Atlanta

A celebratory incantation resounds: ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ A bare chested black man comes into view, his body a hoopla of contorted gyration, his face falsified to resemble an entertainer’s gurn. He doesn’t mean what he’s doing. He’s dancing for your silver, to make money and get paid. The camera pans. A man has a sack on his head. The black entertainer takes a bullet to it. The good vibes have been punctuated by a burst of violence. We have no time to dwell on this because the body has been removed quickly from shot. The gun though is taken in a towel, like a crown on a ceremonial pillow.

This is America: the land of opportunity - as long as you play by the rules. If you’re black and move well, you can have some screen time. If you’re a stiff, gunned down for being black, then we’re not interested. ‘This is America’ by Childish Gambino AKA Donald Glover is a work of art: media studies teachers could deliver a whole lesson on its allusions and parodies. Given Trump’s rhetoric of arming teachers, the video highlights the absurdity of America’s second amendment: this is a country that values the gun more than its citizens.

Donald Glover is a prodigious talent. Recently, he’s appeared in Solo: A Star Wars Story and is tipped to be the next Willy Wonka. As well as rapping and acting, Glover has created Atlanta, an American comedy-drama that cleaned up at last years Emmys. The second season has concluded in America, but its first has just premiered here. Fortunately, the BBC haven’t put in a graveyard slot like a lot of imports (see Seinfeld and The Wire), instead they’re airing two episodes a week.

                                                        Glover as Lando in Solo.


When I first heard the news Atlanta was appearing on terrestrial screens, I was relieved. (As an FX production I guessed it would be on subscription services.) Sitting down to watch the first one a few weeks ago, I admit I was initially disappointed. Because the only thing I knew about the show was it had two comedy Emmys, I therefore assumed it would be a laugh a minute. You see, Glover was once a writer for 30 Rock and an actor in Community, a college-based sitcom. Both of these shows are heavy on the comedy with just a light dressing of drama.

Atlanta shouldn’t be seen as a conventional comedy; if anything, it’s more drama than comedy. After a few episodes I began to appreciate this and enjoy it more. Now six episodes in I see it having more in common with The Wire than Seinfeld. Although Atlanta isn’t a police procedural like The Wire, the two have things in common: the city is a main character with multiple locations being used; the cast is mainly black; the language is urban dialect; the attention to detail – verisimilitude – is sometimes toppled by surrealism.

The story revolves around the character of Earnest Marks, known as Earn and played by Glover. The name is apt as this is what the character desires: to earn and find fulfilment. A Princeton dropout and young father, he is effectively homeless. The baby’s momma, Van, has enough hassle supporting one mouth without having to support another, so only on occasions does Earn earn a place in her bed. Quite simply, Earn has to make paper and make it fast, otherwise his access to Van and the baby is at threat. Working a commission only job, there seems little hope he’ll make a roof there, so he turns his attention elsewhere.

                                                        The three lead characters.

Earn’s cousin Alfred is the up and coming rapper Paper Boi. He’s doing well on the underground rap scene, showing enough promise to make him a local celebrity. But he hasn’t got the book smarts to go with the street ones. Earn goes over to his cousin's house with a business proposal where he's soon greeted with a gun. (There’s more beef in rap than the slaughterhouse, a man has to protect his kingdom.) When Earn is eventually let in he meets Alfred’s mate, Darius, who’s hiding behind the door with a knife and plate of cookies, serving as symbolism for a character that has violent hands and gentle eyes.


Earn makes his proposal to manage his cousin, and this is the conversation that ensues:

Alfred: Manage? You know where the word “manage” come from?

Earn: Manus. Latin for “hand.”

Alfred: Probl’y, but I’m a say no for the purpose of my argument. “Manage” came from the word “man.” And, um, that ain’t really your lane.
Earn: My lane?
Alfred: Yeah, man. I need Malcolm. You too Martin. You know what they did to him? They killed him.
Earn: Didn’t they kill Malcolm, too?
Darius: No, no, they say that. But ain’t nobody seen the body since the funeral.
Earn: (Beat) That’s how funerals work.

