What’s Sweeter than Revenge? “Revenge”

Gandhi once said, “Anger and intolerance are the enemies of correct understanding.” Mahatma, pal, you had it bang on. When I think about the things I like they are, almost invariably, things I can infallibly understand: Harry Potter books, the Kardashians, M&S sandwiches. I just “get” them. My list of pet peeves is yet more evidence for Gandhi’s thesis; its almost wholly comprised of items that perplex me: BBM messaging, Derridean hypotheses about poststructuralism and Russell Brand (you claim to still love her as a person until you're blue in the face, Russell, but I’m dubious of anyone that’ll let Katy slip through their fingers). As failsafe as this proverb tends to be when it comes to my own turn ons and turn offs, though, when I caught up with new E4 show “Revenge” this morning it crumbled faster than the aforementioned Brand/Perry union itself; “Revenge” charmed me for the very reason that I did not “get” it all the time. This character is commonplace nowadays on our detective-swamped small screen, I hear you protest, but here’s the marvel of it: “Revenge” is not, strictly, a mystery. It’s overly dramatic, its glitzy, its even a smidge trashy at first, yet Monday’s pilot managed to maintain an air of secrecy, of that tantalizing and enslaving “you just don’t ‘get’ me” hook right through to the credits.

Shot down: At least one guest wasn't enjoying the party

After sitting, thus entranced, through the first episode (and admittedly since conducting a spot of post-viewing probing) I’m a little less in the dark about the show’s general premise. Boiled down (and we’re talking to the point of evaporation, here, so don’t underestimate the indefinable complexity of the series), “Revenge” sees blonde belle Emily return to a swanky area of the Hamptons she used to visit with her late father with the goal of seeking vengeance on its close-knit residents who years before framed her pop for funding terrorism and looked on as he was jailed. At the risk of unjustly bracketing the show off with other juicy-storyline laden, sparkly American shows, it’s proved a gargantuan hit in the States and has just been picked up for a second season by ABC with a view to whacking it in “Desperate Housewives’” now vacant Sunday night slot. And “unjustly” needs reiterating; my pre-blog digging led me to one site that heralded it as a contemporary take off of “The Count of Monte Cristo”, a 19^th Century French novel by Alexandre Dumas. As I said, don’t mistake the glamour for superficiality. This is a series with its head screwed on.

Monday night’s pilot relied on its format to tread the threadlike line between puzzling and alienating viewers. The episode was born with an unfathomable opening that flipped between an ostentatious soiree and a murder scene; a young woman (Emily) was at the centre of her engagement party whilst a hoody-clad gunman did in who turned out to be her fiancé, Daniel, outside. Chuck in a whole lot of meaningful eyebrow raising between Emily and a party guest, a formidable mother in law to be and two teenagers preparing to get it on out back, and you have “Revenge’s” confounding first scene. Shrewdly (and whilst sticking it to Gandhi), the show then jumped back five months to document Emily’s arrival at the Hamptons. It was this plunging, jittery rewind of time that afforded that golden edge; writers had instantaneously guaranteed a high-octane series finale and the opportunity to watch Emily’s entanglement in the community along the way. “Stick with us,” they teased, “and you’re guaranteed sex, proposals and murder before our time’s up”. The flashback signature of the show also fostered viewer investment. We knew, eventually, how things were going to go as Emily was shown arriving at the Hamptons better than even she did, and this took the first-episode danger of audiences not especially caring about new characters and gunned it down on the beach, too. Savvy.

Thorny indeed: Emily VanCamp as alter ego Emily Thorne

On paper, the show might be compared with “Hart of Dixie”, the spanking new American drama that also recently hit our shores and came under DitB fire a few weeks back. They’re both choc full with an impossibly delectable American cast and the brains behind each have enviable strings to their bows (“Hart of Dixie” being exec-produced by Josh Schwarz of “Gossip Girl” and “The O.C., and “Revenge” being the brain-child of Mike Kelley, who has worked on “One Tree Hill”). If I ever see such a sheet of paper, I’ll burn it. Whereas I was at pains to stress the lack of credibility offered by “Hart of Dixie”, “Revenge” serves up deep, believable and multifaceted characters that conjure up piquing ambivalence rather than terminal indifference. Again, much of this is down to its dazzling and bold use of flashbacks. Take Emily, for example; whilst on the surface she seemed the do-gooder daughter seeking justice for her adored dad, Monday’s tendency to propel viewers backwards in time muddied the water. A scene showing the arrest of her father sowed seeds of emotional damage amongst the otherwise unsullied expanse of self-righteousness, and the final five minutes’ shocker that Emily had done time and believed ill of her father for years herself added to her unstable, angst-ridden side (note the unsettlement of the adulthood/childhood pattern and the writers’ effort to buck expectation). As if these weren’t enough to mar Emily’s angelic act, Monday’s episode saw her come close to roughing up the local playboy who sussed out her real identity and its final flashback explained how she had gone incognito to poison Conrad Grayson (a key player in her daddy’s downfall). And what of this budding romance with Daniel Grayson: genuine or contrived? Roses really do have thorns.

