more than happy to turn the air blue and the ground red. Over the course of the movie the pair become a two-person crime wave meting out justice to anyone who crosses them.

Tina and Chris

The fact that we laugh at Chris and Tina’s actions is a testament to Oram, Lowe and Wheatley. Having grisly murders take place in such innocuous settings is an inherently funny juxtaposition. Also, when the impish naivety is undermined by the snobbery of other holidaymakers, we want the Primark waterproofs to come out on top. What is really impressive is how the film evolves into a kind of psycho-sexual drama with the two’s justification for killing becoming less about self-empowerment and more about receiving validation from the other. Bizarrely, what starts as Mike Leigh’s Nuts In May turns into a comic re-imagining of Macbeth.

If you wanted further proof that Wheatley is a filmmaker with a future, his next film High Rise, an adaptation of a J.G. Ballard novel, stars big-hitters Tom Hiddlestone and Sienna Miller. Let’s hope now that Wheatley is working with A-listers on bigger budgets he doesn’t lose the idiosyncrasies that make his work vital and brilliant.

Murder in Successville

This week I’ve been watching Murder in Successville

In 2013 Tony Hall, the Chief Executive of the Royal Opera House, was appointed Director-General of the BBC. With the Newsnight scandal and Conservative state squeeze, it was perhaps the worst time to take the biggest job in TV. Under orders to cut costs, Hall announced he would be evicting BBC Three and moving it to a smaller home online. Russell Kane and Matt Lucas, beneficiaries of the channel’s patronage, worried this cultural bedroom tax would prove detrimental to creatives, making it even more difficult to get commissioned. This reaction was wholly justified. Over the years the channel has been a funny farm to success stories Little Britain, Mighty Boosh and Gavin and Stacey, and yielded prize-winning produce in the form of Him and Her and Nighty Night.

So with the ‘Closing Down’ sign on the BBC Three shop door, is the channel running down its stock or is it putting new items in the shop to encourage customers to visit its new store?

Russell Kane, the face of BBC Three. The arse of it as well.

If Murder in Successville is anything to go by, then BBC Three intends to go out on a bang. It is without a doubt one of the most bonkers, most inspired bits of comedy I’ve ever seen. The show is billed as an immersive murder mystery that an unwitting celebrity guest has to help solve. It is performed and co-written by Tom Davis, a journeyman comic who has finally arrived. He plays DI Sleet, a hard-boiled detective tasked with the unenviable job of cleaning up the streets of Successville. Successville is a dead-beat town, a cesspool of vice, a breeding ground of corruption inhabited by broads and mobsters – broads and mobsters that are caricatures of famous faces. To name but a few, there are the Carr twins, Alan and Jimmy; The One Direction Gang; bar owner Reese Witherspoon and ‘Soggy Bottom’ strip joint owner Mary Berry.

Tom Davis' DI Sleet.

What makes the programme truly unique though is not the warped re-imagining of celebrities, but what they do with the celebrity guest. In the first episode, Jamie Laing from Made In Chelsea is enlisted to accompany DI Sleet with the investigation into the murder of Italian restauranteur Bruno Tonioli. He is walked into the office by Chief Superintendent Gordon Ramsay, hilariously portrayed by Liam Hourican as a jittering ball of bile, and is then introduced to Sleet. Over the course of the episode, Laing is the naïve stooge to the deadpan playfulness of Davis. Surprisingly, Laing is terrifically game in throwing himself in to this comic maelstrom. In one scene, he is asked to question Carr (played by the brilliant Colin Hoult) in connection with Tonioli’s murder, and seeing his befuddlement as Hoult rebuts every question with Carr’s maniacal laugh is a thing of joy. Later, Laing is sent undercover to infiltrate the One Direction gang with Sleet in his earpiece directing the operation. The set-up is redolent of Ant and Dec’s segment where they instruct a celebrity to say stupid things; only it is funnier here because the celeb has to play within the confines of character and narrative. Witnessing Laing take some of Davis’ direction whilst adding his own ad-libs is wonderful and means you get an insight into his humour too. Ironically then there are times when the celebrity gets the best lines with Davis the comedian feeding the set-ups. Controlling this anarchy isn't easy and Davis' stage management deserves acclaim; frankly he puppeteers the shit out of things, holding the strings firmly, though never tautly, giving the celeb a false feeling of freedom.

