The People v. O.J. Simpson

The People v. O.J. Simpson is the story behind that ‘Not Guilty’ verdict. No court case before or since has attracted a similar level of coverage and column inches. 150 million people worldwide tuned in to see the jury’s decision.

For opponents of Simpson, this was a story of how celebrity can unravel a person: Simpson was a star running back in his day, adored for his athleticism and drive. On retiring, he made a fortune from commercials and films. Fame made a mess of him. It made him entitled and selfish. So sated was his ego that on the evening of June 12, 1994, he stabbed his ex-wife Nicole Brown multiple times, along with her restaurant waiter friend Ron Goldman. It was a tale as old as the Greeks: an Icarus tragedy of a God that had flown too high and now had to plummet.

O.J., the sporting star.

For supporters of ‘Juice’ (O.J.), this was a story of societal and institutional racism. For years black Americans had been subjected to inequitable treatment by law enforcement agencies. Just three years previous, Rodney King, a black American taxi driver evaded a police siren. Pulling him over, police demanded his compliance. Over the limit, King ignored these requests. In response, the police rained down their truncheons on him like their lives depended on it. (King was unarmed.) An eyewitness filmed the attack from her balcony, and its subsequent release led to widespread riots across L.A. Many believed a similar punishment was being dished out to O.J. Though this time, instead of batons it was the book being thrown at him. This murder story then wasn’t written by the pen of O.J’s fame but by the hand of police officers whom sought to frame a black man for a crime he did not commit.

King's beating by L.A. cops

As Defence Lawyer, Johnnie Cochran, says in Episode 5 of the ten-part drama, “Our job is to tell that story better than the other side tells theirs” And you know what? Johnnie Cochran and O.J.’s lawyers are on a par with Mark Twain when it comes to spinning a yarn. Their oratory is colourful; their charisma potent. Conversely, the prosecution team led by Marcia Clark is working with facts (he had a motive; blood was found at the scene; he had a cut on his hand; he had tried to skip arrest; there had been phone calls documenting domestic abuse). Clark’s team are diligent ghost writers, but the trouble is their story is populated by unlikeable characters that people can't root for (a Nazi memorabilia collecting police officer and an officer who takes his evidence work home with him). It is no surprise that when the jury goes to the bookstore they choose fiction over fact.

Courtney B. Vance plays the role of Johnnie Cochran.

I’ve really been enjoying the American true crime series developed by Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, although I would say this week’s episode was the best. Titled Marcia, Marcia, Marcia, the writers move the story away from race onto gender. 

Marcia Clark is a woman in a man’s world. She is combining a 70-hour a week job with the childcare of her two children. Why does she take the job then? This question is often asked of women and yet never of men. It’s assumed that a woman will pick up the slack when her husband has to work long hours, yet not the other way round. Her ex-husband does help with childcare but passive-aggressively:  I’ll help you now and tell the custody courts later seems to be his mantra. In previous episodes, we saw the beginnings of sexism with focus groups tearing into her hairstyle, outfits and ‘whiny’ voice. However, in this episode the taunts and rebukes reach the courtroom as the prosecution team scoffs at her ‘childcare issues’ and even the judge disparages her appearance. The Old Boys Club are doing their level best to close the shutter on this new female member. Somehow in the O.J. Simpson murder case, Clark is the one on trial for not being a good enough mother or fashion icon – two things completely irrelevant to her doing her job. Whilst outside the courtroom, the press act indecently in the name of decency when they release a topless holiday photo of Clark. After being challenged persistently on her appearance and abilities as a mother, this is the final straw: Clark, at the episode's end, falls to the floor tearful at the injustice.

Marcia Clark played by actress Sarah Paulson.

Watching the temporary disintegration of a brilliant lawyer (she had won 19 out of 20 murder cases up until this point) made me feel very angry indeed. When are we going to get to a point when a woman is judged not on the colour of her skirt, but on the content of her character. 

Today this sexist bullying still occurs: from classicist Mary Beard being trolled for not looking feminine enough on Question Time to Tulisa being ‘slut-shamed’ by an ex-boyfriend for a sexual act he took part in. To its credit, The People v. O.J. Simpson has got me thinking about this, about gender, just as much as race. Television that informs, educates and entertains was what John Reith, BBC's General Manager, demanded 90 years ago; in this American import we've got it.