Indeed, indeterminate characters in “Revenge” were ten a penny. Nolan Ross, the said playboy and sole neighbor who got to the bottom of Emily’s appearance in the Hamptons, deserves a mention here; he got precious little screen time on Monday but even this was ample enough to rustle him up a clashing and arresting character. He was dismissed by most of the community as irritating and as possessing ten times more money than sense, but the revelation that he had cofounded a lucrative business with Emily’s father hinted at a softer and more astute dimension; did he serve a surrogate-son role for his corporate partner when daughter Emily estranged herself from him? Can luck be the only reason behind his absurd bank balance? Victoria Grayson is another sticky character. Whilst she initially seemed set to become the show’s super-bitch/wicked stepmother/shallow trophy-wife extraordinaire, and another Hamptons resident responsible for the sending down of Emily’s father, her discerning that Mr Grayson was doing the dirty with close pal Lydia was kind of endearing.

The dark side: Emily's criminal past was revealed

Despite its trickery and chronologically defying style, “Revenge” didn’t skimp on sound and irrefutably solid writing. When Victoria was shown taking to the podium at her latest charity-networking event and announcing publicly the sale of Lydia’s home in the Hamptons, it was pointed and barbed without being brash. And again, as Emily was introduced to Victoria and mused, “I try to give back as much as I can”, I couldn’t fail to praise the episode’s abundance of subtly loaded one-liners. Thematically, writers seemed acutely aware of, and comfortable poking fun at, their subscription to the ostentatious American-suburb drama. Scenes showing relative paupers Jack (who we got a glimpse of earlier on as a future gunman) and Declan were sandwiched between the pomp and fizz of Victoria’s get together, but detailed by contrast sacrifice, familial love and honesty. Granted, I only “get” Karl Marx marginally more than I do Russell Brand, but the implication that heaps of dosh doesn’t equate to stable families was transparent enough even for me.

What set “Revenge” apart was its strikingly individual deployment of a back-story. Few long-running serials can go more than a couple of episodes without knocking out backgrounds for their characters and dynamics, so “Revenge” resourcefully made those backgrounds its focus. What meteorically impacted Emily’s portrayal on screen? The revelation that she had, months or years ago, been an inmate. What transformed Jack from murdering conspirator to soft-centered good guy? The flashback showing his childhood friendship with an innocent Emily. It was the comings and goings of Hamptons-past, rather than Hamptons-present, that had the biggest hand in altering viewer interpretations and predictions, and this is what most saved “Revenge” from the “Hart of Dixie”-style bashing I demonstrated last month.

One Line Wonder

Charlotte Grayson: Mum you’re too young and too pretty to be this senile.

The Fortune Telly-er

This is a bizarre one, because we know, vaguely, how things are going to wind up. Nonetheless, it’s still uncertain how family man Jack winds up shooting Daniel Grayson. I see Emily’s sinister side coming into play here, and perhaps blackmailing him to do the deed. Daniel’s sister, Charlotte, will fingers crossed get more of a look in during episodes to come- she’s at the helm of a turbulent family and her mother’s early assertion that “no one’s accusing her of being stupid” didn’t go unnoticed. Then there’s the small matter of her getting jiggy with the younger brother of her older siblings’ future murderer. Oops.

The Second (& Third) Generation War Documentary: “Hitler’s Children”

In the penultimate year of my secondary education, the school’s powers-that-be became enamored with the notion of student opinion; “Student Voice” was their favoured umbrella term for the listless surveys, interviews and class mind mapping sessions trotted out between bursts of exam preparation. In every such episode, in every such subject (and, I would hazard to imagine, in every such school), the ideal teaching style imagined was invariable: engaging yet educational, entertaining yet instructive, absorbing yet academic. The model tutor, in other words, was called to navigate that gulf between keeping students hooked and keeping their grades up. Typically, the consummate documentary must tread this tightrope, too, giving its audiences the low-down whilst keeping their spirits high up. So what if the enlightening aspect of teaching was less pressing? What if Monday morning Gove decreed that all students were to undergo lessons in, say, Cadbury-munching or the use of toys? The onus would shift, I’m guessing, onto the piquing principle of leading a class.