Laing goes undercover.

Another lovely part of the programme is how the far-fetched events collapse into corpsing. Laing in episode 1 and DJ Greg James in episode 2 are so thrown by their situation that they’re often rendered hysterical. What makes it funnier is seeing how the hired actors respond to the opposing wet cheeks. It’s worth stating that it’s not just the improvisation that had me: the scripted lines are brilliant too. Davis’ Sleet plays his character in the genre of film noir but undercuts it with anachronistic profanity: (“I eat crime. I drink justice and I shit myself.”) Fans of Matt Berry’s Toast and Will Ferrell’s Anchorman will find much to enjoy in this bathetic creation.

I guess you can tell I’m smitten by the show. I loved the whole giddy mess of it. At a time when a lot of comedy is anodyne, commissioners who take risks on shows such as this deserve credit. Let’s hope the BBC continues to take creative risks like this for years to come, whatever form the corporation takes under a new government.

Happy Valley

This week I've been watching Happy Valley.

A smackhead angry over his girlfriend’s adultery sits on a slide ready to set himself on fire. A female police officer strides over, fire extinguisher in hand, hoping to put out the situation. With the crisis negotiator miles away she is the only thing coming between this man and immolation. Her introduction to the trouble starter is also an introduction to us the viewer:

“I’m Catherine by the way. I’m 47. I’m divorced. I live with my sister who is a recovering heroin addict. I’ve got two grown up children. One dead. One I don’t speak to. And a grandson.”

Lancashire is brilliant as Catherine Cathwood

This ‘cold opening’ segues into the rattle and rasp of Jake Bugg’s title music, Troubled Town. Accompanied with images of foreboding tower blocks, battered caravans and polluted canals, the song sings of escaping small town poverty, foreshadowing the drama to follow.

Happy Valley aired on television last year and because it is up for BAFTA's this week is being repeated on BBC3. I’m now three episodes in to the drama and am loving it. Sally Wainwright, the writer of the show, has previous in writing crime drama, having written long-running detective show, Scott and Bailey. Although that show got regular viewers, Valley is the more critically acclaimed of the two, topping a plethora of end of year polls. It’s easy to see why.  In Catherine Cawood Wainwright has created a character that resonates with viewers.

Writer, producer and director Sally Wainwright

Catherine Cawood, played by the brilliant Sarah Lancashire, is the heartbeat of the unfolding drama. Despite suffering the inhumanity of losing her daughter to rape and subsequent suicide, she maintains her humanity, tending to and serving her dysfunctional community. You see, Happy Valley’s title is ironical: a more appropriate name would be Unhappy Malaise, given how the characters are imprisoned by debt, drugs and dreams. With the dust pan and brush of the law, it falls on Catherine's team to clean up the fallout of austerity Britain.

One such dreamer is Kevin Weatherill, an accountant at an industrial refrigerator company. He wants a pay rise to help fund his bright daughter’s private education. For years he has worked hard in the company and is therefore hopeful he’ll secure the money. His boss Nevison Gallagher doesn’t see it that way. Yes, Kev has worked hard but if he gives a pay rise to one then he has to give a pay rise to all. What then would come of my profit? says the broken capitalist record.

Kev going cap in hand.

Like a character from an Orwell novel, Kev walks away embittered, aware his prayers to the money-God will never be answered. Hope arrives in an unusual form though. Ashley Cowgill, who Kev knows as a caravan park owner, turns out to be a bit of a crook. Aware he’ll never obtain money fairly, Kev enters into a Faustian pact with Joe telling him about Nev’s wealth and how kidnapping his daughter would allow them to get to it. The little league criminals soon find out the big time crime of kidnap isn’t as easy as they thought, and with Catherine sniffing there’s a chance everyone’s fingers may get burnt.

