Television II

When it’s twenty degrees outside, and the birds are tweeting without the assistance of a laptop and a lawyer, the sun is beaming – complete with the inexplicable dark-glasses and the smug smile of children’s drawings – the smell of hot grass is all around, and a choir of ice cream vans make the city a veritable Greensleeves-Utopia (or the mating call of the paedophile, as Tim Minchin memorably describes it), only one creature fails to festoon themselves in too little sun cream, too few clothes, and fling themselves, snake-like, onto a sunny rock. Snakes would never have survived if the species were habitual binge-watchers. For somewhere, in the fuggy darkness of a bedroom – blissfully unaware of the paradise beyond the drawn curtains – we find the natural habitat of the television addict; contentedly re-watching a series they can move their lips with, and spending time with their better half. To have and to watch, from this day forward, for better (BBC dramas), for worse (Channel 5 documentaries), for richer (sound quality), for poorer (picture quality), in sickness and in health, until something larger, faster and cheaper parts us. And so, with these sacred vows in mind, I have returned to a topic I pondered once before, and bring you the memories of my fulfilling 2015 relationship.

Fargo

Rule one of television: everybody loves Martin Freeman. I love Martin Freeman. That is not to say that I have even a dwarf’s worth of patience when it comes to an all-consuming jewellery fixation and some sassy CGI ears. I couldn’t give a nazgûl! As they say in Middle-Earth… or wherever the hell they were. Freeman-fever hit me at a far earlier age – Love Actually sex-doubles and The Office *holds back tears*- long before he swine-flu-ed the nation with Sherlock. And so when the Coen brothers abandoned the big screen and, with a slice of inspired lunacy, created a TV series inspired by their own film, they looked no further than Martin Freeman when casting the role of Lester Nygaard. Adding cement to their genius status there, one thinks. (Oh dear, I’ve said Martin Freeman too often and it’s gone weird on me). Martin Freeman’s American accent is on-point and, even though Lester’s choices are at best questionable – making Hannibal Lecter look like the neighbour you’d welcome into your book group – he’s strangely endearing to the bitter end and you really hope he’ll get away with it. Alongside the most chillingly villainous Billy Bob Thornton in the televisual pantheon, the instantly loveable Allison Tollman and Colin Hanks (like Tom, but put through a wringer), and oh-my-god-it’s-Eddie-from-Friends (Adam Goldberg), this series is the ultimate in slow-burn drama… but armed with automatic weapons. Add blood leaking from shower-heads, fish falling from the sky, and the occasional person being dropped into frozen lakes, and you won’t be rushing to book holidays in Minnesota any time soon! Predictably, the ending does not involve the entire cast linking hands to sing a quick round of kumbaya before skipping off into the sunset, but it still maintains some surprise elements. I shall now pour forth a veritable bleeding facet of adjectives to describe this series: dark, funny, sharp, intelligent, horrible, outrageous, hectic, bloody… and it’s coming back. Yes, it’s been renewed for a prequel series which is all the rage right now. Thanks Hobbit!

Veep

An American friend recommended that I watched Veep. I am eternally indebted to her. Not only does it present the perfect antidote to any election season, but for all of us captivated and entranced by The Thick Of It this is the same gun-show, transposed to the US. A sort of fly-on-the-wall drama, its abilities to make you cringe pick up where The Office left off. Armando Iannucci’s writing never shies away and will have you laughing whilst hiding behind the sofa in its portrayal of life in the Vice President’s office. The entire cast is magical; every character so well constructed and completely realised that I would find it difficult not to smash a brick into Jonah’s (Timothy Simons) face if I ever met him. Which is deeply unfair – I’m sure in real life he’s charming. From Anna Chlumsky as the Head of Staff, Tony Hale as the personal aide – albeit his main responsibility is memorising the pockets of a valise, but he won an Emmy for his performance – Matt Walsh as the man with a fake dog (every office has one), and Reid Scott as the Iago of the series, to Julia Louis-Dreyfus as the VP herself, there is not a wrong note played. I was watching the latest episode today and, when only-Hugh-effing-Laurie got out of the lift as a potential running-mate, I went into a previously unknown subspecies of anaphylactic shock caused by sheer over-excitement. The only downside to this superb show is that the jokes come at such an unprecedented rate, I only get them to a ratio of one in four. Well, that and Sally Phillips… for you see rule two of television turns out to be that, if you’ve ever seen her in Miranda or Bridget Jones, she cannot be taken seriously as the Prime Minster of Finland, complete with accent. But you have to admire a show that so intricately strikes the balance between intelligent political satire and the kind of nicknames that echo around teenage boys’ changing-rooms.

