Ladhood

Lads! Lads! Lads!


Lad culture reached its zenith – or nadir, depending on your position – in the 90’s. Loaded magazine was flying off the sheves, Baddiel and Skinner were selling out arenas and Chris Evans was too pissed for work. The banter bus was a triple decker and Oasis were on FM. It was a time of brashness and bravado; if you were at all sensitive then you may as well make a bunker of a bedroom, hide out until the decade was over.


Was I a lad during this time? A little. I bought the magazines, phwoared at the tits, elevated/diminished women into sex gods. This testerone was indoors only, an internal randy chimp, laddishness of the mind. Conversely, in public I was sensitive and courteous, didn’t say boo to a goose – or ‘get them out’ to a woman. I knew how I should behave, and more often than not did. The pressure to be macho was there though. The erudition of Cocker drowned out by Damon and Liam. It was an effort to stay clear of lad culture. 

Lads!

Liam Williams explores the theme of masculinity through his BBC3 comedy Ladhood. The origins of the show lie in the Radio 4 series of the same name. There, the first series delved into Liam’s adolescence; the second dissected his university years. It was the best thing I’d heard on the radio in years. The dour eloquence, incisive humour and wicked soundtrack was quite something. However, the new incarnation isn’t a straight to TV transfer. In this version, Williams interposes his adult self into the teenage remembrance.


The first episode begins with Williams in a pub. A guy is chatting to his girlfriend at the bar. Liam isn’t best pleased. His degree falls to the floor, ineloquence spills out. Embarrassingly, he threatens the threat. All of this cock in hand posturing gets Williams thinking, 'where did this machismo come from?' To understand the man at 30, he observes the boy at 15. We’re now back in time with a young Liam and his mates Craggy, Ralph and Addy. They’re chatting about two girls they think are really fit. Today’s Liam watches on, readied to celebrate his mature younger self; unfortunately, this does not materialise. Liam’s disappointed look to camera as he relives his past is Capra's It’s A Wonderful Life- only inverted. In the last few minutes Liam leaves adolescence, returning to adulthood; back to the bar, better equipped to correct his past mistakes, be a better man. At the point where it looks like Liam has learnt the lessons, he does something that upends the epiphany. This pattern of seeming transformation and subsequent failure is a motif that runs across the series. Essentially, Williams is highlighting what he remarked upon in a Guardian interview: that he remains coated in the ‘residue of laddishness, for better or worse. Largely worse.’ A 00’s teenager can read feminist commentators online but will still click on LADbible pop-ups. 

For fans of the radio show, you might want to know how else it differs. Well, understandably some of the poetic language is lost to the visual medium. What has been added by director Jonathan Schey is a stark look at suburbia. In the first episode where Liam’s friend Craggy has a fight; in the second where the boys get pissed in the woods, there’s a Shane Meadows feel to the direction. In these moments the diegetic sound drops out and a dissonant score kicks in, capturing the threat of adolescence, that Lord of the Flies existence where adult can't save you. Given this is Schey’s first major work, he does a fantastic job at realising Williams’ vision.


It isn’t all Generation Y introspection, there’s cracking jokes too. There’s a touch of inbetweeners in the teenage scenes where the lads weigh up their options for Friday night. Being underage rules out a lot of things. Addy has a suggestion though: ‘We could stay in and play Tekken. You know, or stay in and play Fifa. Or stay in and play Metal Gear.’ Ah, those Playstation days where your entertainment was determined by the number of games you had. Also, these are the type of boys that say to girls, ‘How you keeping?’; the kind of lads that taunt, ‘I’m going to take you to the toy shop?’ They are too bright for violence yet too stupid to avoid it. And, oh, the music remains great too with needle drops from Dizzee and Roots Manuva.


So in transferring to tele, I’ve had the chance to love Ladhood all over again. Lads! Lads! Lads!