The excerpt here is a litmus test as to whether you’re going to enjoy the show or not. There’s the highbrow Latin definition juxtaposed against the humorous misunderstanding. Along with that you have references to Martin Luther King and Malcolm X (black cultural references abound in Atlanta, some of sporting figures I just don’t get). Then, you’ve got that understated joke at the end. This is not the comedy of Kevin Hart where the joke is aggravated assault to the throat, rather it’s a blindside attack on the brain. Before you know it, you’ve been mugged of laughter with the assailant making off to the next scene.

What marks Atlanta out as unique as a twenty-minute comedy is its filmic quality. Under director Hiro Murai the show has a scope that is rarely found on television, never in comedy. The opening of episode 1 has an overhead shot that establishes all the faces of Atlanta: rich suburbs, poor corners, manicured lawns, gutted houses, the dull horizontals of the freeway; the bustling poetry of ‘the court.’ When in session, there’s a wooziness to the pacing, a trust that the viewer will ride with them, take in the scenery, and not dial-up a new driver.

                                                             Director Hiro Murai

Also, the social criticism of the show is worth commenting on. Episode two is centred in a police station, which is mainly populated by black people. In fact, it’s only when writing this did I reflect that no white characters are present. The whole thing feels like hell where Earn is denied sleep and food until his bail money comes forward. Whilst held in judgment, Earn surveys the chaos around him. First, a man talks at him with an accent so thick that his own momma would ask for an interpreter. Then, a man in hospital gown, clearly mentally unwell, takes his cup down to lavatory, fishing a drink from its river; Earn smiles at the crazy, but grimaces moments later when the man is beaten down for spitting it at an officer. Next, a conversation ensures between a man and a transgender man. Soon, there are transphobic slurs and recriminations. The police station is the fishbowl of inequality where the marginalised float and die in.

Like Master of None, the show isn’t afraid to sideline its central characters. In Master there was an episode where Denise came out to her mum; there wasn’t one shot of the lead character Dev. A recent episode of Atlanta has Van meet up with her friend: the first ten minutes is just a conversation between the two women. This shouldn’t be unusual, but in comedy it is. It’s even more surprising to have a tete a tete where the complexity of female friendship is unpeeled. Van’s friend is a glamorous success, whereas she is struggling to meet the rent. The writing is sublime, conveying gritted teeth tension with a documentarian’s eye.

Coming to my conclusion, I realise I haven’t even mentioned the trippy elements to the show. There’s a black character called Justin Bieber who to all extents and purposes is Justin Bieber, yet isn’t the real-life Justin Bieber. There’s talk about how no black person knows who Steve McQueen is. There’s a man on a contemporary bus dressed like a member of The Nation of Islam eating a Nutella sandwich. When Glover pitched the show, he said ‘if David Lynch or the Coen brothers made a show about Hip Hop culture’: the influence of these auteurs is evident in these inexplicable moments.

                                                                  Black Justin Bieber

Atlanta then is not a traditional sitcom that you can watch whilst on your phone; it is a tragicomic portrait of black life: the richness of its dreams and music coupled with the poverty of a discriminated existence. Trump would do well to watch it. This, after all, is America.


Atlanta is on BBC Two, Sunday at 10pm. The series so far is available on iPlayer.

John Finnemore's Double Acts

Recently I’ve been listening to a lot of Radio 4 comedy. On Sundays they’ve been showcasing abridged Edinburgh hours – my favourites being Pippa Evans Grows Up and Geoff Norcott’s Right Leaning But Well Meaning ­­– and during the week new sketch and sitcom commissions. Although the station has its old favourites, like Just A Minute and I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue, it does more to promote comedic talent than any other broadcaster.