Girls

I became obsessed with Girls relatively late in life… if you see what I mean. The show was already wrapping its third season when I stumbled upon the charming, articulate, and witty Lena Dunham on a late night chat show. I was oddly drawn to her, perhaps because of her tattoos of children’s book illustrations, her headband adorned with cat ears, and the more unusual green dip-dyed hair. Maybe it was simply that she’d never been clubbing (seal, or otherwise). As candid as Jennifer Lawrence, but outspoken about women’s rights, the comments underneath Dunham’s YouTube videos make Goebbels’ to-do-list look like what Squirrel Nutkin got up to in his holidays, as she compounds men not wanting to bang her with wilfully having short hair. Being the last guest to arrive at the Girls party did not stop me neglecting family, food, and hygiene to watch every episode in a number of days. This series invites everybody into the hidden world of the female twenty-something, and their relationships with other women, which are simultaneously the most important, the most loving and the most volatile. Although I have never bathed with my friends, which main character Hannah spends an inordinate amount of time doing – it’s a wonder her pals don’t transform into human prunes – Girls is astonishingly accurate. It’s liberal, it’s hilarious, it’s swimming with awkward turtles, and it’s a Republican white male’s nightmare. In fact Lena Dunham is yet another person who can join my enemies list as having stolen my life and made a fortune from it. Not only did I go to university with heaping tablespoons of foe-pretentious Jessas (Jemima Kirke), I also know an abundance of Hannahs (Lena Dunham), Shoshannas (Zosia Mamet), and even a few Marnies (Allison Williams): the most self-absorbed and yet totally self-unaware person in the history of television. Almost every line is an instant catchphrase; what my life is missing is quotes plastered across the land for motivation.

Looking

Any production that can use a pink glow-stick as a phallic symbol gets my vote. This series focuses on three gay men living in San Francisco: game-designer, hopeless romantic and naive-puppy Patrick (Jonathan Groff) is a WASP on the brink of turning thirty, who finds himself haplessly tangled in a love triangle. It’s nothing like Frozen. Patrick’s old college roommate is Agustín (Frankie J. Alvarez), a failing artist who couldn’t organise his way out of a doorway with clearly marked exit signs, and whose greatest artistic achievement is a unicorn collage made of naked men. There’s also glorified-waiter Dom (Murray Bartlett) on the brink of a mid-life crisis who dreams of owning a chicken restaurant and, at the age of forty, still lives with his ex-girlfriend Doris (Lauren Weedman). Weedman cannot be praised highly enough for her role; even as a secondary character her bluntness and sarcasm make me stagger about laughing and applauding. In a perverse way, I want to be her! Each episode is a tsunami of relationships and hook-ups, idealism versus reality, jobs and careers, and the importance of your friends while this stage of your life attempts to water-board you. It’s Girls… but for slightly old, slightly manlier people. Andrew Haigh directs and paces this series as though it were an art-house film; shot entirely on location with whole plots given over to tiny details that allow you to absorb and wallow in the lives of the characters. An entire episode was filmed at Folsom Street Fair: a deeply misleading title which might result in you mistakenly taking your mother along for the antiques (go for the armoires, stay for the leather?!). It’s escapism, voyeurism, and very funny… a little like a highly lubricated adaptation of a Jane Austen novel. You will wish you could speak Spanish, develop a deeper understanding of facial hair, master Raul Castillo’s Deeply Significant Look, and become more au fait with gay slang than is strictly necessary (when being an au pair for a family of five in Munich). Oh, and never forget the third rule of television: you must cast a History Boy. This production picked Russell Tovey and it was totally worth it. It’s a rule that should be spread more widely. On this note, I love the American perception that the Brits – whilst constantly apologising – keep up an almost constant stream of swear words, with the result that the C-bomb is dropped twice in as many minutes. If you’re not at your ease watching men have sex with each other, then this show isn’t for you. Although it is not gratuitous sex for the sake of shock factor. However, I suspect that the occasional glimpse of butt-cheek (and all it represents) is why Looking has been cancelled after just two series.

Broadchurch

Some things get cancelled too soon. Often to my howling sobs and furious Twitter outbursts: although as my followers can barely form a sports team, I’m unlikely to start a revolution any time soon, and tweeting is more like bellowing into an empty, wet paper bag. However, other things don’t get cancelled soon enough, and are dragged back onto our screens like a murder victim on a beach. Don’t get me started on Episodes, but a third series of Broadchurch? Seriously? Don’t get me wrong, David Tennant and Olivia Colman are superb actors, although their star quality is tantamount to Stockholm syndrome, dragging your screaming brain through sixteen episodes. Even a second series made the first look like a well-thought-through piece of satirical drama. It takes ‘looking angry on a beach’ to a whole new level. Tennant’s *mysterious-violin-strings* medical condition gets more severe and more unexplained, whilst Colman was so constantly on the verge of tears it was as though she was flat-sharing with an onion. From motherhood to parking meters, she was perpetually flustered. However, the future series 3 can take note of the following: (1) Broadchurch is rapidly catching up with Midsomer to be featured in top towns beset by a constant stream of unparalleled tragedy, like a holiday resort for the Hamlets. (2) Ready for the fourth rule of television? When every viewer and character knows whodunit, the whodunit aspect is somewhat undermined. (3) This series was predominantly filmed at the University of Exeter… which is where I went, and seeing it on TV blew my tiny mind and drove a bulldozer through the third wall into my face. With every door DI Alec Hardy flung open, I became more and more convinced that he was about to stumble upon Professor Gagnier giving her lecture on global circulation and bananas. He would have been out of his depth.