Ladhood is available on iPlayer

The Crown

Last week Prince Andrew sat down for an interview with Newsnight presenter Emily Maitlis. He was obviously confident: the palace agreed that they wouldn’t see the questions beforehand. With time to prepare, this was never going to be a problem for Andrew. As a Royal, he would have the best PR team money could buy. He would be trained around the clock. Running down the Thames rehearsing his persuasive hand gestures. Flooring questions on where he was that evening. Bounding up Buckingham’s stairs, throwing his arms up in triumph. Andrew was going to deliver the knockout blow against the rumours. No one would be talking about them tomorrow. A blonde airhead is no match for silver tongue and spoon. This contest was over before it started.

Of course, it didn’t turn out that way.


If Andrew was advised on how to answer the questions, he must have done so with his fingers in his ears. He thought it ‘honourable’ to stay at a pedophile’s house, described Epstein’s attacks on young women ‘unbecoming’ and had no memory of having met a waist he held. The Andrew interview was proof positive that you can throw money at an education, but it doesn’t make it stick. It was also evidence that being a person of title doesn’t qualify you for veneration; you have to earn respect, regardless of your class and background.


The royals have a love-hate relationship with television. In the first series of Netflix’s The Crown we see how Phillip wants to take advantage of the medium to celebrate his wife’s coronation. By bringing this seismic event into the nation’s living room, he believed it would fortify the royal’s position in the nation’s hearts. Very few people would ever meet the Queen, but to see her on your screen meant she would feel a part of their lives.


In an episode of The Crown I’ve just watched you see the inverse. With the royals short of money, Phillip proposes they allow TV cameras into the palace, in order to record a quasi-Keeping Up With The Windsors. The 110-minute documentary Royal Family was a hit with viewers at the time. Curious to see how the other half lived, millions watched to see what the family chatted about across the table and in front of the TV. Despite its success, The Queen felt uncomfortable with the final programme, arguing that ‘the best we’ve come up with so far is ritual and mystery. Because it keeps us hidden while still in plain sight. The smoke and the mirrors. The mystery and the protocol is not there to keep us apart; it’s there to keep us alive.’ The mystique surrounding the royals is what perpetuates them; their reputation gossamer, come too close and it risks collapse. It’s why they’re shown enough on television to remind you they are there; it’s why though they avoid the microscope – unlike Andrew. A short look and they're Emperor-like; a longer look and it's The Emperor’s New Clothes.

Before the Kardashians, there were the Windsors.

Even though I’m no royalist, I love The Crown. I enjoy seeing the parallels and shifts with today’s society, recognising how some lessons have been learnt – and depressingly, some mistakes repeated. Take this series’ Aberfan episode. On 21^st October 1966, a colliery spoil tip avalanched into a primary school and other buildings, killing 144. Watching the episode I was reminded of Grenfell. Here, the community had expressed concerns over the growing slag heap, yet nothing was done. Just as residents had voiced objections to the cladding on their homes. At Grenfell, The Queen visited after two days. In Aberfan, it took her eight. The Crown lifts the metronomic clockface of the monarchy, giving you the complex mechanism that makes it tick. In Aberfan The Queen was slow to respond because she feared she would get in the way and detract from the work the emergency services were doing. Harold Wilson, Prime Minister of the time, rightly pointed out that amidst the rubble one needs to see the light. Regardless of whether it is right or wrong, The Queen for many is a symbol of greatness, a source of great pride. In despair they need to see that, to see her, to feel valued and ennobled. It was this lesson that she’s taken into major tragedies since.


The thing I like best about The Crown is learning about modern British history. I find royal history fairly interesting- how Princess Margaret’s relationship with a divorcee was kiboshed is particularly interesting, given how Charles’ marriage to Camilla was ratified fifty years later- but what most interests me is the politics. The first season features Churchill heavily, where you witness his re-birth, ill-health and resignation. A later episode which has him throw a geriatric tantrum over a portrait of him is sublime. This season features Harold Wilson as Prime Minister. Again, there’s modern day resonance with the press speculating on how a revolutionary left-wing leader will serve a person that represents conservative values. The questioning of a Labour leader’s patriotism is seen today with Corbyn, evidence that the times change, but republican-scare doesn’t.

