Inside Number Nine

This week I’ve chosen to write about something that I’ve covered before. Previously, I’ve written blogs on Catastrophe and Love, but as good as those returning series are I’ve chosen this week to revisit Inside Number Nine.

For me this week’s episode was manna dropped from the storytelling Gods. It is unlikely there will be a better half hour of television this year. The challenge of packing intrigue, suspicion, romance and heartache into thirty minutes is akin to fitting the England rugby team into a Mini Cooper – it should be impossible, but in the hands of Shearsmith and Pemberton it's achieved.

Typically, writers Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton deal in the macabre and the grotesque. They came to fame with The League of Gentlemen, a carnivalesque satire on small-town life that I’ve not seen, but in using highfalutin terms it appears otherwise. From there they moved onto Psychoville, a comedy horror-show, boasting an originality that needed to be seen to be believed (No, I ashamedly didn’t watch it either – I did hear about it though). With their current output, Inside Number Number Nine, they appear to have watered down the high camp scare of the aforementioned without compromising their heady brew.

League of Gentlemen

Inside Number Nine doesn’t have the frightening latex and make-up of the pair’s previous work; it is an altogether more natural affair. Set in the revolving real world settings of call centres, restaurants and film sets, the duo are no longer bringing the freak show to town; instead they’re highlighting the monsters that lay within. Over its three series, the show has excelled at presenting normal people doing bad things with devastating glee. Many of their episodes still have nods to horror genre; although for me, their two finest are complete human dramas.

The Twelve Days Of Christine premiered two years, starring Sheridan Smith. Many critics put it on their end of year list as an example of great television. It episodically told the story of Christine’s life over a twelve year period. For comedians, whose taste lies in horror, there wasn’t a more moving moment on the 2015 screen than seeing Smith ascertain the secret of her mind.

Sheridan Smith in Twelve Days...

I believe this week’s episode Empty Orchestra rivals that superlative offering. The title is so called because it’s the literal translation of karaoke- karaoke because the drama takes place inside a karaoke room marked ‘9.’ First in the booth is the sumo suited Greg. He puts on Human League’s Don’t You Want Me and proceeds to waddle around the microphone until Connie, an Amy Winehouse tribute, joins him. The two’s intense look and kiss is cut short by the movement of the door; quickly lipstick is wiped from the crime scene as they welcome Fran, who's channeling schoolgirl Britney.

It’s popstar fancy dress then; only not everyone is taking part. Rodger comes in looking every inch the office worker: the only nod he’s made to enforced fun is a red nose that sits uneasy. People have come to celebrate his promotion so it seems a little surprising he hasn’t dressed as a bon viveur. Behind him enters Janet, who dressed as Boy George immediately assumes outsider status by turning down her hearing aid.

Popstar: The love rivals.

The party is soon in full swing, although tensions lie beneath. First, there is talk of job cuts that Greg seems to be worried about. It appears that Rodger has been tasked with streamlining the company, meaning one of the partygoers faces the chop – a murder mystery without the murder then. Also, it soon materialises that Greg and Connie’s kiss wasn’t covered up because they wanted to keep business and pleasure separate; but because Greg’s lips are betrothed to Fran- his fiancée. If the adulterers aren’t careful, an evening of strangled vocal chords could result in- well- an evening of ….

Entering the mix later is Duane, an affable Michael Jackson alike, doing his best to enliven the shindig with some soft drugs. His song selection is of course Wham Rap! (‘Hey everybody take a look at me, I’ve got street credibility, I may not have a job, But I have a good time, With the boys I meet down on the line!’) I love how the writers have woven the music into the drama: this isn’t the crowbar jukebox of Homes Under The Hammer where the presenter’s line segues into a pop lyric which literalises the same thing; but a subtle nod to the keen observer. (The reason for latter choices will only become apparent on second viewing when you’re familiar with the plot twists.)

An office party.

Although Greg is dressed as Psy from Gangnam Style, he has actually come to the party as Machiavelli. He is scheming behind his fiance’s back in flirting with Connie, and he’s scheming behind his new boss's back to get an ID on the sacking. Amidst all the subterfuge, there is purity and kindness. Janet stands looking yearningly at Duane. She loves his love of laughter and music. Her deafness does not disable her from joy: she shares these passions. To participate in the majesty of music, she puts her hand to the speaker so she can experience the throb of vibration. Connie dismisses this deafness as stupidity. (Be careful though Connie: discounting Janet on such grounds may prove dangerous.) Profoundly deaf actress Emily Howlett plays Janet beautifully, showing there's more to deafness than frustration.

