Dawn of the Dumb (22 page)

Five, for instance, has a series of nano-films in which the word ‘five’ doesn’t appear at all: instead an alternate four-letter-word spelt out in the approved ‘five’ typeface is digitally woven into a piece of live-action footage (e.g. the word ‘rush’ appearing on the landscape below a plummeting skydiver). This in turn is similar to Channel Four’s eye-catching stings in which a gigantic ‘4’ suddenly looms over the landscape, sometimes made out of chunks of council estate, sometimes from pylons or bits of old hedge. Then you’ve got BBC1’s cast of dancing, skateboarding, leaping, twirling, tumbling ninnies, decked out in pillar-box red.

In other words, they’ve all gone for the ‘quirky idiosyncratic’ feel, all at the same time—the end result being, ironically enough, that it’s actually quite hard to tell them apart. They’re like the crowd of followers from
Life of Brian
, shouting ‘Yes, we are all individual’ in unison.

The only terrestrial channel currently
not
substituting little live action epics for good old fashioned animated idents is BBC2, which means that’s surely next in line to be assimiliated. Here’s hoping they stick to their guns—actually, here’s hoping they revert to a 2D cardboard-and-scissors kind of ident, just like the good old days. Something cold and distant and iconic and simple. A logo on a background. No slow-mo shots of jugglers. None of that bullshit. Or it’s another yet smack in the face for your marketing chum, I’m afraid.

CSI: Jihad

[
IB
April 2006]

T
errorists! They’re funny, aren’t they? Those distorted belief systems and murderous schemes really crack me up. Actually they don’t. They spook me to the core. We’re always being told we shouldn’t be afraid of terrorists because ‘that’s precisely what they want’—but since they’d never be classed as ‘terrorists’ if they weren’t doing ‘terrifying’ things in the first place, that strikes me as a bit of pointless argument; a bit like expecting someone not to flinch when you shout ‘boo’ at them. Besides, take the ‘terror’ out of ‘terrorist’, and what’re you left with? A ‘wrist’. And what use is a wrist? Aside from providing you with a pleasant, fleeting distraction from encroaching global terrorism, I mean?

Scared and confused though I clearly am, I’ve nonetheless spent the last few days guzzling my way through
Sleeper Cell
(FX), a US mini-series about an FBI agent infiltrating a group of fundamentalist terrorists hell-bent on bringing death and destruction to Los Angeles. The first episode starts this week; unusually, I was sent the entire series for preview purposes, and sat through the whole thing in two marathon sessions.

Which isn’t to say it’s brilliant. It’s actually rather jarring.
Sleeper Cell
resembles two entirely different programmes bolted together: one a complex and often intelligent look at Islamic fundamentalism, the other a dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks TV thriller. It’s like an episode of
The A-Team
scripted by Robert Fisk.

The main character is undercover FBI agent Darwyn Al-Sayeed, who, as luck would have it, is also a devoted, peace-loving Muslim. He’s also ridiculously good-looking—the sort of guy you normally see getting his shirt torn off in a Beyonce video. Posing as an ex-convict, smoulderiri Darwyn is recruited by a terrorist sleeper cell led by Farik, a charismatic extremist who (somewhat cheekily) spends much of his waking life pretending to be a devout Jew.

Just to confound expectations, Farik’s the only member of the sleeper cell from Arabic origins—the others being a Bosnian schoolteacher, a French ex-skinhead, an ail-American blue-eyed bell-end called Tommy and Darwyn, who’s black. Politically correct, maybe—but it’s also straining credibility, especially since the French ex-skin is even more of a beefcake than Darwyn. This is the hunkiest group of would-be mass murderers the world has ever seen.

Plausibility levels continue to fluctuate wildly throughout the series: for every well-researched reference to contemporary global politics, there’s a scene in which the sleeper cell swagger around as though they’re in
Reservoir Dogs—
either that or we’re treated to a dull, formulaic burst of love interest. Furthermore, it’s glossy. So glossy they could’ve called it
CSI: Jihad
instead.

If there’s one message the show is keen to hammer home, it’s that Islam isn’t inherently evil; that these guys, whilst understandably angry about global injustice, are psychotically misguided and unrepresentative of the whole. While that’s a well-meaning sentiment, it frequently becomes downright patronising—especially during one scene in which Darwyn patiently informs a group of confused toddlers (i.e. us) that not every Muslim wants to fly planes into buildings. Well, no shit, Sherlock. What’s on next week’s
Did You Know?
Not all Frenchmen wear berets?