I probably should say something about the actors given they’ve changed this season. Initially, I was unsure about Olivia Colman’s portrayal, favouring Clare Foy’s. Over time I’ve got used to her though, respecting the emotion she’s brought to the role, although still missing some of Foy’s subtleties. Tobias Menzies is a fantastic Phillip, a worthy successor to Matt Smith. Bonham Carter’s Margaret feels a tad like Bonham Carter’s Bonham Carter – she seems to miss some of the fizz and spark that Vanessa Kirby brought to the role. Overall though, the changes haven’t hurt a bit, and in an age of computerised ageing I’m pleased they’ve opted for cast changes as opposed to digital manipulation.


So even if Andrew has made you question the obscene privilege that comes with hereditary rule, I recommend The Crown. It’s not just about an out-of-touch family, diving in gold like Scrooge McDuck. It’s a story of an unremarkable woman that finds herself in the remarkable position of sitting with remarkable people and discussing remarkable events. Even though the show begins with her perched on a throne, it reduces her to a seat in a drawing room; looking to Prime Ministers for guidance and instruction. Peter Morgan shows her as ordinary, not extraordinary. Something as a republican I'm all for.


The Crown is available on Netflix.

  

The End of the F***ing World

‘I’m James. I’m seventeen and I’m pretty sure I’m a psychopath.’


When the The End of the F***ing World was trailed two years ago, I wasn’t sold. I thought the provocative title was a bit try-hard and embarrassing. Then a friend from work who always watches good tele told me how much she was enjoying it and I made a mental note to catch up. When it finished its run on Channel 4, it was quickly bought by Netflix; from there it has become quite the smash, succeeding on both sides of the Atlantic.


The bombastic title might put you off, but it shouldn’t. Although the name feels adolescent, something a thirteen-year-old would come up with having listened to Never Mind the Bollocks for the first time, the execution is seriously mature. Stylistically, I don’t think there’s been a better programme on television since the overlooked Utopia. From the locations to the soundtrack so much care and attention has gone into creating an idiosyncratic show with a unique tone and voice.

The nihilist comedy-drama began life as a graphic novel. Charles Forsman’s book was the starting point from which the TV show is based. Its story of suburban malaise, where two bored teenagers runaway and commit a bloody crime, was read by Jonathan Entwistle. Originally, he planned to adapt the story into a movie; however, the lack of takers meant he changed tact and pitched a miniseries. With Charlie Covell on board to write, the pair have produced a show that's become a sleeper hit.


Its story revolves around James and Alyssa. James lives with his embarrassing dad and the memory of his dead mother. For him, the adult world is phony, the school world a joke. He is Britain’s answer to Holden Caufield. Precocious and stubborn, he won’t be put in a box. Alyssa is similar. Her home life is in turmoil, but unlike James it isn’t owing to a haunting, rather some dickhead who's very much alive – her stepdad – whom makes life a living hell. She too doesn’t fit in at school: the negotiations and compromises of popularity aren’t for her. Less loneliness comes from being on your own than being surrounded by people you don’t like. In the first episode when she leaves her mean girl table behind and wonders over to James, it’s a meeting of minds, a council of weirdness that'll make and break them.


James is happy to have Alyssa’s company. As a child, killing animals was something of an occupation. Now he's older killing a human is his preoccupation. It’s fortunate then that Alyssa has come into view. After all, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a psycho in possession of a good knife, must be in want of a victim. The thing is Alyssa is anything but a victim. She is a young woman with agency. Her first words to James are: “I’ve seen you skate. You’re pretty shit.” James’ response of ‘Fuck you’ comes as much from respect as it does hurt.