Even though the singing in this week’s episode was off-key, the same charge can’t be levelled at the script. In The Empty Orchestra Pemberton and Shearsmith have masterfully conducted a composition that will bring the gallery and the boxes to their feet. Take a bow, lads! Take another! We stand. We applaud you.

Inside Number Nine is on iPlayer.

The Good Wife

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman
Giving all your love to just one man
You'll have bad times
And he'll have good times,
Doin' things that you don't understand

But if you love him you'll forgive him,
Even though he's hard to understand
And if you love him oh be proud of him,
'cause after all he's just a man

(Tammy Wynette, Stand By Your Man)

As good as the song is, the sentiment is truly nauseating. Essentially, Wynette is shrugging her shoulders to adultery, conceding there is nothing to be done: this is what men are like. In her tune women are passive, waiting by the door for that wandering piece of libido to return. Men, on the other hand, are complex – it isn’t simple selfishness that causes them to stray, but a well of emotions that runs too deep for any woman to ever understand.

Even though the song predates the feminist movement, it still echoes today. Gender inequality is still rife: when a man commits adultery he is defined as ‘straying’ - women aren't granted such euphemisms. There is still the abiding theory that men aren't predisposed to monogamy, whereas women are hardwired to faithfulness. The truth is people don’t have to follow their base instincts; they can exercise control. Just because your cock points north doesn’t mean you have to follow it? Still today, the patriarchy of Wynette's lyrics persist: women forgive your men for they cannot suppress the caveman within.

In The Good Wife Alicia Florrick has to make a decision whether she stands by her man, Peter Florrick, or leave him. Peter is the Cook County State Attorney who has been caught sleeping with prostitutes. There is also a suggestion that he has been taking bribes to reduce people’s prison sentences – a charge he denies. In the first episode he stands and faces the media’s grand jury: he accepts the verdict of being a bad husband, but refutes all other allegations. His wife, holding his hand, looks at him questioningly, wondering how her husband’s rhetorical strength has survived his moral weakness. Further questions are raised when she spots a stray hair on her husband’s blazer – a blonde one that does not belong to him; does not belong to her. When this trial concludes, the two are taken out of the spotlight and thrown into personal darkness.

The first episode fast-forwards six months to Alicia’s first day at work. She has returned because her husband is in jail, convicted of the crimes he denied. With two children to clothe, Alicia returns to the profession she gave up to raise them. She is a legal associate, forced to compete with Cary, a young male with few responsibilities, for the job of becoming a full-time attorney. Despite the travails of juggling work and child-care, she is a fantastic lawyer: personable and scrupulous, a mix that clients and colleagues admire. Cary though is fast-talking, dynamic and confident, making him a worthy competitor to the reserved Alicia. 

The conflict at work isn’t Alicia’s main concern though. Work is an enjoyable distraction from the hard question of marriage to Peter. If anything having him in jail is a relief: it postpones the decision she has to make. He is seemingly remorseful and chastened: shouldn’t she stand by him? At work, she has rekindled her friendship with Will Gardner, a university friend that now heads the legal firm – is he worth taking her wedding ring off for?

Away from the romantic and political intrigues of the show, the prevailing action takes place in the court room. Every week there is a new case that Alicia must defend. Assisting her is the enigmatic Kalinda, one of television’s great female characters. Kalinda is an investigator who revisits the crime scene and reviews testimony in the hope holes can be found. She is sharp, smart and sexy – and dangerous with it. Together they make a great team, asserting the drama’s focus on strong women. What’s fascinating about these court scenes is their attention to detail: most legal dramas make do with ‘objection’ and ‘overruled’ as their only nod to verisimilitude. In The Good Wife the legal jargon is there; so too is the preparation (interviewing witnesses, gathering paperwork, pre-trial hearings, plea bargaining) – the series trusts the viewers to pick up the language and procedure; the fact that we do is a credit to the writing.

Kalinda is a badass.

The Good Wife’s title is ironic: Alicia begins by being the eponymous, but as the series develops she leaves behind the scandal that has defined her. For fans of Better Call Saul it is a fantastic companion piece: both contain lawyers trying to escape from another's shadow; admittedly the way they do it is different, but their humane charm is wholly comparable. So while Better Call Saul has us all on hold, why not dial Alicia Florrick, a lawyer you can trust.

The Good Wife is on Netflix.  