Wolf Hall

It’s really unfair of me to critique Wolf Hall. I never read Hilary Mantel’s book as some sort of petty payback for everyone who droned on about it as though it was carved on the flip-side of those tablets Moses got. Plus, when it was adapted for television, I only watched the first episode, one eye wandering to my pasta. But I’m not going to let a minor inconvenience like that put me off. After all, nothing ruins a review like knowing what you’re talking about. Rule five when making a television programme is that everything perks up when the beaming redhead of Damien Lewis strolls onto the screen – although he almost neglected to show up to the first episode of this. His auburn locks offer almost the only source of light in the entire episode. I take issue with this. If you’re going to use the original building, not a problem. Authentic music? Be my guest. Appropriate costume? Knock yourself out. But all natural light was a gimmick too far for this viewer. You’re using Damien Lewis. No one is going to think this is a documentary. He’s not really Henry VIII. And he’s surrounded by camera equipment. All you are achieving is that – as well as being beset by a substantial chunk of history I last studied in Junior School, and in a sea of people called Thomas – I can’t see what’s going on. I spent twenty minutes adjusting the brightness settings on my screen in order to make out a face and now I can’t Word Process any more. I think at some unlit moment in a palace my computer screen went to sleep… and I didn’t even notice. I interrupt this grievance to give you this word of warning: I would briefly Wikipedia the Tudors if you’re unfamiliar with it so you’re not reduced to tears, even though it rather takes the ‘will they/won’t they’ out of history. With reference to the cast, Mark Rylance falls into that category of deeply irritating human-beings who are really fine actors He will probably define a generation. He’s portraying Thomas Cromwell… but in the dark, so his presence barely irritated me at all. Not to toot my own horn (translation: toot toot) but I’ve seen him on stage twice – Richard III and La Bête – and he’s utterly compelling. I heard rumours that the delightful Jonathan Pryce – breaking away from playing a succession of controlling dads in Very Annie Mary and Pirates of the Caribbean – was playing a Cardinal in this. I didn’t spot him. And the delightful Tom Hollander was there too. In fact, there were reams of the acting elite lurking in the shadows. Wasn’t Homeland a stroke of staggering genius though… until it became everything that is wrong with television?

PS. On a stunningly accurate recommendation, I was also sucked into David Attenborough’s latest gem, Life Story. It’s mesmerising, heart-wrenching and a real feast… mostly of impala. But I can’t help thinking how unsuited animals are to their natural habitats: “Here we see this tiny rodent which can only live on the world’s rarest seaweed. But curiously it has chosen to live fifty feet up a perilous boulder, with no seaweed in sight. And at the base of the boulder, a troupe of rodent-hungry bears and lions. This little animal will make the longest and most perilous journey on the planet, tumbling down the rock-face, dodging the lions and bears, and eventually finding the seaweed. Unfortunately, due to its poor eyesight, this seaweed is to it indistinguishable from another deadly variety. It’s nearing 60 degrees centigrade in the sun, so with every step the creatures also begin to cook, stalked by ravenous predators. But this cunning little rodent, reaching the pinnacle of evolution, has a hitherto unsuspected weapon up his sleeve: a machine gun.” And that, in Attenborough’s dulcet tones, pretty much sums up nature.

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 1

I am currently sitting under a blanket munching on the remnants of cold caramelised popcorn – reportedly the best popcorn in all of Munich – listening to the Rent soundtrack, for reasons known only to myself, and reflecting, Zeus-like (if Zeus enjoyed both the sugary snack and the musical stylings of Jonathan Larson), upon my recent trip to the cinema. Given that I fetched in at my front door ten minutes ago, it was a very recent trip to the cinema and my first in Germany. Fortunately, at the imaginatively named ‘Cinema’, the films are screened in English to avoid my embarrassment and bewilderment, and the film was called The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 1: an equally catchy title.

WARNING: this blog contains spoilers. Spoilers on an epic, unprecedented level. I am about to reveal the entire plot. In all of its intricacies and nuances. So don’t come crying to me when your dreams of District 13 are as desecrated and strewn with bodies as… District 13.

For those of you who missed The Hunger Games and The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, let me first and foremost salute you. You have succeeded where others failed. You have, for three consecutive years, completely avoided a franchise so big, that just the very mention of Katniss’s name causes Daniel Radcliffe’s face to melt. What wondrous things have you achieved during the countless hours of your life that the rest of the world squandered watching children killing each other? To get you up to speed, these films thrust Jennifer Lawrence upon us and now everybody in the world wants to fall over, get face-palmed, or play the circle game with her. The first film is about children who are put into a fight-to-the-death against other children, known as the Hunger Games,  and in an unprecedented twist, the protagonist wins – whodathunkit – so that she can survive to feature in the second film, which is an all-star version of the same Hunger Games event, in which different children, some of the same children and even some old people are put in a fight-to-the-death against other different children/same children/old people, and in an unprecedented twist, the protagonist survives again to star in the third film.

This new film has the most edifying plot yet, and I think you will agree that I was right to warn you of its intricacies and nuances. Katniss wants to rescue Peeta and 123 grippingly snappy minutes later, they rescue Peeta. I hope that future screenwriters are at this very moment tossing Hitchcock scripts into the bin with a hearty scoff. I’m not going to lie: I was slightly saddened that there were no Hunger Games in this Hunger Games film. It turns out to have been the best bit. And yes, that wasn’t auto-correct gone awry. It is Peeta. It’s pronounced ‘Peter’, but spelled ‘Peeta’. Like how Americans talk about Greek flat-breads. For no discernible reason. Ironically, Josh Hutcherson – playing Peeta – possesses all of the charisma, sex-appeal and height of a pitta bread. This is presumably why this is the third film in a row which sees Katniss spending an inordinate amount of time snuggling up with six foot three, Thor-brother Gale (Liam Hemsworth). I can’t imagine why.