Chekhov's knife: it will go off.

With Alyssa so direct and powerful, she soon leads James on a merry dance. A dance that leads him to punching his dad in the face, stealing the car and flying down the highway. His passenger is quite turned on. What unfolds is a Badlands rebooting - just with Adrian Mole and Pandora Braithwaite in the roles. (I appreciate this A crossed with B facetious style of reviewing is pretty hack, but there is some truth in it. With the 50’s and 60’s rock n’ roll soundtrack, the dirt roads and neon diners, there is the heavy feel of Americana; however, the British casting and consequent accents means it feels fresh and original.) 

The first season’s quality never lets up. Having watched most of the second season, it feels more of the same. For a story about feeling empty, it’s full of beauty. Charlie Covell has to be commended on neutralising this acidic world. Her skill is dropping in just the right amount of romanticism means this star-crossed tale is more about love than death. Lines such as: “Sometimes I think I feel more like myself with James than I do on my own… Everything feels really simple” and “Sometimes James feels like a boy I could love. Like, really love & other times, he feels like a total fucking stranger” are perfect distillations of love.


Much like Catcher in the Rye is confused as a story of teenage rebellion, The End of the Fucking World is actually a cry for acceptance; not a turning away from, but a turn towards love.



  The End of the Fucking World series one is on Netflix. The second series is available on All4.

Lionesses

We've come a long, long way together
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should

I have to praise you
I have to praise you
I have to praise you
I have to praise you like I should

(Fatboy Slim, Praise you)

Norman Cook is on the loud speaker and the 77,000 + crowd dance in unison. Children with foam hands point them skywards, parents cradling infants bounce to the beat, and my family shuffle with a choreography reminiscent of Jackson 5. What some in the crowd might not be aware of is the profundity behind the dance track.

In 1921 the women’s game was banned with claims that it could cause ‘infertility.’ It took fifty years for this to be lifted, allowing women to play competitively again. In 1989 the national team played their first fixture at Wembley with around 500 people in attendance. This year 12.5 million viewers tuned in to watch the women’s team’s semi-final with USA, making it the biggest television event of the year. Today, I’m in a stand flanked by a six-year-old boy who knows all the players names; the players’ families who’ve supported their partners, daughters, sisters through thick and thin; and my brother, up just above me, in the press box, an expert on the sport.


From being banned from the game to paying to play these women have come a long, long way together. The invitation that went out to former players to be guests at this fixtures feels deserved. They were the ones who made the ultimate sacrifice. They were the ones who played without financial support. They were the ones who were sneered at for kicking a ball. They were the pioneers who made all of this possible.

The 1971 team.

Since their semi-final defeat to USA, England’s form has been woeful. Subsequent defeats to Sweden, Norway and Brazil have made the side go from world beaters to also-rans. On top of this, their solitary victory against Portugal was unconvincing. Conversely, Germany have scored 31 goals in the last four games. Many have come here expecting an England victory. It’s understandable. They still see that tackle by Steph, and when White scored, Bronze belting the ball and Nobbsy dancing (in the studio). That was the World Cup party though; the hangover has kicked in; there’s doubts whether manager Phil Neville is the paracetamol or the poison.


The game does not start well. Some intricate German passing leads to a centred cross that's headed in by Alexandra Popp. Much like the business end of the World Cup, England have got off to a poor start. Germany are unlucky to add to their lead. The England passing is clueless and wayward; Germany, on the other hand, are moving with rhythm and fluidity. Their coach Martina Voss-Tecklenburg has only been in the job for twelve months – months fewer than her opposite- yet her team seems to understand sequence, dancing to her direction.

At the game.

England are thrown a lifeline when a gorgeous Ellen White pass leads to Beth Mead being fouled in the box. Nikita Parris steps up to the spot. She missed two penalties in the World Cup. To miss one may be regarded as misfortune, to miss both looks like carelessness. Her wild lash down the middle of the goal is saved by the stray legs of the keeper. Perseverance does sometimes lead to success, but here it seems Neville’s persistence on Parris from the spot is another shovel to a deepening hole.