I try to be in the know when it comes to comedy, but I’ll be honest and say I’ve missed the boat when it’s come to John Finnemore. I don’t quite know how I’ve missed the boat: it’s been at port for the past ten years, festooned with a flag that reads ‘LISTEN TO ME’ – and given I live by the port with a flat that overlooks it, it's a wonder I haven't cottoned on earlier. ( I think that analogy for my ignorance started well, but fell away at the end.) Anyway, I’ve somehow managed to miss the man’s output- something I wish to amend.

He wrote for these two.

For the forlorn few that haven’t heard of the man, he is something of a big deal in radio comedy. He has won the Writers Guild Award for Best Radio Comedy in 2011 and 2017, and been nominated for more comedy.co.uk awards than any other writer. At the start of his career, he worked alongside David Mitchell and Robert Webb on That Mitchell and Webb Look; over time though he's gone from being a pen for hire to firing out his shows – the first being Cabin Pressure.

Cabin Pressure was something of a phenomenon in radio terms. Typically, radio is a cult concern. Only breakfast shows pull in huge audiences, and even then listeners are often only half-listening. For a comedy to create a loyal following, tuning in week after week, to specifically listen is quite remarkable. The fact Benedict Cumberbatch was in the cast admittedly helped too: as his star grew so did the focus on the show (one recording received thousands of requests when just 200 tickets were available). Although I missed the plane on Finnemore’s sitcom, I’m determined to go back and source it out.

Finnemore on the left. The 'Batch on the right.

From there, Finnemore went on to produce the long-running sketch show John Finnemore’s Souvenir Programme- but I’m not going to talk about it, since I haven’t heard it. (I missed the train on that one too. Despite it being on the same network for the past seven years and running at a regular time, and despite the fact the train line runs through my room, I've still managed to miss it. Call yourself a comedy fan!) No, the programme I’m going to talk about is John Finnemore’s Double Acts.

As a regular Radio Times reader, I look out for what good comedy is on. I noticed this week Finnemore was in the listings. Having heard the man speak on the excellent Richard Herring Leicester Square Theatre Podcast, I thought I would give it a go. I’m glad I did. The episode I listened to was sublime. In fact – and I mean this without hyperbole – it was one of the finest things I’ve heard in a long time.

I loved it for a multitude of reasons. The first was its concept: it’s called Double Acts because it only features two people - like that Dot and Ethel euthanasia episode or Parky in the 70’s.  Because it only contains two, the writing has to be perfect. In other dramas and comedies, a slew of players brings dynamism to a production as characters constantly enter and exit scenes. With just two, an audience is stuck with them for better or worse. The fact Finnemore brings together such interesting couples makes for a happy congregation.

The second reason I loved this particular episode was because I’m a sucker for love. And this one was a romantic one. It’s titled ‘Hot Seat’ because it’s about two people that trade desks at 7: 7am and 7pm. The first character is a receptionist; the second a security guard. Initially, the conversations they have are banal: small-talk pleasantries about the weather; soon though these pleasantries become pleasant, as the two get to know one another. The episode is structured quite beautifully: I guess a bit like David Nicholls’ One Day, only instead of being about a particular day each year, this is about a specific time each day. Seeing the talk between the two evolve and devolve is both beautiful and painful. Personally, I’m at a loss to think of something I’ve enjoyed as much in a thirty-minute form. It was like a Daniel Kitson story put to an editor’s pen – as a huge Kitson fan I can think of no greater compliment.

Having fallen in love with this episode, I downloaded all the other ones and listened to them on my journey to and from London. I appreciate this setting is extraneous, hardly essential to the review, but it’s nice to have some colour, isn't it? (See reader: you’re picturing me now on that Underground, being buffeted this way and that, like an inverse ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ Richard Ashcroft, smiling though, oblivious to the uncouthness around me, all because my headspace is far and away with Finnemore gold.) I put that image there reader, and it’s all because I mentioned London. So before you criticise my choices reader, let me tell you there’s method behind this inaneness.

Ashcroft's languishing pop career is karma for 90's pavement rage.