I remember going to see the fifteenth – or was it sixteenth – Pirates of the Caribbean Snooze-Fest and realising that, to properly appreciate it, I should have been taking copious notes throughout the prequels. A word to the wise: it would be prudent – nay, vital – to skim through the first two Hunger Games films before attempting this one. It turns out that I have no place in my entire mind-palace where any semblance of a white rose reference still lurks. And this fact became more and more of a big deal as the film went on and the white roses kept piling up, signifying whatever the hell they were signifying 18 months ago when I last cared.

The director Francis Lawrence (no relation to Lawrence fem.) adds caché to his innocuous name by having directed the music video for (*drum roll* 2002 tweens, hold your breath) Avril Lavigne’s ‘Sk8er Boi’: ironed-straight hair, the fashionable Pokemon-esque backward baseball-cap and all the world’s eyeliner. The problem posed with the latest Hunger Games is that the plot makes ‘Sk8er Boi’ look like Tolstoy. It is so skull-drillingly basic – I mean, filled with edgy twists and sophistication – that Lawrence (masc.) has to fill up the five day run-time with pretty much anything he can think of. Unfortunately, they seem to have caught him on a bad day, creatively. Maybe he was having a masterful day baking scones or mixing tile adhesive for a leaky bathroom – two things incidentally that Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t do, but might as well have done, in order to fill the numbing hours – but Lawrence (masc.)’s heart wasn’t in every 123 minutes of this film. To eke out another twenty minutes, he resorts to pointless explosions – which made the Australian boys next to me drool like Homer Simpson: ‘mmmm, weaponry’ – and some of the longest and most inane on-screen television broadcasts I have ever had the misfortune to yawn through. Even within the context of the film, they’re pointless and a ruse to waste time. Why inflict that feeling on the audience?!

The acting totally redeems this feature-length-trailer for next year’s (hopefully better) sequel, and is what keeps anxious fans coming back for more. This film boasts a star-spangled cast of Hollywood’s most-beloved, fetchingly attired in the sort of colour bathroom mould grows in. Seriously, the costume department clearly wasted so much time designing the various ways that eyebrow-less Elizabeth Banks could wear a towel on her head seductively, that the deadline whooshed in upon them, and they found themselves gathered in an office around a sewing-machine with nothing but a dream and pencil drawing of a beanie hat. So in a desperate last minute brainstorm, they agreed to make the same outfit five times and hope that no one would notice because they’d be too engrossed in the now much-endorsed intricate and nuanced plot. So Stanley Tucci, Donald Sutherland, Woody Harrelson, Elizabeth Banks, Julianne Moore and the wildly-talented, much-lamented Philip Seymour Hoffman are all decked out like space-age binmen. Or possibly people trying to camouflage themselves in a particularly mouldy shower. But their acting is beyond reproach. This film also introduces a whole new range of characters whose ridiculous names you won’t even bother to learn because they’ll probably be dead before the credits roll. There’s the edgy girl with a shaved, tattooed head (Natalie Dormer), the guy with no tongue who looks like Sam from The Lord of the Rings (it could be Sean Astin), and some other guys with cameras strapped to their faces (I literally have no idea).

But, as usual, hats off to Jennifer Lawrence: her sulk-acting is unparalleled, and I honour her attempts to bring back two noble traditions, passed down from eight year-old to eight year-old: the plait and the Brownie promise hand gesture. (Shortly after this scene in a hospital, it is bombed to bits, which she’s oddly cool about given how freaked out she is by a few white roses – AUGH WHAT WERE THEY ABOUT?!). Oh, and she sings too, which they loop round and round, so that it ticks the ‘stuff happening to kill time’ box. And it’s great! I was the sucker who downloaded it from iTunes because her husky voice is beautiful in its imperfections, and the lyrics to the song are so chillingly haunting, they belong in a better movie. As does she.

PS. Um, dear costume department, sorry to harp on, but did you really think that you could get away with stealing Lara Croft’s clothes from Tomb Raider and putting them on Katniss? Nice try. I know you were pressed for time – I just don’t know what you spent that time on. There’s not even any CGI fire in this film. And even that you clearly purchased at Poundland…

Skylight

jumper envy

I have this uneasy feeling that some people always look stylish. Perhaps this is just a paranoid fantasy from which all twenty-something year old females suffer, but I can’t help but wake up screaming with visions of girls who apply mascara, straighteners or bras for the most trifling of social functions. Even trousers seem a far cry from my preferred outfit: pyjamas at all times (a possible title for my autobiography or epitaph for my tombstone). And, when pyjamas are absolutely socially unacceptable, skinny jeans and a baggy jumper. But it is reassuring, not to mention elating, that I have now witnessed the mother of all comfy jumpers as modelled the other night by actress Carey Mulligan in Sir David Hare’s play Skylight. And whilst she made the voluminous jumper more glamorous than if it had been a Vera Wang wedding dress – a feat that I, in its doppelgänger, seated in Row C of the Hexham Forum Cinema, alas cannot boast – it does at least allow me a review of the latest National Theatre production screenings. Hell of a segue, huh?