The team do draw level on the stroke of half-time though with an eye of the needle pass from Keira Walsh leading to Ellen White slotting home. In all honesty England do not deserve this. They’ve been outplayed, passed and manoeuvred by the young German team. But we don’t care. The children scream, the mothers beam and the dad’s dance. Football is coming home.


After the break England perform better, the intensity is upped, adopting a firmer press and an in-your-face approach to the German side. Off-the-ball things improve, yet on the ball there’s still a pinball game of possession-dispossession. The team’s approach seems mirrored in the touch-line. Neville is in and out of his technical area, appearing unsure what to say and do. The passion is there, but the tactical know-how of how to change things seems missing.

Under pressure. Pic. Getty Images.

As we enter the final minutes, Germany score. Steph Houghton, an inspiration in so many ways, on this occasion is found wanting. Instead of locking Buhl down, she gives her the key to Wembley; it’s not long before the centre forward escapes to celebrate.


With the rain bucketing down and England defeated, it should be a source for sorrow. But it isn’t. People came in their thousands. Paying to watch world class athletes on the biggest stage of all. They saw the marauding monster of Lucy Bronze and the fox-in-the-box Ellen White. Household names. With a better manager, these individuals have the chance to become a great team – like Germany were today. Come rain or shine though there’s a feeling that these women are going to be supported regardless. With Team GB in the Olympics next year and the Euros coming to England in 2021, the focus will only grow, the glare intensify.


From mocked to praised. From anonymised to popularised. We’ve come a long way.

Now, let’s go further.


England’s next game is on BBC 4 on Tuesday, kick off 7.15.

How Europe Stole My Mum

‘I’d rather be dead in a ditch.’

(Boris Johnson on being asked on delaying Brexit)


It seemed this week really would be the week when Britain left the EU. In the circus of Brexit, Boris went from extra to actor-director, re-cast from clown to strongman, ready to achieve what Mrs May couldn’t and be the muscle of Brussels. If the EU would not acquiesce, he would leave the tent with No Deal. Broadcasters obviously thought Johnson meant business as this week two comedies were aired to commemorate our EU exit. The first was Little Brexit, a Walliams and Lucas reunion of their hit comedy Little Britain. Originally played on Radio 4, the pair returned home with half an hour of sketches all centred around Brexit. There was the Prime Minister’s aide, modelled on Peter Mandelson, unhappy that BoJo was now PM (I won’t go near your backstop) and the vomiting Home Counties lady disgusted to discover the background of her donor (a Remainer). The sketches were so-so, but they did hit the nail on the head when they had Vicky Pollard describing Boris' ‘yeah-but-no-but’ position on the Union. Ultimately though it wasn’t the old guard who had the funniest comedy show this week on the topic, but a youngster in the form of Kieran Hodgson.

It was ok.

Hodgson has been gaining traction over the last few years for his Edinburgh shows. As a character comedian, he’s versatile with act-outs and impressions, able to inhabit different guises successfully. What marks him out though is that he has a through-line to these sketches. There’s been autobiographical shows about his adolescent love for Lance Armstrong, as well as an hour called Maestro, centred around Gustav Mahler. In oscillating between playing himself, his friends, his family and historical characters, the comedy is exciting and kaleidoscopic; the effect dizzying.


Last year Hodgson turned his attention to Brexit in ’75. Following a falling out with his mother over the referendum result, Kieran sought to investigate where these fault lines first appeared. His journey took him right back to 1963 when Harold Macmillan first made overtures to France about being part of the European project. This fluttering of eye lashes went unconsummated for a decade. It wasn't until 1975 when Britain finally clinched entry into the Common Market, allowing PM Harold Wilson to enjoy a post-coital pipe.