Anyway, purely on the level of a TV thriller,
Sleeper Cell
is a mixed success. Episode one is intriguing; then the series turns to mush for a while—until about two-thirds of the way in, when the sleeper cell’s plan takes shape and it rapidly becomes as gripping as a good episode of
24
(and approximately 15 per cent more credible). The finale is pretty much non-stop thumping excitement (not to mention sodding terrifying, especially if you have nightmares about chemical warfare) although you’ll have forgiven the show a multitude of sins if you make it that far.

But is it worth watching? Yes. I think so. If nothing else, it’s different. Complex topical issues and cartoon-level drama don’t really mix, but it’s fun to watch them fondling each other’s balls for a while.

Hardcore action

[29 April 2006]

F
ollowing a minor setback with this year’s series opener, my love affair with
Doctor Who
(BBC1) is firmly back on: tonight’s episode, in which Kg and Sarah-Jane return, brought tears to my eyes. Perhaps I’m losing my mind, or perhaps I’m just a sucker for a bit of bittersweet nostalgia, especially when it involves a ludicrous robot dog.

Since my burgeoning Whomania knows no bounds, I’m prepared to go to any lengths—or sink to any depths—to indulge it. And if that means covering a crappy pornographic spoof called
Dr Screw
(The Adult Channel), then so be it.

Last week’s episode began with Dr Screw and his assistant Holly clambering inside ‘The Turdis’ (a time-travelling Portaloo), journeying to the medieval era, and getting into a laser-fight with some knights—all of which was realised courtesy of some surprisingly proficient CGI. This took about five minutes, which is just long enough for you to forget it’s a mucky programme at all—until suddenly ‘the Doctor’ whips out a ‘sonic dildo’ and everything turns rude and stays there.

It’s traditional for highbrow critics to feign ennui in the face of pornography. Sit Tom Paulin down in front of a cheery Ben Dover gang-bang or the latest hyper-explicit arthouse sexfest and he’ll probably yawn himself into a coma so deep it makes death itself resemble a light snooze. That’s because highbrow critics are made of sterner stuff than you or I. Not for them the simple call-and-response reaction of us simple apes. They only masturbate to harpsichords on Radio 3.

Well, I ain’t highbrow: I be dumb. As such, I don’t mind admitting I didn’t find Dr Screw boring. No. I found it morbidly fascinating.

What got me was this: the pornstar cast are clearly having genuine sex—yet thanks to our hopeless censorship laws both they and the programme’s editors are forced to perform a bizarre game of mucky-pup peek-a-boo as they do so.

The end result is a nonsensical compromise. It’s OK to see an erect penis, apparently, but you can’t see it penetrating anything…except sometimes you sort of can. Cunnilingus is shown in fairly explicit detail, while blowjobs are hidden behind cupped hands or strategically posed thighs…except sometimes they’re sort of not. It’s like an orgy that can’t decide how rude it wants to be.

I’m not complaining—just baffled. These regulations seem inherently pointless, like the American public drinking law that leads winos to swig cans of beer from within brown paper bags. At the end of the day they’re still winos, still in public, still drinking beer. So what’s the point?

Protection, presumably. Yet since the show is broadcast on a restricted-access post-watershed channel requiring PIN code entry (and a payment) to view, then who, precisely, are we protecting? The mugs prepared to pay to watch it? That’s so circular it makes my head spin.

Hardcore smut has been legally available in Britain since the introduction of the Ri8 certificate six years ago. More recently, Michael Winterbottom’s 9
Songs
(which features more real sex than most marriages) was broadcast uncut on Sky Box Office (another PIN-restricted service). The other week, a leering C4 documentary on notorious bestial porn flick
Animal Farm
included a close-up of a man’s face while he had sex with a chicken. Yet dedicated adult channels aren’t allowed to show explicit consensual sex. Why?

Because pom’s embarrassing and tawdry and we don’t want that muck on our airwaves? Then ban it outright and have done with it. This present fudge just makes Ofcom look like bigger idiots than the pornographers themselves. And that’s saying something.