The programme is up for two BAFTA’s on Sunday for Drama Series and Best Actress. Like I said, I’m only three episodes in, but from what I’ve seen I believe it deserves to win both. Wainwright’s writing is terse and fluid, always moving the plot forward; Lancashire’s acting is pitch-perfect, a long way from the cobbled streets of former home Coronation Street. More than that though, her character's show of compassion to the disadvantaged is inspiring. With this election result, we must use these types of characters as totems, as reminders, that society is important and worth fighting for.

 Happy Valley is on BBC 3, Saturday at 10pm. You can watch previous episodes by typing Happy Valley Episodes into Google,

Peter Kay's Car Share

This week I’ve been watching Peter Kay’s Car Share.

Stand-up comedy is my main love in life. The first stand-up I got into in a big way was Peter Kay. For me he was my gateway comedian, an entry point into the intoxicating world of mic stand and microphone. Without him, I may never have moved onto edgier, more experimental strains of funny. Indeed, Kay’s Live at the Top of the Tower DVD was one I watched over and over again as a teenager. His routines on weddings, teletext holidays and biscuits in your brew celebrated and revelled in the minutiae of British family life. Like all good observational comedy, we laughed because we saw our own lives in the material: a child does slide on their knees at a wedding; teletext wasn’t an efficient booking system; Rich Teas really are terrible for dipping. What the material lacked in ambition, it made up for in recognition.

Since achieving mainstream success, Kay has become a bête noire amongst comedians. They criticise the raw capitalism that has him commodify catchphrases onto aprons and mugs. He has also faced criticism for re-packaging old routines onto DVD and selling them as 'new' at Christmas. Comedian Richard Herring revealed Kay’s greed even extends to taking a share of the car park receipts from his arena tour. This rampant profiteering reveals an ugliness to his cuddly reputation.

"I really enjoyed that gig. Let's go to the merch stall so I can get the comic's apron."

It’s not just his ethics that have been challenged: his material has too. Perrier Award winner Daniel Kitson has derided his work as ‘racist and lazy.’ From my previous blog, you will know that Kitson is my hero. He is the anti-Kay: a cult figure too verbose for marketable catchphrases. He and Kay worked together on Phoenix Nights, a Channel 4 sitcom about the dying social club scene. Co-penned with Neil Fitzmaurice and Dave Spikey, Kay’s comedy was part- homage, part-critique to an age where variety ruled. Kitson is right to a degree: some of the material is questionable; Kay seems to think dwarves and Chinese accents are funny, but I would argue there is enough good will to make these caricatures defensible.

Kay’s Car Share is his first piece of television since Britain’s Got The Pop Factor. There, Kay lampooned the X Factor, scoring high ratings but low approval amongst viewers. Like Harry Hill learnt with his reality TV musical I Can’t Sing, it is difficult to parody something that is already parodying itself. It did however show Kay was capable of commenting on something contemporary, which marked a positive creative step, given how too often his work is rooted in reminiscence.

Reality tv: beyond parody.

In Car Share, then, has Kay found a vehicle to drive his comedy forward? Or is he reversing yet again into cosy nostalgia?

Thankfully, it’s the latter- although there are bumps along the way.

In a first for the BBC, the show was released as a whole series on iPlayer. This apparently was done at Kay’s behest with him arguing that episodes are better enjoyed back to back. The Beeb acquiesced but only for a limited time. The series has now been removed, meaning you’ll have to settle for one a week. Having seen the whole series, I urge you to make the commitment.

Kay’s comedy vehicle is so titled because it follows two supermarket workers, John and Kayleigh, who are forced to car share. John is middle management, whereas Kayleigh works on shop-floor promotion. They are both single and live alone- although Kayleigh’s brother is a sporadic presence. Their situation is redolent of Andy and Maggie in Extras in that they are both professionally and emotionally dissatisfied, longing – albeit quietly – for escape. Initially, they don’t get on. Quelle surprise! Kayleigh is too open for John: her enquires into his past have all the tact of Jeremy Paxman. Over time though John concedes to her candour and the two talk love, life and music. What is particular impressive is how the car radio is used as a catalyst for all these conversations. It is completely unaffected how the relationship between the two grows by them ridiculing ads, debating pop music and harmonising to Ebony and Ivory. These natural moments between the co-stars, probably achieved by improvisation, are perfectly judged and add an emotional depth not seen before in Kay’s work- a less caustic version of Coogan and Brydon’s The Trip springs to mind.