On booking the tickets for this show, I cannot stress how little I knew about this play. I hadn’t seen a review and I had avoided all mentions of plot twists. For all I knew it could have been an all-Japanese, ballet, farce set in the wake of an apocalypse caused by an evil god whose cruelty knew no bounds and who had unleashed, for reasons known only to himself, a plague of man-eating gerbils. The only thing I knew – other than the baffling and, ironically, unenlightening title, Skylight – was the cast list. But that was more than a recommendation. The words ‘Bill Nighy’ followed by the words ‘Carey Mulligan’ sent me into a fit of gleeful excitement, and I would have paid double the cinema ticket (yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen, a whole £22) to see them read the Encyclopaedia Britannica, dance the tarantella, or eat cheese. I was, if anything, slightly disappointed when, on popping to the loo before the play began – a treat afforded me because there was, for peculiar reasons, a woman sitting in my seat when I arrived, who had to be removed by the relevant authorities – I was diverted from the tedium of loo-going by reading the handily placed synopsis on the back of the cubicle door, and learned that it was not the Simon Pegg inspired rodent debacle that I had conjectured. I shall give you a brief and largely unhelpful summary. Basically, it’s one of those two-people-in-one-room, set-in-real-time sort of fandangos that sounds intrinsically self-righteous (which it is) and extremely dull (which, mercifully, it isn’t). Kyra – Queen of the pixie cut, Carey Mulligan – is an impoverished, do-gooding, teacher in the East End (think Slumdog Millionaire but with snow) living in a London flat with little more than a red scarf and some onions for company, when she is unexpectedly visited by three ghosts… No wait. That’s Muppet’s Christmas Carol. Or, if you prefer, Dickens’ Christmas Carol. Thirty year old Kyra is visited by two people. First by 18 year old Edward, who brings her some rap music, sulks about the death of his mother and his insufferable father, and then the two of them cosily discuss the joys of going out for breakfast. Edward then pootles off, and said-father Tom completely coincidentally drops by, played by none other than squid face, Bill Nighy. And so it begins. The play is a clash of political ideals, and Tom is Thatcher to Kyra’s Blair: a rich, greedy, entrepreneur restauranteur and recent widower, who just happens to be her ex-employer and ex-lover. Although their real life 35 year age gap is perhaps a touch Operation Yewtree. The story of their affair and the future of their relationship unfolds over a spag bol supper. The begging question is the cliched ‘will they, won’t they’, and the fate of their relationship hangs in the balance, dependent on whether they can successfully reconcile their opposing political beliefs before the pasta goes cold. With me so far? It is also suffice it to say that skylights, whilst they do feature, have a minor part to play in the action and are not recreated in the set by gouging a large hole in the roof of Wyndham’s.

fantastic set

Let me turn quickly, therefore, to the set. Wyndham’s Theatre is utterly enchanting and an absolute privilege to sit in, but the seats are narrower than the average twenty-first century viewer’s buttocks and therefore I was grateful to be reclining in luxury in a modern cinema seat. However, director Stephen Daldry, who directed the enjoyable, smash hit Billy Elliot and then regrettably took a nosedive directing Hare’s own adaptation of The Reader – probably the longest and most boring film about the Holocaust ever made – managed to restore my faith in him here. Although I do question the wisdom of setting Skylight in the 80s, complete with rotary dial phone and brown floral cooking pots, when the play is so obviously a product of the 90s. Aesthetically, it looked sensational and the space worked really well for what he wanted to create. The backdrop of the other flats and the layers of rooms, with a sliding wall to hide the bathroom if necessary, was fluid, easy and natural. It wasn’t fussy, it didn’t get in the way, and it didn’t gently rotate or do anything unnecessary just because it could. Kudos. The entire first half happens whilst Kyra actually makes dinner onstage. Pretentious? Yes, probably, but I loved it. A bit of pretension hurts nobody. And, while what I actually did was wonder how she didn’t cry whilst chopping onions, and whether the sound guys were kicking themselves as the bubbling sauce sounded like a freight train in a windy tunnel, my parents were busy grumbling that she seemed to be cooking a meal for fifty on her tiny pauper’s budget. But it turns out that I’m simply a sucker for a bit of onstage snow. When it happened in Stratford’s Beauty and the Beast, the Comedy Theatre’s La Bête and now at the end of Skylight, it’s all I can do not to applaud with teary and childlike wonder. What can I say? I’m easily amused.