The other episodes retain the high standards of ‘Hot Desk,’ showing Finnemore’s skill at crossing time and genre. Two of the episodes are set in the past: ‘A Flock of Tigers’ set in 1934 and ‘The Goliath Window’ in 1820, with the others set in the very real present. ‘A Flock …’ was one my favourites. It’s about two characters (Do I still need to say two characters? I think you’ve understood the format of the show); it’s about two characters (in case you haven’t) who meet on a train. The first introduces himself as Willard, which tells you everything you need to know about the man. He’s a repressed Englishman that exists in a world of surnames; first names being an unpardonable act of informality. The second is Dolores, an American from the South, here in England to deliver a lecture. Over the course of the journey, Dolores makes Willard yield his first name – and a lot more besides. Like an Alan Bennett monologue, we go from finding a character unpleasant and shallow to discovering depth and pain. The fact this is achieved with laughs along the way is a testament to Finnemore’s writing.

Another episode I really enjoyed was ‘Red Handed.’ It’s set in the modern day and about a man called Joel, who arrives home early from his job to find a burglar in the house. The burglar though isn’t from the contemporary school of breaking and entering; instead he’s from the black and white finishing school of duplicity. Quite simply, this thief could talk the hind legs off a donkey. It isn’t long before we as an audience feels sorry for this felon, despite the fact he’s holding Joel’s possessions in his hands.

‘You don’t look like a burglar.’‘What were you expecting a stripy jumper, a bristly chin, one of those perculiar tiny masks that for some reason only cover the eye sockets.’‘I just thought burglars were well…
‘What?’‘Younger for a start.’‘That’s a little hurtful.’

I’ve already mentioned Daniel Kitson and Alan Bennett in assessing Finnemore’s work, but someone else worth citing is Simon Rich. Rich is someone who walks across time and genre to create stories that pull the rug from under you. Finnemore does the same too; although I would argue with more heart. 

Simon Rich is well worth checking out.

I may have been in the dark about Finnemore’s work up until this point but I’m pleased to say I’m not now. It’s exciting when you discover something old as new. I hope this blog will encourage you to do the same.

You can listen to the episodes I've mentioned here: 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06kx6kg

Ability

Ever since the excellent Mum finished, television seems short of sitcoms. Fortunately, radio is here to fill the void. A show I’ve been really enjoying is Ability, written by Lee Ridley and Katherine Jakeaways. Jakeaways has previous on Radio 4, writing North by Northamptionshire back in 2011. Ridley, on the other hand, is better known as ‘Lost Voice Guy,’ the 2014 winner of BBC New Comedy Award, and recent contestant on Britain’s Got Talent.

A few months back I heard Ridley interviewed by Stuart Goldsmith on The Comedians Comedian Podcast. It wasn’t a typical interview in that Goldsmith had to send his questions over in advance. The reason for this is because Ridley has cerebral palsy, which consequently took his voice. As a result, he uses a computer program to talk. Being a stand up fan, I was interested in how this affects performance. Can you, for example, build in the necessary pauses for a joke to land? What happens say if some material isn’t flying? Is it easy to switch to a new topic? Is it possible to react off the cuff to what’s going on in the room? Other comedians don’t have to worry about such things. The train service between thought and mouth is often efficient – there when you need it. However, if you’re using a computer, isn’t there a Southern Rail chance of a joke arriving late to the station. How does a comic constrained by a computer cope with the issue of timing? A versatile thinker, Ridley has learnt to work within these restrictions. Pre-programming his material, he clicks in and out of jokes. If a joke doesn’t land, he has other topics ‘saved’ he can move on to. Therefore, the beauty of his comedy is in the writing. Some comics get away with skipping around the stage and changing their cadence to give the appearance of a joke, with Ridley his material stands and falls on the writing.