Life, Animated

As I write the world’s eyes are turned on LA. People who are already inundated with attention are about to have even more thrust their way. At this moment, they sit in their make up chairs, delivering their audition tape- false humility - to mirror. Later, they will temporarily vacate their mirrors, to pace their living rooms, to practise their acceptance, titled: Why Donald Trump is such a bad man? In a 45 second speech, they will do what respected journalists, experienced politicians and right-thinking people failed to do: they will scold Donald Trump so badly that he will take to Twitter and resign from office - in 150 characters. (Actors: the best way to pique Trump tonight would be to ignore him altogether, to say nothing about him; for there to be a blanket ban on his name. Publicity is the man’s sustenance. Rumour has it he exists on a diet of newspaper headlines and oppositional placards. Apparently, memes are his source of roughage.) To put it succinctly, The Oscars is a celebration of the over-celebrated. It is an evening where the back-slapping rings so loud that the thirty-piece orchestra have a struggle to play over it.

Actors: it's time to get climb on.

For all of that I love The Oscars. I say that, I’ve never actually watched it – not in its entirety anyway. Given the Oscars is longer than a space mission, I’ve never had the chutzpah to watch it. I’m far too sensible to go to a black tie event – even televisually - on a school night. To paraphrase Dolly Parton, “If you want the champagne you have to accept the hangover.” I’m not prepared to endure weeklong weariness for the fizz of celebrity, so I’ll reluctantly turn in early. Tomorrow though I’ll be up, all excited and buzzing to see who won, wore and said what. Because ultimately the cynicism of the first paragraph was an act: a B-movie performance on how to appear cool and ironic. In all honesty, I love the movies and the hoopla that goes with them.

Tonight’s Oscars promises to be great too. The head-to-head battle is between a film I’ve seen, La La Land, and a film I want to see, Moonlight. This, in my mind, is a wonderful thing. Neither are big sluggers that benefitted from the weight of major producers. Being made on lightweight budgets, both are punching well above their weight. I guess what I’m saying is the films have entered the conquest on their vision alone – these are works of auteurs, not committees: La La Land was written and directed by thirty-two year old prodigy Damien Chazelle; Moonlight was produced for just $2 million by Barry Jenkins. Whoever's arm is lifted at the end of the evening should feel mightily proud.

Which is better? There's only one way to find out: FIGHT!

Despite all the press coverage on La La Land and Moonlight, I believe the film people should be talking about is Life, Animated. Nominated in the Best Documentary category, Life, Animated is a film that does a better job of celebrating cinema than the Oscars itself. I first heard about the feature on Kermode and Mayo’s film show, where The Good Doctor prescribed it to his legion of listeners. 

Fortunately, early this week I saw it was part of the Storyville season on BBC4; so setting my memory to record I vowed to catch it at the weekend. 

Well, I loved it and The Girl did too. 

Sometimes the best stories are better than fiction- and in this case it’s true. The film tells the story of Owen Suskind, a kind, loveable man who’s on the verge of graduating. Owen has the condition of autism and has, along with other adult sufferers, been in the care of specialists. He’s about to live independently for the first time – the thought of which makes him a ‘little nervous and a little excited too.’ His mother and father are also apprehensive, but they have the benefit of knowing how far their son has come.

Owen and his family.

Nineteen years previous, Owen did not resemble the man he is today. He had gone quiet. Someone, something, had hit the mute button on him. Try as they might, his parents could not find the means to reactivate him. Desperate, they sought specialist help. Following examination, they were informed Owen’s language had broken down; that his autism was so profound he may never speak again. And for that year he didn’t. Physically, he inhabited space, but cognitively he was lost within it. The only joy Owen took was from watching old Disney videos with his brother Walter. Owen only became

animated when he saw these animations.

Then, aged four, something of a miracle occurred. Owen spoke the word, ‘justervoic.’ Only it wasn’t a word, but a phrase: “Just her voice.” A line Ursula delivers to Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Amazed, his parents took him to a therapist, arguing that his speech had returned. Pragmatic, the expert surmised the speech wasn’t authentic, but artificial: a child parroting out of context what they had heard. Weeks later, Owen’s father picks up his son's Iago teddy, and mimicking the character’s voice asks, “Why are you sad?” The child replies, “Because I don’t have any friends.” Ironically, through a stuffed parrot they discovered their son wasn’t parroting; instead Owen was using cartoons to express his emotions. From the prison of regressive autism, they had finally found the key; it just so happened it bore the name, Walt Disney.

Iago isn't all bad.

The story doesn’t end there though. Yes, the family find they can use Disney movies to bridge the gap between Owen and the wider world; but when it comes down to it, Disney classics are two-dimensional. Every Disney film ends with the boy getting the girl, with the conflict neatly resolved – life isn’t like that. Life rejects classification; defies four-part narrative; conflict lasts; songs aren't succour – the boy doesn’t always get the girl. Ultimately Disney can’t help children escape life's nightmare kingdom – only family can. Witnessing how the love of Owen's family allows him to face his challenges is truly magical.