The acting was utterly flawless, which I suppose is easier when there are only three actors, rather than Hamlet or Guys and Dolls where there’s a whole throng of them to forget their lines or overact. But fair’s fair. Even three people have the potential to make a hash of it. But Nighy and Mulligan were faultless in their contrasting and complementary performances. There is momentum, humour and purpose to Nighy’s rambling style; his chaotic descriptions, swearing and gesticulating. His tics and jerks are so incredible, so attuned to the character, that it’s hard – if not impossible – to discover where Tom ends and Nighy begins. How do you make Dupuytren’s Contractures so effortlessly and mesmerisingly part of a character?  His timing and pacing are impeccable, capturing and exacerbating every moment of comedy. His long speeches are broken up with confused fragments about his late wife and the room he built for her, the crumbling of their relationship and the revelation of what happened between him and Kyra. Nighy handles this with aplomb. It is not overly soupy, apologetic or caricatured anger. Tom is a man caught in the confusion of grief and relief: both longing for the past and yet wishing it had played out differently. As more is revealed, it is hard to say whether I felt greater pity for him or began to despise him. And it’s this conflict that he treads so artfully. He is a terrific actor, worthy of any award the powers that be can throw at him. Plus, if all teenage girls want to be BFFs with Jennifer Lawrence, does that mean that Carey Mulligan is going spare? And that I can have her? There is an understated quality and sincerity to Mulligan whose ability knows no bounds. She really listens. Her stillness is entrancing, as she doesn’t overact in the shadows, yet your eye is drawn to her. She is a simply superb actress who, I hope, goes far after this whirlwind of a West End debut. Unlike a whole host of pretty girls I can think of, she doesn’t hide behind her hair – she can’t! And it may be a strange thing to say, but she isn’t afraid of her face. She isn’t frightened of laughing, smiling, crying (on which note, she evidently attended the same school as Tom Hiddleston and is capable of filling the auditorium in a Noah-esque deluge) and all those other emotions that unappealingly scrunch the porcelain features. What I’m saying is that Mulligan is confident enough in her abilities and beauty to look ugly. It’s her greatest gift. Oh, and Matthew Beard as Tom’s son Edward, who I fear will be forgotten and overlooked by critics everywhere. I don’t know whether he was an avid stalker of Bill Nighy before rehearsals kicked off, but to hit every mannerism so completely on the head like that must have taken some work, and possibly night vision goggles and a zoom lens. It’s clever stuff, this acting business.

Yes, if the play had a fault, or anything less than five blazing stars lighting every headline, it was not because of the actors. Sad, and far less fixable, is the truth. The problem with Skylight is the play itself. Like more and more plays I see at the moment it had real second act problems. The first half was quick, witty with a touch of pathos and mystery, and even a bit of sentimentality that didn’t have me (and more astoundingly, my mother) reaching with exaggerated gasps for the sick bucket. But that was it. All the plot and drive and excitement, over and done by the interval, with the result that when we returned, after ice cream and a costume change, it was to an equally long and sanctimonious sermon. We get it David. You’re a Blairite. Duly noted. Now please feel free to say something else. No, really. Don’t hesitate. We get that you think teaching is a worthwhile and under-paid profession. And somewhere through the fifth hour we’ve grasped that you admire public servants. And whilst the live audience in London applauded these over-egged sentiments in a ‘yah boo sucks Mr Cameron’ sort of way – ‘bring back the liberal haven of the 90s and down with the bankers’ – Hare’s writing was about as subtle as a herd of rhinos at afternoon tea in Claridges. It was more broken teacups and irate cucumber sandwiches, than sophisticated satire. Not to mention Hare’s apparently somewhat hazy memory of the 90s. Does anyone else remember the idyll of socialist freedoms under Mr Blair in which bankers were forced to donate their annual bonuses to needy children? No. Me neither. Does the word Iraq mean nothing to you, David? But I digress. To have produced such an intricate, intelligent and tangly first half, it was disappointing for the curtain to rise on a preachy and artless one note samba of a second half. There was no hint of nuance to the argument that takes place between Tom and Kyra. Nor was there any hint that it would ever end. It was just a Groundhog Day snooze-fest of the same obvious points: ‘I’m all damaged and liberal and unvalued by society’ versus ‘I may be a pig, but I’m rich and you’re jealous so stop living in a fairytale’. Let me add that this goes on for a good forty minutes of my life. Forty minutes which I must stress I will never get back. Ever.

On a side issue, may I just ask why directors feel the need to have women take their tops off in the middle of arguments? Culturally ingrained casual sexism is something I value so much over my tub of vanilla ice cream. Still, considering that for the sake of realism we were forced to watch the preparation of actually spaghetti really bolognese earlier, I’m not convinced that women, in the throes of political debate, feel the need to strip down to their bras. Vulnerability is not something people search for when quarreling. I’ve never watched a live international political debate per se, but I’m sure it is not the mainstay of Merkel’s technique. Nor, for that matter, was it Thatcher’s.

And so at last, with a sigh of relief, I turn to the ending. I won’t tell you if there is resolution between Kyra and Tom, what it is (if there is any), and whether at this point we care. But – spoiler alert – Kyra is left alone until Edward comes back, most uncivilised at some ungodly hour of the morning. With breakfast. I think it’s meant to be symbolic. She misses going out for breakfast because it represents Tom, his restaurant and the days when they were a family. But Edward’s too naive to realise that his father and Kyra were having an affair, so to him it’s just… eggs. I can instantly think of better ways to have ended the play, but Hare gives it a cyclical nature that GCSE creative writing students would beam upon, and it’s only very twee rather than actively nauseating. But David Hare, in amongst his didactic politics, has got something right. And it is the lasting message which, several weeks on, will journey through the ages as the cornerstone of Skylight‘s philosophy. Going out for breakfast truly is one of life’s greatest pleasures.

Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl

It’s 2003. It’s August. It’s Cardiff. It’s probably raining, despite the heat wave. And we’re going to the cinema. (Go with me on this one – I’m not having an episode). I’m staying with my best friend who, although now better known for her love of lemurs and the bard, at that time spent an inordinate amount of pocket money on teenage magazines – not for the quizzes almost certainly inappropriate for the innocent 12 year olds we undoubtedly were – but in order to cut out the pictures of a certain Orlando Bloom and festoon them about her bedroom, covering Paul McCartney’s weeping face. I was less enamoured. I wanted to see The Man Who Sued God or Lara Croft… or Piglet’s Big Movie rather than see anything pitched to me as a pirate movie starring Orlando Bloom. But I’d get out of it. I’d fake illness, or bereavement, or run in front of a bus in the cinema car park.

hahahaha…

And so there I was; sitting in the dark with an ostentatious and terminally bored expression plastered on my face, secretly hoping that someone would see it and call animal rescue on my behalf. Fortunately, at that moment, as I started to think that I would have to force pieces of popcorn into my nostrils and end it all in Row H of the Cardiff Odeon, Keira Knightly fell off the battlements into the sea and I started to enjoy myself.