The People v. O.J. Simpson is on BBC 2, Monday at 10pm.

Fresh Meat

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. 

(A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens)

I didn’t leave to go to college; I went to the same school for seven years. It wasn’t a horrible school; it was a school that instilled values of community and charity. But it was not an exciting place. Alternativism was listening to Coldplay and watching BBC2. School was drab and monotonous like Bill Murray's Groundhog Day- if eviscerated of humour. Consequently, I couldn’t wait to move from the monochrome of home to the technicolour of university. I was leaving Kansas for Oz on a whirlwind of A Levels and euphoria. This was my time.

One of the main selling points of university is the opportunity to re-invent yourself. If you have been in a school for a long period of time, there is a very real chance that you’ve become typecast in a role you never wanted. My part in the shit theatre of adolescence was Unrequited Boy #43. Like every idiot with a confidence problem, I stood sheepishly in the corner of school playgrounds, common rooms and parties furious that no girl had taken an interest in me, despite doing nothing to indicate I was interested in them. I was quiet, prone to over-thinking and quite useless with women. Given I also attended a Catholic school, I had all the skills needed to be a Monk. However, I did not want to be a Monk. I was eighteen. I did not want to be of noble mind; I wanted to be of ignoble flesh. Figuratively, I wanted to rip off my cassock and throw my penis to the wind. I was going to change. I was going to break out of the rules, the conformity, the sterility of life. This was to be Ryan's Three Year Off: a break from being me, a chance to forge a new 'I.' This was it: I was quitting my part, sacking my agent and seeking sexual employment in the bedroom farce of undergraduate study. 

In case you didn't get the reference.

It didn't work out.

At university I was pretty much the same as I was in school: a timid, anxious, insecure over-thinker with a GSOH. You can take the boy out of the town but you can’t take the character out of him. Like Coldplay, a band beloved by me at the time, I stuck to my tried and tested formula; consequently, I was well liked but a long way from the cool that magnetizes women. Despite taking the well-worn path, I did experience some new sights on the journey. I befriended – or they befriended me – people that I thought I would never be friends with. In my first year, I lived with a girl that was everything I was not: free-spirited, irresponsible and unfiltered. I thought I would never get on with her. I was wrong. Although we were never best friends, I found her exhilarating company. A textbook lesson in not to judge a book by its cover, especially when that cover has Goth make-up and a Marlboro cackle.

Also, university was the place that made me politically minded. I didn’t go on any demos (I’m too precious for the cold), but I did appreciate my fortune and misfortune. Fortune in being supported by my parents through uni; misfortune in understanding that the opportunities afforded to my peers were not afforded to me. In seminars students from private schools would talk about literature as if they were talking about the weather – they were bilingual, fluent in academia. For those of us educated by the state, we spoke about books with broken English: hamstrung by a history of large classes, we weren’t used to giving voice to our thoughts. (I know get out the violin and play the working- class hero a tune, but this felt true.)

I'm so working-class that this chap is middle-class to me.

For me, university wasn’t the proverbial land of milk and honey, rather a cesspit of red bull and deadlines. I know this definition doesn’t sound flattering, but to a large degree it is. Like a Glastonbury attendee wading in the mud, pleasure can come from embracing squalor. In my second and third year we lived in a flat that was so far below ground that we passed Satan on the stairwell. There was no sunlight at all. For two years, our letting agents held us hostage underground. We had our fights down there, but we also had many, many good times: Cups of tea in front of Deal or No Deal; pasta bakes with Neighbours; friends coming for pre-drink drinks; house parties until sunrise; hangovers ‘til sunset. The best of times; the worst of times.

Fresh Meat is a Channel 4 comedy-drama that captures this dichotomy brilliantly. It meets the Triumph and Disaster of university and treats those two impostors just the same. It begins in a student flat in Manchester, Howard is naked in the kitchen blow-drying Peking duck; Vod, looking styled by 430 Kings Road, swaggers in and tells him to ‘why don’t you tuck your cock away so I can make us a nice cup of tea.’ Following the title credits, we’re introduced to Kingsley, an academic over-achiever and neurotic over-thinker; Josie, an angel-faced potty mouth; Oregon, an assured speaker but shifty mover; and JP, a plum-mouthed braggart that would have been Bullingdon if he weren’t in Manchester. The first episode is tentative with writers Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain (Peep Show) understandably unsure at this point where to take the characters. Director David Kerr plays it woozy with the slightly trippy camerawork of Spaced being an inspiration. By the end of the series though, the programme - like its student characters – grows into itself, becoming less tricksy and arch, delivering note-perfect humour and sentimentality.

Fresh Meat cast.

Now in its forth season Fresh Meat has developed into a show loved by its audience. Just like my own university experience, I’ve grown to like characters that I didn’t think I would. JP, played by Jack Whitehall, is a fine example of this. On the surface JP is reprehensible: born into privilege, he is the flatmates landlord whom lords over them. He is only too happy to remind them that he’s at the top of the food chain and they’re at the bottom (My accents make foreigners shit themselves. If I was born 40 years ago – I’d be running India). Despite the bluster though, he is vulnerable, needing his flatmates far more than they need them. Although I'm no fan of the stand-up Jack Whitehall, I have to acknowledge he is brilliant in this. In fact episode 6, anchored by Whitehall, is when the show becomes truly special: at the beginning of the episode JP finds out his dad is dying – here, his mask slips and we see the boy underneath. The fact that the emotional pay-off comes at the end with JP crying next to Oregon’s dead horse tells you everything you need to know about the show’s counterbalance between humour and melancholy. To make a loveable Tory is hard work, yet JP is now many people's favourite character.

Ultimately, Fresh Meat really is a show that you must catch up on. It’s even made me like Jack Whitehall - it really is that good.

The whole of Fresh Meat is available on 4OD

Chelsea Does ...

The thorny issue of race is yet again in the media. Donald Trump seems to be in a personal battle with himself to see if he can surpass each preceding inflammatory comment. He believes the inauguration of Barack Obama proves racism towards black Americans is over. He wants a wall built along the Mexico border to keep the ‘rapists’ and ‘murderers’ out. He thinks a ban on Muslims entering America would neuter terrorism. On his very own War on Intelligence, Trump has mobilised his few remaining brain cells and scored a resounding, ignoble victory.

The reason I speak about race is because this week I’ve been watching Chelsea Handler’s Netflix series Chelsea Does… Her first two episodes tackle love and technology in an engagingly forthright way.  Previously, Chelsea was proud of her marital status, but of late she’s been wondering whether she’s happy ticking the ‘single’ box; consequently, she goes about exploring why she’s single by visiting the ghost of boyfriend past and interviewing future brides on why they might want to spend their future with a significant other. What makes the documentary novel is how it begins with an alcohol-sodden round table discussion, then moves between interview and reportage, whilst splicing excerpts from her therapy sessions. I appreciate the segments with Handler probably aren't spontaneous, are possibly preordained, but I think the variety of the format works, giving balance and subjectivity.

Handler’s opinion is always interesting because she says it how it is. Normally, I hate these type of people; the kind of people that proudly say, ‘I’m a bitch’ as though they were saying, ‘I just won the Noble Peace Prize.’ With Handler though there is enough vulnerability to make a virtue out of her abruptness. But when it comes to the highly flammable topic of race is an incendiary comedian like Handler the right one to tackle it? In my eyes, the answer is ‘yes.’

The episode begins with her and her multi-ethnic friends discussing the programme. All agree that there is absolutely nothing new about a white person investigating the subject matter. Admittedly, normally it’s old white academics pontificating over race, whereas this time it’s a female Jew with a filter problem. Handler knows as a Bel Air resident that she is coming from a position of privilege; she lives in a hermetically sealed neighbourhood impervious to colour. She is by her own admission guilty of ‘self-segregation.’ Because of this, she goes on a journey around L.A. and the globe to see whether different cultures are rubbing alongside one another or whether we're all living a poorer type of self-segregation.

Exclusivity: the price of Bel Air.

Handler’s trip takes her to LA's Little Salvador where street food vendors tell stories of being confused for ‘the help’ when they deliver their take-outs. It appears that in some corners of America the only dialogue between white and colour is through a post-it note detailing what jobs need doing. Most disturbing is Handler’s trip to the Confederate South. There she meets homely people, angry over the South’s small town racist depiction in the media. They argue the stereotype is unfair, how the south has advanced, that black and white live side by side – a black woman goes to their Church after all. Despite my mocking tone, the people seem genuinely sweet-natured exhibiting the kind of decency that the Finch family show in To Kill A Mockingbird; however unlike Atticus, they deny mockingbirds are harmed. They admit that some slave-owners treated black slaves with disregard, but counter any claim that this was commonplace, arguing many black people were so happy with their treatment that after emancipation they asked to stay with their masters. The ascension of Handler’s eyebrows to heaven tells the viewer everything she thinks about that.

The uneasy relationship between confederacy and racism.

Handler doesn’t just interview deniers of racial equality; she meets champions of it too. In a heated debate she meets with representatives from respective ethnic groups. In America Handler is a divisive figure: she invokes stereotypes to target all creeds and colours. Her defence is: if you attack everyone, then no one can get offended. This is a similar position comedians Jimmy Carr and Jerry Sadowitz adopt: Sadowitz, impoverished and broken, arguably is better placed to do this material than the affluent Handler and Carr – he is coming from a position of weakness; they a position of strength. In her grilling in front of committee members, Handler is accused of pedalling stereotypes (black men have big penises) and denigrating the defenceless (Angelina Jolie’s Cambodian baby). Handler believes her freedom of expression shouldn’t be suppressed by political correctness; I disagree, for me it comes down to the argument that just because you can say something doesn’t mean you should. I found it illuminating to hear how positive stereotypes can be harmful: the idea that black men being well endowed seems like a compliment; but as the African-American spokesman says, it celebrates physicality over intellect. Stereotypes like this are just a reductive way of telling people to not have ideas above their station.

Chelsea is challenged by a racial equality council.

I can’t say I’ve seen Handler’s stand-up- my guess is that I would find it a little too direct; I do, however, think she’s fantastic in her role as Gonzo journalist. She listens to her subjects, but isn’t afraid to argue with them too. She doesn’t hide behind a voice-over in the same way Louis Theroux does. She also isn’t afraid to show her prejudices and foibles, making her feel honest and real. She is quite the character, but quite the human too. All in all, a documentary worth watching.  

Chelsea Does... is available on Netflix now.

Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle

In life we all have different guises. There are times at work where we have to dress up our serious side and play the professional. Then at home we can kick off this costume and return to our default role of leading goofball. I mean, this blog I write is another form of characterisation: it is and isn’t me. Despite being far from articulate on this, I’m far more articulate here than I am in real life. In my day-to-day existence I couldn’t hold an audience for five minutes; I don’t have the verbosity to hold someone’s attention. But on here, I have time to pause, to think, to hone and check before pushing send. I don’t see your faces when you read this. Therefore, I’m unconcerned by what you think of me; consequently, I write more personally and honestly about art, religion and politics. In real life I wouldn’t challenge someone on what they watch, practice or think because I’d be worried about hurting someone’s feelings. Herein, lies the pleasure of the arts: it allows you to present your opinions without seeing the reactions of others.

Stewart Lee is a comedian and character. In real-life he is avuncular, a paroxysmal laugher, satisfied with the success he's attained. On stage he is something else: embittered and strained, dissatisfied with the level he's reached. Lee is going through something of a renaissance with this the fourth series of his Comedy Vehicle. No comedian, other than Russell Howard, has had a show devoted to their stand-up for such a sustained period of time (even then Howard’s is more of a magazine show with content deliberately unitised for YouTube viewing). Lee, on the other hand, is a comic that doesn’t ‘chunk’ routines for easy edification- his work will not go viral. Rather, he plots his work with the precision of a playwright: lines that appear inconsequential at the beginning will resonate by the end. Creator of TV masterpiece The Wire, David Simon was once asked his philosophy on screenwriting; his response, ‘Fuck the casual viewer.’ Lee is the same: he is not interested in people who have one eye on Mock The Week whilst they play Candy Crush on their phone, instead he wants people that will invest time in him and be rewarded for their patience. He is the closest thing comedy comes to theatre.

Lee, when he hadn't let himself go.

Lee nearly lost patience with stand-up altogether. Following his successful 90's partnership with Richard Herring, he found himself in a rut. His stand-up was regarded without being celebrated. The routines he wrote were well crafted with a Dali eye for the surreal, but they were no masterpieces. By Lee’s own admission, his character didn’t make sense when he was young. People thought he was too precocious, too studenty to be taken seriously. Considering a move away from comedy, he collaborated with Richard Thomas on Jerry Springer: the Opera, a smash hit that was enjoyed by Joe Public and Seb Critic. Unfortunately, a payday was to elude Lee with the Christian-right picketing the show, crying blasphemy. The ensuing lawsuit ate into Lee's profits, leaving him disconsolate. Unwilling to be silenced, Lee took his rage to the stage, turning in a bravura performance in his show 90’s Comedian. Lee begins the show by drawing a circle in chalk around him, a move conceived by Medieval clowns to protect themselves from heresy. Lee proceeds to use his freedom to rail against the restrictive thinking of the Church. The fact that this is done with a closing 40 minute routine that sails so close to blasphemy that the audiences goodwill could capsize at anytime makes it a career turning-point, proving that people could be receptive to long-form jokes.

Richard Thomas and Stewart Lee

Lee is now one of the most venerated comedians on the circuit. In a Channel 4 poll he ranked 41 in the World’s Best Stand-Up Comedians – just one place behind Bernard Manning. If only he was more racist. He regularly sells out his tour show, writes a weekly column for The Guardian and is the (self) appointed spokesperson for alternative comedy. Comedians such as John Robins argue that this position is undeserved: Lee’s Second Coming has made him rich, which makes his stand against commercial comedy ring hollow. This is true to an extent: I remember seeing Lee play the Channel 4 sponsored Udderbelly venue in Edinburgh 2007, yet today he attacks comedians that play the big venues. On the other hand, he has used his name to promote other comedians through his curated show, The Alternative Comedy Experience, in which left-field acts have gained screen time on Comedy Central. Despite his growing reputation, Lee’s persona comes from the resentment of his wilderness years. The fact he is now critically acclaimed doesn’t make it any better. Instead of objecting to no one liking him, he now objects to the people who don’t get him. Why when he’s got a loyal following are some people not on board? Why when he’s getting 5 star reviews do people write in to the BBC to tell him his show isn’t funny? Why when he’s clearly a genius do people think he’s incompetent?

Lee’s genius lies in using these slights to make his arrogance more palatable. His recent show begins with a joke that falls flat. He turns to the camera and makes a play out of it, remarking, ‘Where do they get this crowd from? Normally, my audience would go ‘Ha, Ha! Imagine liking Mock The Week.’ Lee has orchestrated his own downfall to make his ensuing pomposity seem less cruel and more ridiculous. In reminding the audience he is against the ropes, they root for him when he hits back. (I don’t know James Corden personally, but he’s always going on in interviews about how brilliant I am. And the feeling is not reciprocated. Britain’s loss is America’s loss also). Lee has cultivated too strong a following to ever be up against it: he is Ali, feigning rope-a-dope to floor his opponents. 

First rule of alternative comedy: look like you're failing.

For the comedians on the end of Lee's ire, he is a traitor: comedy is a hard enough fight without its participants turning on one another. For me and many of Lee’s fans, it is refreshing: many of his millionaire targets have made their money through selling cheap observations, therefore it’s gratifying to see them pay the price for this. Opponents would argue that Lee’s televisual status makes these attacks nasty and pernicious - Lee Mack being one- but Lee is no household name: if you showed the casual viewer a picture of him, they would say, ‘Terry Christian has let himself go. Leonardo DiCaprio has let himself go. Todd Carty has let himself go. Morrissey has let himself go. KD Lang has let herself go.’ They wouldn’t know who he is. He remains an obscure figure. As long as that stays the same, he is well within his right to stand outside the tent and piss in.

KD Lang has let herself go.

Even though I love Stewart Lee, I cannot guarantee you will like him. I think this fact alone indicates why he is an artist and not an entertainer. Artists write for themselves; entertainers for an audience. Stewart Lee is not an entertainer. His Comedy Vehicle is not entertainment. But only a fool would deny that it isn’t comedy.

Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle is on BBC Two, Thursday at 10pm.