Harold Wilson.

Essentially, Channel 4 have seen the potential in this Edinburgh show and allowed the talented comedian to transpose it onto TV. It begins with a background into the mother-son relationship. Hodgson builds up the affinity the pair have for one another. Her pride in seeing her child praised for his impressions; how his Tony Blair is even better than Rory Bremner’s. She loves his precocious ways. Ultimately, she is proud to mother the esoteric nerd. However, when Kieran comes over in a mope, decrying the travesty of Brexit, the two are pulled apart when she reveals she voted the other way. Thus, begins Hodgson’s odyssey to find out why his mum voted the way she did.


The ‘celebrity journey’ format is parodied by Hodgson. He breaks the fourth wall, pinching his luck that he got Liza Tarbuck to play his mum and an attractive actor his husband. There’s also a touch of Charlie Brooker's Cunk in the way characters are named: for Charles de Gaule, it’s Charles de Gaule Airport; and for Georges Pompidou, it’s Pompidou Centre. This impudent approach to documentary means the programme never feels dry or stale.

Kieran Hodgson

For all the cheekiness though, I learnt an awful lot. I had no idea that the Tory, Edward Heath was the biggest champion of Europe. Nor did I know that Tony Benn was dead against joining the European Common Market. Interestingly, Enoch ‘Rivers of Blood speech’ Powell and Benn were bedfellows on the subject. It makes you appreciate that Labour were once a party of Eurosceptics, whilst the Conservatives were the first to see Europe's potential. All of the wrangles and tangles are expertly played out by Hodgson and Enfield, transmogrifying into these political animals. 


So in a week where Little Britain returned for the nostalgists, it was the young liberal who got my vote.


How Europe Stole My Mum is available on All4

The Disaster Artist

‘Who is he?’ I demanded. ‘Do you know?’

‘He’s just a man named Gatsby.’

‘Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?’

‘Now YOU’re started on the subject,’ she answered with

a wan smile. ‘Well,—he told me once he was an Oxford

man.’

A dim background started to take shape behind him but

at her next remark it faded away.

‘However, I don’t believe it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ she insisted, ‘I just don’t think he went

there.’

(The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald)

With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life you could call my life on the road. Before that I'd often dreamed of going West to see the country, always vaguely planning and never taking off.

(On The Road, Jack Kerouac)

The Disaster Artist is the book behind the movie. Typically, these works are hagiographies, celebrating the painstaking talents of Kubrick, Welles, Coppola et al. They peel off the cinematic gloss and outline the challenges these auteurs faced in turning visions into reality. The Disaster Artist is something like that, and nothing all like that. It is written by Greg Sestero, who appeared in a picture called The Room. A movie that cost $6 million dollars to make that earned $1,800 at the box office, closing after just two weeks. Usually, a film lingers in your multiplex for a while, making a couple of million, before shuffling off its moral coil, only to be revived on DVD later. Every now and then a classic picture will be granted a big screen retrospective, but this is only reserved for the crème de la cream. The Room, on the other hand, is still played in cinemas worldwide today, showing no signs of going away. In Leicester Square’s Prince Charles Cinema it’s on regular rotation with fans bringing props and catchphrases, turning it into an interactive experience, much in the same way as The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The Room, then, has both died and killed at the box office. Pound for pound, dollar for dollar, it is an unbelievable success. In the poker table of movie production, the $6 million gamble somehow paid off, red has turned to black.

The best way of describing The Room is that it’s the movie-making equivalent of the band Spinal Tap. At its centre is someone who has an artistic vision, without any real skill in fulfilling it. Said man is Tommy Wiseau. To this day, the background on the film’s producer, executive producer, writer, director and actor is sketchy. His co-star and friend Sestero has heard many contradictory stories about Wiseau’s origins – all from Wiseau himself. Judging by his east European accent, it appears that at some point Tommy fled the Communist Russia for a better life. The fact that he speaks French points to a life lived there. His love of Marlon Brando and James Dean is what’s really important, suggesting as it does a love for American cinema, in particular the white t-shirt machismo of pouting leading men. For Wiseau, he was always American, it just so happened he was born in the wrong place. By hook or by crook (and there’s a suggestion it may be by crook), Wiseau amassed enough money or backers to fund a $6 million film.