His writing has held him in good stead in Ability too- a perfectly formed sitcom. I genuinely don’t think there’s a bad line in it. The show is semi-autobiographical with Ridley playing Matt, a man with cerebral palsy whose just left home to live with his friend, Jess. Given his parents are no longer there to look after him, it falls on his carer to be his right hand man. The man in question is Bob: a loveable geezer with questionable morals. Him and Matt are inseparable, doing each other’s bidding, getting into hilarious scrapes along the way. Ability subverts the disabled stereotype as Bob is as dependent on Matt as Matt is on Bob. When it comes to playing the disabled card, both are as irascible as the other. Bob uses Matt to appear kind and caring; Matt uses Bob to get nights out and porn mags. Throughout the series, the two quite literally become partners in crime, shoplifting cereal and defrauding lonely men into believing Matt is a sex robot.

The cast at work.

The format for Ability reminds me a little of Peep Show with a ‘talking head’ device being used. Like the creator, the character has a lost voice too. Ridley therefore does Matt’s talking voice, whilst Andrew Hayden-Smith does his inner voice. As Newcastle born, Ridley’s internal monologue is Geordie inflected; however, his conversational tone is computer neutral. Hearing these two voices collide makes you appreciate how difficult it must be to talk with a sound that isn’t your own. In fact, there are hilarious incidents where the other characters don’t realise Matt is joking because his voice isn’t telegraphing the punch-line. Ridley’s voice is the anti-winky face: people have to be smart enough to realise when and if he’s joking.

You might have picked up that Ridley is something of a cheeky scamp. In his Britain’s Got Talent audition he wore a t-shirt that said, “I’m only in it for the free parking.” Another t-shirt he's wore for stand up is, “I was disabled before it was popular.” The man though doesn’t just wear good jokes; he writes them too. Each episode begins with a primer, putting the disability in context. In one he explains: “I’m slow at walking and I wouldn’t recommend taking me out to eat spaghetti. But on the bright side I’m the best passenger on the quiet coach of the train." What’s special about this comedy though is Ridley gives disabled jokes to Matt’s friends Bob and Jess. True friends say awful things to one another, and so it is here. Jess’ nickname for Matt is ‘fire hazard’ and Bob’s favourite game involves messing with Matt’s computer program (he changes "thank you" to "lick me").  In the wrong hands that would seem cruel, but Ridley and Jakeaways are skilled writers, holding a mirror up to friendship, demonstrating how true equality means taking the piss out of your mate regardless of circumstance.

Another great t-shirt.

Like all good modern sitcoms, there is pathos too. The first episode addresses Matt’s fear over talking to a girl he's got to know online (he worries she’ll go off him when she hears his voice). Also, a love triangle develops in later episodes where Matt becomes jealous of Bob’s relationship with Jess. Although society has made great strides in disability rights, we’re not there yet. Many years ago disabled people were to be pitied; recently Channel 4’s Paralympic coverage re-packaged this pity turning it into awe - disabled people became superheroes. The beauty of Ability is that it does neither: it presents a disabled person as normal. Someone who wants a drink, a shag, a laugh, a romance. Like everyone else.

Ability is a sitcom that reminds listeners how disability doesn’t handicap talent. In writing this comedy with Jakeaways, Lost Voice Guy is proving that in losing one voice he's gained another. A comic voice that sparkles with wit, charm and mischief. 

Ability is available here: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0b2nh1n

BBC Comedy Shorts

You wait for one good BBC comedy, then four come along at once.

Over the past few years the iPlayer service has showcased fresh pilots with the express intention of turning them into sustained series. From this initiative the acclaimed comedies Sunny D, Man Like Mobeen and Motherland have emerged. Although there are normally some duffers amongst the pack, the general quality is high and I always look forward to watching them.

This year the four shorts feel different. They feel less like they’re looking for a long-running commission and more like they’re passion pieces, works of comedic auteurs. The four contributors Tim Key, Spencer Jones, Sara Pascoe and Nick Helm are all from the alternative comedy circuit, boasting many Edinburgh prize nominations between them. All have a unique comic voice that isn’t necessarily tailored to the conventional sitcom, which might explain why these offerings feel more stand-alone than sitcom-bait.

The Funny Four.