For all of the 5 stars reviews though, the greatest plaudit comes from the famously litigatious Disney, who green-lit their material for the film. Director Roger Ross Williams showed a raw copy of Life, Animated to Disney's lawyers; so overwhelmed were they, they gave him carte-blanch to use any footage he wished.

Right now, around the world, everyone is talking about that Best Picture envelope. Who will win? Who will lose? But for me, there’s a tight-lipped one more worthy of your attention. Gilded in gold no less impressive is the envelope for Best Documentary. I hope tonight when its mouth finally opens it says the words, Life, Animated. Owen and his family deserve it.

Life, Animated is available on iPlayer.

Norah Ephron and Luisa Omielan

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

As movie quotes go this is one of the most enduring. In the scene Harry boasts how he made a bedroom conquest meow like a cat. Unconvinced, Sally challenges him by asking, ‘How do you know?” Harry is just sure. He knows an orgasm when he hears one. Like a great vocal coach, he can make any vagina sing; have any woman hit the high notes. Sally, played by Meg Ryan, demonstrates that what a man might hear and what a woman may feel may be entirely different things. In the Deli booth she guides her student through a tutorial titled, ‘Faking It: Sexual Politeness / Or How To Deceive A Dunderhead.’ In way of introduction she murmurs through bitten lip. Then, she moves onto the main body via tousled hair and bitten lip. Finally, her writhes and wails culminate in ovation proving that women truly are the best actors. When a passing waiter asks an elderly patron what she’ll be having, the timing is mercurial, hitting my comedy G-spot.

From start to finish, When Harry Met Sally is a masterclass in screenwriting.  As a female writer Ephron had to fight to the top (early in her career she led a lawsuit against Newsweek for its discriminatory employment practices); despite this Ephron was always destined for big things. Her mother and father were scriptwriters for stage and screen, meaning the young Ephron had dialogue in her blood. At the time of the film’s inception, Ephron was recovering from the break up of her second marriage; now back on the New York single scene she had a window into both worlds. Aware that marriage wasn’t a bed of roses yet attune to the pressure women felt to lie in it is a paradox Ephron grapples with. Director Rob Reiner too - the inspiration behind the Billy Crystal character - wanted to look at the hard truths of love, given he was a recent divorcee. With all of this heartache it’s perhaps surprising that When Harry Met Sally manages to be a paean to marriage.

The optimistic note of the movie is struck when we’re introduced to a real-life elderly couple, documenting to an interviewer when they first met. Although Harry and Sally remain on screen for the duration of the story, these real-life couples rotate, allowing the viewer to eavesdrop on these intimate stories. Juxtaposing the fictitious tension of the warring pair with the non-fiction ease of octogenarians illustrates how the fire of love changes over time: what was once hot and risky is displaced by something warm and comforting.

If you’re uninitiated to the charms of When …, the story centres on the eponymous: Harry, a self-assured wise-cracker, and Sally, a focused pedant. Both are sharing a car journey to New York following the culmination of their university education. On the journey they discuss love, sex and everything in between. Neither appears to be the others cup of coffee, but the sparks of conflict suggest neither can ignore the other. Whatever which ways, the two alight in New York with no plans to reconnect.

Of course they do though.

Five years later, Sally is kissing her boyfriend goodbye at Departures when Harry notices … Joe. Life has passed. One night five years ago doesn’t mean much to him. He can’t put a name to Sally’s face. After exchanging pleasantries with Joe, Harry’s memory wipe leaves Sally feeling sour. On the flight Harry has a chance to make amends, as who should be sitting in front of him but Sally. Again, the two resume their battle of the sexes with Harry theorising that men and women can never be friends, as sex will always come between them. Certain that evolution has missed Harry, Sally is relieved when the two part ways – Harry, presumably, to his cave.

Five years later and the two meet in a bookstore (“there’s someone staring at you in personal growth”). This time the exchange between the two is benign, more mature; more collaborative, less challenging. Age has smoothed Sally’s seriousness; time has softened Harry’s dogma. Life has changed for the two of them. Harry’s marriage has broken down and Sally’s relationship has ended. Both see themselves as losers in the game of love. United in consolation, they become friends, helping the other rebuild and negotiate dating. Their friendship mirrors Reiner and Ephron's, illustrating how it is possible for men and women to collaborate without putting their body parts into one another. The film is witty and incredibly touching.

Carrie Fisher plays Sally's friend.

I watched When Harry Met Sally on Valentine’s with the woman I would like to write my life-story with. She hadn’t seen the film before and she enjoyed it so much she managed to keep her eyes open for the duration of it. If The Girl was a film reviewer, this is how films would be scored: eyes open throughout – a must see; asleep for the ending – pretty gripping; intermittent eyes shutting ­– passable; asleep for the duration – avoid!