For the few of you poor individuals who have been otherwise wasting your time not seeing this film, it’s a swashbuckling, mutinous, apple-eating, ship-swapping, romance, thriller, comedy, pirate movie with a monkey and Aztec gold and a lot of rum. Whilst pirate-blooded, orphan-turned-hopeless-love-puppy, blacksmith Will Turner (Orlando Bloom) and ringlet-headed, ever-pouting, Governor’s-daughter Elizabeth Swan (Keira Knightly) prat about pretending they’re not eventually going to steamily get together – in front of her father on the same battlement she earlier tumbled from when ignoring a proposal from the rather dashing if extremely tiresome Commodore Norrington (Jack Davenport) – the rather frightening and cursed Captain Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush), whose pirate is more Irish than his native Australian and harbours a penchant for granny smiths, is desperate to lift the curse of (well… as the title might suggest to the Herlock Sholmeses amongst you) the Black Pearl, thus not turning into a skeleton when the moon rises. Although being immortal does turn out to have its advantages: who’da thunk it? In a not-confusing-at-all case of mistaken identity, involving gold coins and dead fathers, the hugely-overdressed-Elizabeth is kidnapped instead of suspected-eunuch-Will and it’s a race against time to save her or him or stop Barbossa’s lot from being immortal. (I promise that a lot of this will make more sense on seeing the film).

This film also contains further proof that the Oscars are a sham. If Robert Newton created the pirate of the 1900s, Johnny Depp can surely be accredited with creating the modern pirate. And he’s far sexier (sorry Rob). Depp should have scooped every award going, instead of which the Academy Award went to some bloke called Sean Penn. Pah! There’s a lot of Pepé le Pew meets Keith Richards in the form of Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp), staggering deranged and drunken in too much eye-makeup and a gargantuan hat. This Machiavel’s constant dishonesty and self-serving treachery somehow leaves you cheering for him in a slightly confused way. Every deft detail of his performance, from the walk to the voice to the banana (watch out for it – it’s there) makes this film just about perfect. And hilarious. And ultimately quotable. Too much of the “naughties” (as we must apparently sickeningly call them) was wasted quoting from Pirates of the Caribbean. No. Not wasted. Thoroughly enjoyed.

Hats off to Hans Zimmer too. A glorious, stirring and far too hummable theme of which my entire form group, many years ago, considered soaring into a triumphant rendition during our woeful ICT GCSE examination. So all hail the love of Orlando Bloom. It came good in the end.

PS. And finally, to soothe your tattered brains after all of that, a story about my grandmother, who has never graced my blog before. Aged 77 on its release, she really enjoyed Pirates of the Caribbean despite, I suspect, having slept through vast portions of the whole skeleton-fandango. However, during the several days for which the credits roll before the monkey goes crazy again (you’ll see), she did turn to me and say – and don’t forget in your head that she sounded like the Queen trying to keep the royal standards from slipping – ‘I can’t imagine why everyone bangs on about this Johnny Depp when he’s just a very standard leading man with a pretty face. But that Orlando Bloom…’ Oh dear, I thought. I’ve lost another one. First my best friend, and now this. ‘He’s sensational: the makeup, the voice, the offbeat stagger, the…’ Hang on! I see what’s happened here. Do you?

Now, bring me that horizon…

Film

And I’m back in Exeter.  I’ve washed my sheets, I’ve made a huge consignment of chilli and – you’re not here – hell, yes, I’ve even vacuumed.  So all I’m waiting for now, other than a job, a substantial lottery win and a magic wand or lamp-harbouring-genie, is the phone call from national treasure Kirsty Young.  Now, I know exactly which eight songs I’d choose for Desert Island Discs; and my goodness, people will be snapping off their radios and gnawing through their power cables I can tell you, in a valiant yet futile attempt to escape the confusion of Robbie, Elgar and Tim Minchin that will render Kirsty speechless that day.  In fact, I’m waiting for the day when the Discs format begins to pall – and seeing as it’s been a radio stalwart since 1942, that day must surely be creeping ever closer- and Miss Young steps up as the first presenter of Desert Island Films.

Some Like It Hot (and don’t pretend you didn’t know that you would now be subjected to my list in full) would be top of my list if I were, by some fortuitous misfortune, marooned on a desert island with a hamper of DVDs, a DVD player, a widescreen TV and an inexhaustible supply of electricity.  No one my age seems to have seen Some Like It Hot and I have made it my duty to make the formal introductions: two musicians, gunfire, cellos, Marilyn Monroe, cross-dressing, birthday cake, Spats, terrible impressions of Cary Grant, pearls, Osgood Fielding III (what a great name), roses, elevators, alcohol, saxophones…  Yeah, that about sums it up.  It’s a farce-comedy-romance-musical-gangster movie.   My adoration of Jack Lemmon simply increases whenever I watch this film and here he conjures up one of the best sequences in film history.  You’ll see…  It must also surely have won the award for ‘the best final line in a film ever’.  If such a category does not exist, instate it now, and posthumously give it to Lemmon.  Once you’re a signed up convert, you can watch The Apartment too.  Although, Some Like It Hot is undoubtedly lessened in its glory by Marilyn Monroe’s absolutely awful dress, and the delightful knowledge, courtesy of Tony Curtis, that she was like kissing Hitler.  Or do these things only add to its charm?