Peter Kay and newcomer Sian Gibson

The sitcom is not without its faults. Its earlier episodes misfire when the writers try to shoehorn set pieces. Episode one has Kayleigh accidentally pour a urine sample over John, and episode three has a misunderstanding about the term ‘dogging’ lead to hilarious consequences- both are as contrived as they sound. By episode four though this nuts and bolts approach to scriptwriting is thrown out as the interplay between the characters takes centre stage. Seeing the two lonely hearts draw closer is a delight and something even my hero and perennial romantic Daniel Kitson would applaud.

Car Share then can't be accused of being lazy like some of Kay's comedy. Instead, it is meaningful and by the end rather beautiful.

Catch Car Share's first two episodes on iPlayer now: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02n62v4

Wadjda

I first heard about Wadjda at the tail end of 2012 when Radio 2 film critic Mark Kermode named it his film of the year. In my world Kermode’s word is gospel. I have gone to watch Danish romances and Turkish crime dramas on his say so. Being a regular attendee of his weekly radio sermons, I have even defended Twilight to friends – despite never having seen it – because I know he’s such a fan. For me, he’s the oracle of film, a divine guide who delivers us from evil corporate blockbusters. So with his recommendation, I recorded Wadjha on Film 4 last year and have only now got round to watching it.

Wadjda is a coming-of-age story about a child’s desire for a bike. Sounds shit, doesn’t it. Before you harrumph with cynicism though, let me tell you Wadjda is the best film about cycling ever. For a start, it’s directed by Haifaa al-Mansour. So? Well, al-Mansour was the first Saudi woman to ever direct a feature film. And? She directed it from a van because in Saudi Arabia men and women can’t mix in public, meaning communication with crew members had to be done via walkie-talkie. Impressive. Yes, I agree. And despite all of these obstacles, she tells a story so enchanting you’ll be smiling for days.

al-Mansour: the woman behind the camera.

Wadjda then is an eleven-year-old girl who attends a conservative, religious school. There, girls are expected to dress modestly, wear the veil and eschew beautification – varnish, make-up and colours are banned. Also, they are ordered to keep their voices down so as not to alert the men outside: ‘a woman’s voice is her nakedness,’ reasons their headteacher. Wadjda doesn’t take well to any of this. Her character is at odds with the black she wears. She is the colourful schemer, running get rich schemes to obtain the bike of her dreams; a terror to the patriarchy, chastising taxi drivers stupid enough to challenge her mum; a rebel who doesn’t know she’s kicking against the system.

Wadjda played by Waad Mohammed.

The bike she craves represents more than a toy. It is a symbol of freedom and progress: two things currently denied to Saudi women.

Remember: in Saudi Arabia women still aren’t allowed to drive.

When Wadjda asks her mum to help her buy the bike, the response is: “Girls don’t ride bikes. How will you have children if you ride a bike?’ Wadjda’s mother is a fascinating character: what she preaches is conservatism; what she feels is liberalism. Her marriage to Wadjda’s father is loving but her inability to provide a son leaves him considering another wife. The pressure to provide an heir is felt by him too, showing both sexes are trapped by cultural dogma. Her plan to use her feminine wiles to win him round demonstrates the double standard we see throughout the film: men only want female modesty when it suits them.

Wadjda too walks a tightrope of conformity and individualism when she signs up to a Koran reading competition. Her primary motive for participating in the austere tournament is to secure the prize money to buy a bike. The underdog’s quest to win a school competition is a well-worn movie trope, but it’s never been done with such finesse. Seeing this little girl struggle to fulfil her simple dream is wonderfully moving.

So come on, my week was better for having Wadjda in it. So now make sure yours is too.

The trailer for Wadjda can be seen by clicking here: