Better Call Saul

Breaking Bad plotted chemistry teacher Walter White’s rise through the drug trade and subsequent fall. In terms of pulsating drama there is no rival. Bryan Cranston’s towering performance of a man brought down-chronologically- by career, cancer and hubris gripped television audiences worldwide. The show’s popularity owed something to Netflix, the television subscription service that backed the novelistic drama in a way our own broadcasters are loathe to do. By the end of its run, Netflix had co-opted the show from the mainstream broadcasting channels and began drip-feeding it to its subscribers. This isn’t the usual way Netflix does things: one of the appealing features of the service is that you can consume a show all at once without having to wait for the weekly episode to be transmitted. Aware however that they had a golden calf, Netflix took control of the means of consumption, offering episodes weekly as opposed to all at once. They knew that such was the popularity of the show that people would pay the £6 a month solely to see how Walter White’s drug empire fell. With people talking about the show at work, in the pub and on social media there was no for the service to advertise, it was being done for them by us the consumer. In an ironic twist of fate, Netflix, a brand that prided itself on being new and current, had reverted to traditional broadcasting to gain more subscribers. If it weren’t for Netflix Breaking Bad would never have found its audience; likewise, if it weren’t for Breaking Bad an audience wouldn’t have found Netflix. The success of the two are intertwined.

It is no surprise then that the two sides have decided to renew their wedding vows by airing Better Call Saul, the spin-off to Breaking Bad, exclusively on Netflix. Just as Breaking Bad was the only Netflix show released on a weekly basis, Saul is too. Streaming services know that people want the convenience of watching shows when they want, but they also realise that the best way to retain subscribers is to take that convenience away and make people sign up for at least three months to see how their favourite show concludes. In terms of transmission Saul and Bad are the same, but in tone and plotting they’re far from similar.

Better Caul Saul takes place before Breaking Bad, telling the story of how Jimmy McGill (Bob Odenkirk) broke bad and became the slippery attorney of law, Saul Goodman. The story opens with a hirsute Saul working the dreary environs of Cinabon, a nationwide patisserie chain. Fans of Bad will smile at how this event has conspired. Events then flashback to the current day where Jimmy is now in a beaten up Suzuki Esteem - a long way away from the Cadillac DeVille that we know he will go on to drive. The car is a symbol of Jimmy's place at the arse end of the legal profession; fortunately, the only way is up. Unlike in Breaking Bad, he is yet to represent the rich and infamous, instead he is on the payroll of the poor and feckless. That gift of the gab that he’s known and loved for is still there, however he doesn’t have the power to dictate events in the way his character will go on to do. To supplement his legal aid work, he is 'forced' to run street scams with juveniles. In this juxtaposition you can already sense Saul Goodman, the ghost of Jimmy’s future: it is quite clear from his reactions to these escapades that he prefers the law of the jungle to the sanctity of the court. Essentially, Jimmy’s kicks don’t come from upholding the law but by circumventing it. Like a British cabbie, he is using his knowledge to find the best possible shortcuts.

I think that car was borrowed from The Inbetweeners.

 Jimmy’s weakness for deception is particularly compelling given his brother Chuck’s character. Chuck (Michael McKean) is academic, diligent and conservative in a way that Jimmy is not. As a named partner in top legal firm HHM, Jimmy respects his brother immensely. In earlier flashbacks, we see the painstaking hours Jimmy put in to obtaining his legal certificate to emulate his career. HHM’s refusal to give him a place at the top table is why he must now eat the crumbs of unglamorous state cases. On top of that, Chuck’s recent hypersensitive condition has left him housebound, meaning Jimmy must act as carer – in work and in life Jimmy is subservient to his brother. This family dynamic between the brothers is the most interesting part of the show with the relationship being more paternal than fraternal as Jimmy strains for his elder’s approval. The fact that Jimmy loves his brother unconditionally despite this neglect makes him virtuous in our eyes - irrespective of his plotting.

Jimmy and Chuck.

In terms of how it compares with Breaking Bad, its pace is much more glacial. Walt underwent the same crisis of identity that Jimmy undergoes, but the stakes are far lower in this show. Here, there isn’t that sense of jeopardy where we fear for the lives of the protagonists and their families, instead the concerns are a lot more everyday: How can the rule-breaker Jimmy square his relationship with the moral Kim? How long will Jimmy balance legitimate with illegitimate legal practice before his true nature runs out?  In many ways it is like Stevenson’s classic novel on the meditation of man’s twin nature: our propensity for good and bad – The Strange Case of Jimmy McGill, Esq and Mr Goodman, then, if you will.

The last episode of Season 2 is next Tuesday and with more series promised I’m excited to see how the transformation develops.

Do No Harm

A few months ago, I was watching BBC’s Artsnight, a culture show fronted each week by a different guest host. On this particular episode, brain surgeon Henry Marsh was interviewing confessional author Karl Ove Knausgaard on the themes found within his work - primarily guilt, fear and loss. Mimicking the theatre of the surgery room, Knausgaard lies flat, his head locked in place, and goes under the inquisitor’s knife. Over the course of this psychological examination the doctor-patient dynamic changes though, as by the end Knausgaard is as interested in Marsh as Marsh is him.

Knausgaard, a worldwide publishing sensation, is treated as a celebrity wherever he goes: his six-volume autobiography distils the cerebrum onto the page by revealing his innermost pains and fears. It is a literary form of a brain surgery, where the author opens himself up for public examination. No surprise then that Knausgaard views Marsh with awe: for Marsh doesn’t play at putting life under a microscope, he lives it.

Knausgaard and Marsh.

Wanting to know more about Henry Marsh, I bought His book, Do No Harm. In it, Marsh writes openly – and most importantly accessibly – about the challenges of being a brain surgeon. Each chapter is headed by a medical term that anticipates the anecdote to come (Pineocytoma, Aneurysm, Angor Animi); then, over the course of the chapter we’re told the story of how Marsh treated the patient with the related condition. Technical terms litter the page but never in a way that proves alienating; like Macdonald’s H is for Hawk I reviewed last year, the esoteric is made relatable by highlighting the raw, human impact of the most technical of endeavours.

Despite the exalted position brain surgeons find themselves in, Marsh doesn’t see himself as a genius or an artist, but as a craftsman and technician. Later in the book, he speaks favourably about one of his patients, a plumber, recognising in their jobs a shared dexterity. Unlike a plumber though, Marsh deals with the labyrinthine piping of the brain. If he makes a wrong move with his instruments, the leak could prove fatal; the damage irreparable. These mistakes are documented very bravely in the book. There’s the time he leaves a woman paralysed, following a decision to remove too much of her tumour backfires. Another time, a Ukrainian girl dies following complications during her operation. Marsh in not incompetent; he is one of the country’s finest; it’s just that the smallest of mistakes can be fatal in his industry. Reflecting on one mistake with a female patient he explains the guilt that goes with being a brain surgeon: 

'She would be added to the list of disasters – another headstone in that cemetery which the French surgeon Leriche once said all surgeons carry within themselves.’

It is a terrible weight that doctors carry when things go wrong, we’re lucky that their profound sense of vocation means they feel it’s worth enduring.'

Marsh’s story to becoming a surgeon is perhaps as remarkable as the surgery itself. Preferring the arts in school, he had no O Levels or A Levels in science. At university he studied Politics, Philosophy and Economics with the intention of going into the into the civil service. Heartbroken during his third year, he left his Oxbridge course and migrated north to mend his broken heart. Here, he worked as a hospital porter and an interest in medicine was born. Eventually, he retuned to uni and finished his degree. Aware his three years of study were no longer in line with his career aspirations, he sought enrolment on a medical course. Given his scientific naivety, no institution would have him. Fortunately, the admission’s officer was retiring from the Royal Free Hospital and, perhaps feeling unburdened by consequence, gave Marsh a place. A textbook lesson in how the best laid schemes of mice and men can go awry for good reasons.

Finding the career he always wanted, Marsh has sacrificed his life to the profession. Hearing how he takes calls from colleagues whilst at the check-out and the garden centre made me aware how there is no escaping his job. In a way, Marsh doesn’t want to escape his job though. He describes it as an addiction, how when you’re operated all your worries subside as you’re anaesthetised under the magic of surgery. His love for medicine has taken him back and forth to Ukraine, where he was initially invited many years ago to advise the country on how best to modernise their practice. The results of this can be found in the film The English Surgeon, which I would like to get my hands on. In Do No Harm, Marsh talks about the country’s health care system in stark terms: for all the bureaucracy of the NHS, other countries are mired in far worse predicaments.

In writing this book then, Marsh has not just bared the brain, but his soul too. It is a startling achievement and one I recommend.

Jane The Virgin

‘Channel 4 is like a flood of sewage that comes unbidden into your home, whereas E4 is like you’ve voluntarily constructed a sluice to let it in.’

(Stewart Lee)

It has now been over a year since I first started this blog. My first blog received over 40 views; the most recent one just 12. I guess what this proves is only the diehard fans - and my mother - are left. With that in mind, ‘cheerleaders,’ (this is the collective noun for people who read the blog) I think it is time I’m open with you. I mean, you’ve invested hours in me; it’s only right I be truthful and honest with you. After much thought, I’ve decided to come clean about my less than savoury behaviour. The thing is … and there’s no easy way of saying this … I’m a television snob.  I think I have been for a long time; I’ve just never admitted to it. It all began when I read my first Radio Times. The Radio Times has been in our family for generations: my nan’s magazine rack was essentially an exhibition to the listings magazines with 70’s copies, fronted by convicted pedophiles, sitting alongside modern copies, fronted by yet-to-be convicted pedophiles. Every Christmas, each family member would ring the programmes they wanted to see, with any clashes resolved by a Medieval duel. It’s sad that my dad died in the ‘Battle of the Soaps,’ but what was he thinking in circling Emmerdale. At yuletide, we continue to lay a space in honour of him. I guess what I'm saying is, television is in my family's blood: if you're willing to pay £2.20 a week for a listings magazine, when all the times are available for free on-screen, then you must really care about TV.

Who controls the TV controls the world.