Tommy Wiseau. Pic. Jake Michaels

So what? You might be thinking. Hollywood is made from figures who believe in fairy dust. A town where everyone puts ‘Actor’ on their passport, but no one really is one. Where bar tips and restaurant service charges transmute into acting lessons. A town of reality runaways, exiled in fantasia’s bubble. What makes Tommy Wiseau so different? Well, for a start he embodies La La Land. Pragmatism is the death of actors; you need some naivety, otherwise you would never attempt to breakthrough in a saturated market. However, it doesn’t help to be downright deluded. The problem for Wiseau is he can’t act. His accent has something of the Schwarzenegger about it, only he’s Arnie without the self-awareness. He has the intonation of a child reading for the first time, able to sound out the words without understanding the register they should be said in. He also has the memory of a gold fish. A gold fish with dementia. Unable to learn lines, he just says what he feels. He’s also a dangerous dreamer. Dangerous because he has money. Give a delusionist money; havoc will soon ensue.

Sestero’s tale is a dual narrative: the first gives a play by play account of the making of The Room; the second the events leading up to it. I haven’t actually seen The Room – apart from a montage of the funniest scenes on line – yet the account is fascinating. Rubbernecking would be the best way to describe it. Sestero puts us on that mad set, allowing us to watch the multiple car pile up that ensues. There’s Wiseau purchasing millions of dollars’ worth of camera equipment, even though it’s the done thing to hire it. There’s the problem with verisimilitude: scenes with characters delivering their lines whilst throwing an American football are there apropos of nothing. There’s the issue with staffing: Sestero appears to running administration and lines at the same time. Wiseau has spent everything on the cameras and forgot to finance what happens in front of and behind them. He also goes through more Directors of Photography than Spinal Tap drummers.

The other narrative though tells the On The Road type story of the coming together of two artistic dreamers on the boulevard of aspiring dreams. Instead of Paradise and Cassidy, it’s Sestero and Wiseau. They meet at an acting class in San Francisco where they become scene partners. Soon though Sestero is getting all the best lines, appearing in Days Of Our Lives and getting call backs for Joel Schumacher productions. Even though Sestero is hardly making it in Hollywood, the fact that he is auditioning puts him at a higher rung than Wiseau. With the petty jealousies and artistic rivalries, it's BBC’s Extras, just directed by Hitchcock instead. For all the unhealthiness of the relationship, the two need each other: Wiseau requires an ego fluffer, Sestero a bed and board backer to fund his LA dream. What starts off as a bromance soon descends into The Talented Mr Ripley with Sestero asking: what return am I getting on this investment? Unlike Wiseau’s film, Tommy puts in a lot less than he gets out.

Reading the book has inspired me to seek out the film adaptation, The Disaster Artist, directed by James Franco. And, of course, seek out the source material, the infamous The Room. 

Hopefully you’ve enjoyed reading this blog; if you haven’t – well – then to quote a line from the movie, “Leave your stupid comments in your pocket.”

The Disaster Artist is available from all good bookshops.

Defending The Guilty

Caroline: What are we doing this for?


Will: Justice.


Caroline: Jesus, no. To win. Where do you get your fire? Were you bullied at school? Did your mum ignore you? Or your dad demean you? Who the fuck are you, Will? Because you need to find that. Because at the moment it’s all a bit …


Will: A bit what?


Caroline: Hufflepuff.