One show that The Girl couldn’t keep her eyes open for, that she really should have, was the brilliant What Would Beyonce Do? Released onto BBC iPlayer on Valentine’s Day, Luisa Omielan’s debut stand-up show is cut from the same cloth as Ephron’s. It is wise; it is sexual; it says something about the genders and it’s a fucking hoot.

I’ve wanted to see Omielan’s show for quite a while. Ostensibly, it isn’t aimed at me. What is striking when you watch Omielan’s show is how she’s appealed to a different demographic to most stand-ups. Normally comedy shows are the preserve of couples or fanboy geeks: they’re rarely frequented by young, single ladies. Fortunately, over the last few years this has begun to change. Because of Norah Ephron’s legacy begetting the likes of Lena Dunham, there is now a thirst for female voices. Omielan hasn’t had the column inches of Dunham, but what she has achieved is no less impressive.

Omielan

Five years ago, the bootylicious bottom had fallen out of Omielan’s life. Having enjoyed success at The University of Salford (alumni includes Peter Kay and Jason Manford) she subsequently found herself stuck in a rut. The achievements of her degree combined with the risk of taking comedy courses in Chicago had failed to pay dividends. Her life was in the black, signalled further by her retreat to home after the break-up of a relationship. Omielan knew she was talented, but in the cutthroat business of show it felt like her dreams had been bloodlet. What would Beyoncé do? she thought. Would Beyoncé forgo her dreams? Would she sacrifice what she held dear to the malevolent whims of the showbiz God? Or when life gave her lemons, would she make lemonade?

Like a true underdog story, Omielan fought back. She invested all the money she had in taking her What Would Beyonce Do? show to Edinburgh. Word soon got around that the girl was onto something special. Like a Royal in Hawaii, she was soon garlanded by a mass of praise. From the embers of a dying career, Omielan’s name was now spreading like wild fire around the industry. Since then, the show has returned to Edinburgh these past four years, playing to bigger venues, to more people. Her follow up show running concurrently Am I Right Ladies? has been a huge smash, demonstrating that like her idol, Omielan is no one hit wonder.

It isn't free to go to anymore.

The show filmed in Clapham Grand captures what has made Omielan a word-of-mouth sensation. The inclusive atmosphere is highlighted from the get-go with the performer volunteering a fan to be her hype man. Omielan coaches the unsuspecting woman on the art of an introduction. This isn’t from the humiliation school of audience participation, but the ‘I share my star’ college of collaboration. Omielan then hits the stage to Beyonce’s Crazy In Love, gyrating like no ones watching. The preface is shared, documenting how the title came to Bey. What follows is Omielan’s life-story, punctuated by Beyonce tunes and dance routines. Like Ephron, this marriage of story and inspiration works beautifully, enhancing the art through the artifice.

This isn’t just a young woman riding on the back of her hero. The lyrics of heartbreak Omielan shares are every bit as emotional as her hero – funnier too. Luisa has an excellent line in comic metaphor: one routine has her describing a young woman’s first foray into romance. She lays out her premise by declaring that every person starts in the ocean of life; initially, we’re too frightened to move from our parents: the waves are too big, how could we ride them on our own. Then, we meet someone who makes the water feel less tumultuous. It isn’t long before we start searching for something even more stable, say a relationSHIP. The analogy continues taking in the rough waters of love and the hearts eventual drowning.

In full swing.

Another wonderful routine is on mental health. Within it, she holds society morally culpable for exacerbating its effects. Mental health in comedy is de rigueur, yet in 2012 when the show was first conceived it wasn’t. Omielan argues that we spend hundreds of pounds working on our physical health whilst ignoring our mental well-being. Hilariously, she then imagines a mental health gym where people work on their ex-boyfriend issues, before building up to working on their daddy ones. This is incredibly smart stand-up being packaged into a pop concert night out.

In all honesty it has taken television too long to cotton on to Omielan’s star. In an interview on Stuart Goldsmith’s Comedian’s Comedian Podcast, the comedian admitted her frustration at this. For me, it doesn’t make sense that this genuine voice of a generation has had to crowdsource money for the live recording of Am I Right Ladies? Further in a recent interview, she insisted that of the £100,000 in ticket sales she generated at Edinburgh, she only saw 10 per cent of it. Somehow Omielan is still an underground star; hopefully now with the BBC on production she’ll be the sound of 2017.

When Harry Met Sally is available on all good DVD shelves. What Would Beyonce Do? is on iPlayer.