So although I don’t watch lots of television, I’m selective about it. I don’t play the spin the bottle with my viewing, flicking through the multitude of options in the hope that it lands on something appealing. Instead I make appointments with it. I look at the listings in the morning and set a reminder, effectively phoning ahead to make a reservation. In a recent trawl though the guide, I saw a show called Jane The Virgin on E4. The title makes it sound terrible, doesn't it? It sounds like it’s going to be a high-school comedy where a socially awkward teen is mocked mercilessly for being sexually inactive, until a popular guy takes pity on her, eventually wooing her much to the chagrin of her bitchy classmates. It sounds like a John Hughes vehicle. But in being on E4, it sounds like a John Hughes vehicle if it were stripped of all nuance and charm, only to then be fitted with tasteless alloys.

Two weeks ago, I was looking through Netflix and Jane was the highlighted show. Garlanded around the title, highlighted in red, were five stars. Now Netflix’s scoring system doesn’t always agree with mine: The Office has three stars. The Office! The sitcom where art and comedy coalesced to produce the most profound laughs on life's minutiae. 3 stars. Average. Like a Sunday night ITV drama. Like a cup of tea made by someone you haven't vetted. Like a meal at Wetherspoons. 3 stars. For all of that though, a five-star review on Netflix is a good indicator of quality – not enough to not make me Google it so I could get a second opinion from the Radio Times, but a good indicator nonetheless. 

3 stars.

Safe to say, I was wrong to be a snob about Jane The Virgin- just because it premiered in Britain on E4 doesn’t make it a bad thing. Yes, E4 is usually a landfill site for repeats and terrible panel shows, but along with Jane it has also produced My Mad Fat Diary, another of my favourite shows; therefore, proving that a stopped clock is right twice a day. 

Jane is an inspired piece of television that manages to be simultaneously mainstream and ambitious. It is inspired by the Mexican telenovela, Juana le Virgin, a show about a chaste girl that, as a consequence of accidental insemination, becomes pregnant with another man’s baby. The telenovela holds huge appeal in Hispanic communities with fans enjoying the format’s escapist quality and idiosyncratic way with melodrama. Jane The Virgin is both a parody and pastiche of this source material, celebrating its warm heart whilst laughing at its absurdity.

The first episode begins with a breathless voice-over from a heavily accented Latin American. We’re told the story of how a young Jane was turned onto chastity by her grandmother, the religious Alba. In the opening montage, Jane is directed by Alba to crush the flower in her hand; on breaking the petals she is then instructed to re-construct it; her inability to do so is a Catholic lesson in sexual restraint: ‘Once you lose your virginity, you’ll never get it back.’ Before you worry that the show has been crowd-funded by the religious-right, Jane’s mother, Xo, looks on horrified, urging her daughter to ignore her grandmother’s education. Over the course of the episode, Jane is impregnated, which leads to a difficult call: first to her boyfriend; then, in deciding to have a baby she did not plan for.

After the first episode the series becomes a family-drama/murder mystery/romantic-love triangle. You see the sperm Jane is carrying belongs to her hotel boss, Rafael, a flame that she formally held a torch for. He is married to Petra, who is having an affair with her husband’s best friend, Ramon Zazo. Zazo is killed at the hotel as part of a suspected drug ring. His murder is being investigated by Michael, Jane’s detective boyfriend. This brings Michael into daily contact with Rafael, the father of Jane’s child, who Jane may or may not have feelings for.

All of this happens within the first few episodes.

The fact that this pinball of multi-ball narrative is maintained so successfully is down to that holy trinity of all good programme making: writing, acting and directing. The writers, like I said earlier, play with the telenovela format quite beautifully, staying loyal to its multitudinous plot-lines whilst undercutting them with wry humour. In one of the episodes the voice-over is so long, owing to the farcical plot, that it stops mid-sentence with the line, ‘I’ll stop now, otherwise I’ll be doing a recap of the recap.’ Also, the fact that Jane and her family all sit down to watch their favourite telenovela, means they’re imbued with the fantasy of the genre, giving rise to hilarious dream sequences where they have morphed into their television heroes. What with the play within a play, ironic voice-over and the dream sequences, what you're essentially looking at is a commercial surrogate carrying the offspring of Arrested Development and Woody Allen's Play It Again, Sam.

Gina Rodriguez won a Golden Globe for her portrayal of the titular character, which is just deserts for the previous unknown. No matter how unbelievable the story gets in Jane, we continue to believe in her character’s actions and reactions. Unlike the voice-over, there is no emotional distance in her performance, no winks to camera to say, ‘isn’t this all silly?’ Instead she invests in Jane a huge deal of dignity and grace. As viewers, we can’t empathise with the overarching crisis Jane finds herself in (having an immaculate conception) but we can understand her struggle to choose between suitors, futures (being a writer or teacher) and desires (the flesh vs the Spirit). In a hurricane of storyline, Rodriguez keeps Jane upright and normal, because of this the show never once crashes to the ground.

Gina Rodriguez.

Ultimately, Jane The Virgin is a delight. I've got Series 2 circled in my Radio Times for Wednesday at 7.30. Though, you can catch the whole of the first series on Netflix.

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.