Caroline (Katherine Parkinson) and Will (Will Sharpe)

Caroline has been a criminal barrister for a while; Will is new to the profession. He is her Pupil; she his Master. It is her job to teach him the ropes, the codes, the practises that will secure him permanent work. As things stand, she doesn’t think he's much hope. The problem being - he has too much of it. An idealist, a romantic, raised on Gregory Peck and True Crime documentaries, he believes the law is there to right wrongs. Caroline, on the other hand, has had defendants lie to her for years. For her, law isn’t a moral crusade: she isn’t riding into battle with her white wig and steed to save innocents from police lies. It isn’t about representing them, being a voice for the voiceless, articulating the inarticulate; it’s about representing yourself, having your voice heard, to enhance your position – or at the very least, preserve some ego in the chambers afterwards. At least if Will was Gryffindor, he might have the derring-do to realise his vision, as it is he’s too bland, too grey for the black and white world of wigs and robes.


Defending The Guilty is a six-part sitcom based on Alex McBride’s book of the same name. Originally conceived as articles for Prospect magazine, the resulting memoir lifted the lid on what was involved in being a barrister. Court scenes are portrayed as high stakes poker on TV, yet the reality can be absurd and farcical. McBride’s account reveals the strange cases he’s worked on and the daft conversations he’s had. A kind of This Is Going To Hurt where the dichotomy is guilty/not guilty, as opposed to life and death.

The source material.

In a nice twist of fate, barrister Alex McBride has put his life in a civilian’s hands. Representing McBride in court is Kieron Quirke. Having never worked on a criminal case before, he is new to the profession. His previous experience as writer on Cuckoo and theatre critic means he is, however, versed in the twin arts: comedy and drama. This serves him well, as Defending The Guilty shouldn’t purely be seen as sitcom, since it has more thematic concerns and character development than genre comedy.


Will, for example, at the beginning is exactly how Caroline defines him. He’s nice, if a little bland. We can imagine he’s gone through education with few problems, doing well academically, having a secure girlfriend, with little in the way of setback and trauma. The first few minutes captures his bubbled state. Outside his block of flats, bikes are being stolen. Headphoned Will doesn’t notice. Too lost in music, he doesn’t pay attention to the world around him. Soon though, with Caroline’s harsh truths and the court’s tough lessons, he begins to harden. As the show develops, the Sorting Hat is more likely to put Will in Slytherin than any other House. This is Faust for comedy fans.  

The one place where Defending does conform the sitcom is in the Pupil’s room. In episode one we learn how four pupils, including Will, are competing for a permanent position. In law pupillage lasts around twelve months, after which time you can apply for tenancy. With the pay being incredibly low for trainees (around £12,000) securing permanent work is a must – well, depending on your financial background. Take Liam and Pia, for example: financially they can flourish on a paltry sum, since they’re valued shareholders in the bank of mum and dad. For Danielle though, she's working-class; she cannot survive on what's being paid. As she says to Will – meal substitute drink in hand – ‘I will go through you as fast as this stuff goes through me. And it won’t look good. It doesn’t look good.’ Her £1 all-your-meals drink reminds us that the law profession is barring poorer voices.

Liam (Hugh Coles), Danielle (Gwyneth Keyworth), Will (Will Sharpe) and Pia (Hanako Footman).

So, Liam, Will, Pia and Danielle are vying for one place. Their seniors sympathetically respond by running a book on them. Liam or ‘Lanky Poison Twat’ is favourite. (He’s unbothered by the nickname- appropriating it, giving himself the moniker LPT.) Pia or ‘Hot Robot’ is second. (She has to be reminded that feminists might take issue with the name.) Danielle AKA ‘Angry Chav’ is third. And Will ‘DJ Stupid’ is fourth. The joshing between the young students is redolent of Fresh Meat. 


I guess to sum up, I would urge you to watch Defending The Guilty. To do otherwise would be a gross act of negligence. I’ll let you go off now and trust you'll make the right decision.


Defending The Guilty is available on iPlayer