Singin’ in the Rain: (I may as well come out now as allergic to Andrew Lloyd Webber.  To those who adore him, I apologise, but I don’t really even like the song he wrote).  But yes, I love a good musical.  I’d be sorely tempted to conceal High Society, My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music in the box as well, but I would have no hesitation in choosing Singin’ in the Rain every time; even though it’s a wrench to lose Bing Crosby.  I have known this film by heart for as long as I can remember and my island would never get me down so long as I could caper and sing along to every single song in this film.  Plus, watch Gene Kelly dance and hear Jean Hagen speak.  “Haunting”… in two very different ways.

Hamlet: ‘You see, little creatures that have gathered on my island, where I come from, we do this thing called ‘acting’.  We also write these things called ‘plays’.  And although the 1996 film may total 4 hours and 2 minutes, it is at least 4 hours and 2 minutes of one of my favourite plays with one of my favourite actors.’

I suspect that it is necessary to take a children’s film with you: something to sit rather sadly on your island, on the less jolly days, and revisit your own childhood with wistful nostalgia.  Whilst I’d be tempted to take Aladdin or Pirates of the Caribbean or The Lion King or… this could become a very long list.  But, in my heart of hearts, I know I would grab the 1995 version of The Wind in the Willows complete with its beautiful music, exquisite animation, the Vanessa Redgrave framing narrative, and Alan Bennett, Michael Gambon, Rik Mayall and Michael Palin.  And it keeps all the bits with Pan and the otters.  To be honest, who could possibly say no to such a great book with such a brilliant cast?  If you could say no to it, then I am afraid you are not welcome on my island.  Swim on by please.

I think I’ll have to take something, brace yourself September, Christmassy.  Tempted to nab Diehard or The Taylor of Gloucester, but would in fact take The Muppet Christmas Carol.  Of course.  It’s sort of a musical, sort of a children’s film (great), but it’s also a heart-warming Dickens-novel (even greater) told through the medium of muppets (definitively greatest).  And who doesn’t laugh at Michael Caine awkwardly singing and, with no less awkwardness, smiling with muppets?

So now I’ve got ‘only one more sleep till Christmas’ firmly in my head, it all gets a bit tricky.  Would I take Beginners or Grosse Pointe Blank?  Shame or Withnail and I?  The Talented Mr Ripley or 12 Angry Men?  A Hitchcock or a Woody Allen?  I’m not even considering television series (that’s a blopic for a different island altogether which would be rocking a lot of Brideshead let me tell you).  All of the aforementioned films are, in my humble opinion, brilliant.  Obviously, some things are instant no-nos.  The Impossible for example.  Quite a good film, but no one stranded on a desert island wants to watch a film about people drowning or being horrifically injured on a small island; nor do I wish to feel that Naomi Watts, in the midst of a natural disaster, has still scrubbed up better than I do on an average day.  There’s nothing quite so bad for the soul as being ill-favourably compared to a celebrity by a coconut.  So, for my final three film choices I’m going to have an independent arts film, something that always makes me cry, and something I haven’t seen yet.

And here they are.  I really want to take An Education, The Opposite of Sex or Cold Comfort Farm, but I fear they’re not pretentious enough (!), and their titles make very peculiar reading when placed side by side.  I’ll have Trainspotting instead, with An Education on the B side, if I may (and I may).  It has the advantage of making Britain look bleak enough for me to find my island cosy and inviting.  Also it has Ewan McGregor in it, so I’m sold.  My island’s feeling cosier by the second.  You may wonder why I want something sad with me, but I think it might be nice to sob with some purpose on my island.  Not that having a coconut as your only friend isn’t sad enough when you’re stranded in the middle of the ocean (it had better be a Caribbean island with a coconut tree), but sometimes you just fancy a sad film.  Seeing as there is no way I am taking Life is Beautiful or Amour to a desert island – there are limits to just how sad I wish to be and limits too to the amount of emotional support a coconut can provide – I suspect I shall have to take American Beauty, which for some reason I found incredibly sad (and it’s little comfort to me now that I’ve been through the emotional wrangler it’s on IMDb’s saddest films ever list).  And finally Pulp Fiction, because everyone goes on about it as though it’s the answer to something.  And if it is, then fabulous.  I’ll be able to say that I liked a Tarantino film which will be a novel experience for me.  And if it isn’t, then it gives me something to moan about on my island.

PS. This was an unbelievably difficult task and I’m so sorry I name-checked so many different films.  I want to take every one of the ones mentioned, and about thirty others.  It turns out that living on a desert island just isn’t for me after all.  Damn.  My pal Kirsty, if she hasn’t tried to asphyxiate herself with a plastic bag by this point, would probably ask me, slightly fixedly, which one I’d save if my island flooded.  ‘Definitely Singin’ in the Rain.’  Appropriate.  And a luxury?  ‘Either my teddy-bear or a guitar.’  Meanwhile, the coconut sends his best.