In the meantime, I can live without seeing Dr Screw’s high-jinks in their unexpurgated glory. As for porn channels per se—from what I can tell, their faux-moany erotic ‘personas’ are just a bit crap and condescending. If I want to see uncut hardcore action, I don’t need a TV Just a ladder and my neighbour’s windows. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

The Badger hulks out

[6 May 2006]

T
his is not a game! There is no ‘panel of judges’ here! There’s no ‘text-a-number’!’ No ‘text-a-number’? What sort of technophobic grandad-speak is that? Holy bleedin’ cobblestones, Sir Alan, this is the twenty-first century! You run a technology firm for chrissakes! No ‘text-a-number’, indeed. I suppose you’d say it ain’t a game of yer computerised Space Invasions, neither? None of yer Megadrive cassette tapes here, eh?

This series has seen an exponential coarsening of Sir Alan’s already coarse demeanour; he now sounds more like a world-weary, misanthropic prison warden than a high-flying fat cat. Who the hell wants to work for that? A few weeks ago he used the phrase ‘as sure as there’s a hole in my bloody arse’, and my brain filled with horrifying images—grisly close-ups of the aperture itself- which still play a starring role in my nightmares. Incidentally, is it just me, or is he starting to resemble Mrs Tiggywinkle from the Beatrix Potter books? You know—the hedgehog washerwoman? I swear he does. Especially if you squint.

No wonder he’s looking for new blood. And this time around, said blood is lady-flavoured. Yes,
The Apprentice
(BBC2) shudders to a climax this week, with a live girl-on-girl finale featuring Ruth ‘Haystacks’ Badger and Michelle ‘Eyebrow Pencil’ Dewberry. If you haven’t been watching the series thus far, suffice to say it should play out like a grudge match between Biffa Bacon’s mum and a translucent, whining coat-stand.

Actually, that’s horrifically unfair: both candidates have easily held their own over the past twelve weeks. I’m only being snippy because that’s my job. As project manager of this column, petty unpleasantness is my number-one priority, and I’m proud to say I always meet my targets.

Yes, in reality, I admire them both—although admittedly, my admiration of Ruth is almost entirely rooted in fear; by the irrational suspicion that she might lunge through the screen at any given moment and squish my balls to paste in her fist. She’s a cross between Lucy from
Peanuts
and a career-oriented Minotaur—pushy, stubborn and perpetually teetering on the brink of fury; Pauline Quirke meets the Terminator. If Sir Alan fires her on Wednesday, chances are she’ll ‘Hulk out’—punch her way through the wall, roar into the street and start tossing cars around like pillows.

And as for Michelle—well, I’ve developed an alarming crush on her, even if she does draw her eyebrows on with a pube-thin crayon and speak in a voice so flat and off-putting I can only describe it as the aural equivalent of the taste of earwax. As I suspect most viewers did, I initially found Michelle a touch cold and distant—a spectral estate agent with a curiously expressionless fizzog.

Last week’s ‘job interview’ special cast her in a new light, for the first time revealing her to be a tough little soldier who’s overcome all manner of hinted-at hardships to forge a wildly successful freelance career—without banging on about it every five minutes, like Syed.

Ah, Syed. He’s like something out
of I, Robot-a
synthetic android sex doll with undiluted Microsoft Excel pulsing through his veins. And he’s back this week, a phoenix from the flames, assisting with the gang’s-all-here final task—so for God’s sake savour your final minutes with him. Peppy bell-end businessmen are two a penny, but Syed’s a special kind of peppy bell-end businessman, the kind whose peppy bell-endism is so relentless and blinkered it eventually transcends annoyance and becomes hugely endearing. You’ll miss him when he’s gone, damn him.

Anyway, someone’s got to win, and speaking as someone who always roots for the underdog, I favour Michelle. So there.

Oh, and BBC, if you’re listening? How about a detective serial starring Margaret Mountford and Nick Hewer, in which they solve crimes in the city by lurking in the background and peering at the suspects one by one until someone cracks and confesses? It’s got ‘hit’ plastered all over it.

Top-hatted warthogs

[13 May 2006]

P
anic! Scream! Kick the house down! Punch yourself in the forehead! Because the Conservative Party’s on the comeback trail and there’s nothing we can do to stop them. You can see it coming a mile off- simperin’ Prime Minister Cameron and a cabinet full of jowly top-hatted warthogs smugging their way through a four-year term. Arrrrgggh!