Sara Pascoe Vs Monogamy

Sara Pascoe is something of a bookworm. Her stand-up hours are QI episodes put to missionary zeal. Past shows have involved her talking about evolutionary psychology, female physiology and the science of love. She is the funny lecturer you wish you had. In the short, she pitches up to what seems like a date in a wedding dress. This, however, is just a framing device for her to launch her diatribe on matrimony. Over the course of the treatise, she argues why monogamy doesn’t work, explaining: ‘If Adam and Eve couldn’t make it work in paradise, what chance have we got under a Tory Government.’ There’s references to ‘pair bonding’ and ‘copulatory vocalisation’ to elucidate why men are more likely to stray and why it's in fact women who enjoy sex more.

It’s a dizzying ten minutes of science and great lines, but too jam-packed to be my favourite.

Sara Pascoe.

Nick Helm: The Killing Machine

Nick Helm is the bastard love child of Johnny Vegas and Jack Black. His Edinburgh shows are heartaches on sleeves, where he’s liable to affect mental breakdown live on stage. In contrast, his work away for TV dials down the depression and turns the amp up on bitter-sweet melancholia. His work in the BBC3 sitcom Uncle was a triumph showing a rock-obsessed loser coming good. In this short he plays Sam, a down-at-heel story in need of a comeback. Salvation, he believes, can be found in the boxing ring. Donny his trainer isn’t so sure. Tired of the New Years Day inductee, Donny doesn’t think Sam will go the distance; in fact, he’s convinced Sam won’t last more than a session. The relationship between the pair grows, so soon they’re verbally sparring over favourite movies- remarkably, Donny hasn’t seen Rocky. The subsequent raising of eye-brows from Sam is a delight.

Much more conventional than the other three, this is the one short that could come back for a second round.

Nick Helm.

The Mind of Herbert Clunkerdunk

Without the profile of other names Spencer Jones AKA The Herbert has still been packing them out at Edinburgh. His underground status is augmented by the rooms he plays: he’s preferred Bob Slayer’s ‘Heroes of the Fringe’ rooms as opposed to Edinburgh’s main comedy venues, The Big 4. Jones is more from the variety school of comedy than today's university storytellers. Gurning like Cooper and wearing Vic and Bob surreal, the man quite simply is a lunatic. This ten minutes is a bonkers blitz of inventiveness, boasting daft songs, fake eye balls and talking letterboxes. For me, it has the visual flair of The Mighty Boosh, but with a pure, less affected, humour. Typically I like my comedy wordy and worthy, but this was a child’s ball pool of chaotic fun.

Spencer Jones.

Tim Key – Wonderdate

Tim Key is a character played by Tim Key. His Edinburgh shows are something of an event. As he has a movie-makers eye for the visual, his comic sets are often interspersed with dreamy short films, and his stage sets have contained beds and baths.

This short was my favourite – not just because it features my favourite topic: love – but because it had such confidence in the medium it's working in. Because Key is used to producing movie vignettes, he has no problem here in turning his current stage show Megadate into abridged television. The story begins with a man waving goodbye to a woman. The parting will be short-lived because the date has gone exceedingly well: you can tell because the visuals are in black and white, the music is retro-Jazz and love hangs in their faces like Lisa in the Louvre. After kissing his date away, he realises he’s lost his hat. Agonised (it’s a fucking great hat), he texts the girl in lamentation. She does not reply. He texts again. She does not reply. He texts again. She does not reply. He … The next day, Key retraces his steps from the bowling alley to the Thames to the chicken shop to the fairground, searching for the hat. Along the way he meets characters who saw him the night before, unconvinced by his assertion that this was a wonderdate. The flashback scenes are a delight as we see a white-suited Key down a bowling pitcher of ale, and a Chicken Cottage seduction scene played out to French Jazz.

No one marries high and low art better than Key. He is the clown priest addressing the faithful with his beer-sodden book of love. It, therefore, gives me great pleasure to pronounce Wonderdate brilliant.

Tim Key.

The shorts are available here: 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/group/p066t2rt