Now I’m not saying that BBC2’s “Hitler’s Children” dealt with a subject-matter akin to eating chocolate or larking about with Lego, but to a degree did pick a topic that viewers are familiar with. National curriculum aside, puns, popular references and the nitty-gritty core of our national identity makes sure that the Second World War is a big-player in the background noise of our day to day lives. How long could one go without any reference to Hitler, concentration camps, Germanic tensions or rationing? We as a nation know the atrocities of WWII, and have been deluged over recent decades with shows exploring its causes and military intricacies. Just as the Head of Cadbury Studies at the local comprehensive would be forced to harvest the arresting rather than instructive side of teaching, then, this show’s producers were called to engross their viewers in war issues instead of playing teacher. The show’s premise was to trail five descendents of Hitler’s inner circle, charting their struggles to disentangle themselves from the war crimes of ancestors and to captivate Wednesday evening telly-watchers whilst doing so. It was “Jeremy Kyle” meets “Piers Morgan” meets some run-of-the-mill, dry BBC2 documentary. And it worked.

Then and now: The "Gate to Hell" was a huge focus

The documentary kicked off with a visit to The Institute for Contemporary History, based in Munich. It was a standard history-show opening, and I prepped myself for an hour of sluggish voiceovers and droning war-talk. But, thankfully, the show was using the museum merely as an introductory backdrop for what would become its driving force; the grandson of Rudolf Hoess, the commander at Auschwitz, was rapidly introduced and evolved into the catalyst for the entire documentary. Hoess was to visit Auschwitz for the first time in his life, having been haunted by photographs of his father as a young boy growing up in a villa yards away from the gas chambers. Hoess’ tale, standing alone, would have provided ample material for a documentary. The surreal photographs passed down the generations offered a chilling insight into the private life of a concentration camp orchestrator: an often overlooked part of WWII’s death chambers. Hoess’ trip to Auschwitz, too, was to be conducted in movie-worthy conditions; he had invited a journalist whose grandfather survived the camp to document the emotional visit and stand beside him where their grandfathers stood under unfathomably different circumstances. The men’s venture lived up every inch to its sensational-viewing potential. Hoess became particularly troubled before reaching the camp about a gate his father had posed by, on the other side of which the barbarity of Hitler’s regime would have come into fruition. The most skilled fiction screenwriter couldn't more entrancingly have written the shots of him stood by the gate himself, overcome by repetitions of "Insanity!" Hoess’ Auschwitz quest refused to culminate solely with the visit itself, either, with his subsequent questioning by schoolchildren and embracing an Auschwitz survivor providing comparably tender and enthralling scenes. Had the program’s makers opted to keep him static and simply probe him on his grandfather’s savagery, Hoess’ psyche would have held its own as intensely moving T.V.; he mused on more than one occasion that he sometimes felt he was alive only to repent for his grandfather’s evils, and to carry the burden of guilt.

Unthinkable: The show included moving shots of the effects of the Nazi regime

Shrewdly, though, Hoess did not occupy the show’s entire hour slot. Rather, his story gave the documentary a sort of basic shape and thematic focus that the remaining “Hitler’s Children” complicated. Hoess mournfully recalled the brutality of his father (the Auschwitz commander’s son) and how when he and his siblings cried as children “we were beaten even more.” Hoess speculated of his father that “he never abandoned the ideology”, and reflected candidly on how being raised by a pillar of the Third Reich instilled him with savagery. The show hastily turned to Niklas Frank, son of the former Governor-General of occupied Poland Hans Frank, and it was fascinating to learn whether this man would be as supposedly heinous as Hoess’ father (being the son rather than grandson of a figure implicated in Nazi Germany). Niklas comprised about 30% of the hour from his initial appearance on screen: an inevitable effect of his having faced the issue of his parentage in such brazen and public a manner. Niklas’ attitude bore the identical streak of repentance that Hoess’ left its mark on audiences with; he condemned his boyish self for being remotely entertained by the abuse of Jewish prisoners. Niklas outlined his making a career of the monstrous actions of his father, drafting numerous books and declaring that with every edition “I execute my parents anew.” The show’s makers unflinchingly screened even Niklas’ highly controversial view that German people, if backed into a corner by economic hardship, could return to the suppression of minority groups. This was a man evidently cynical of his nation and, at a guess, humanity itself; during a book event, Niklas conjectured that his audience would never understand the fundamental depravity of seven decades ago. The show’s final scenes of Niklas at home with his only daughter and grandchild were heart-wrenching, with his daughter admitting she felt if it weren’t for her father’s sacrificing his existence to grappling with the ills of her grandfather she would have been plagued with the burden.

Facing up: Niklas Frank has used the public to exercise his demons

Not content with showing the bold steps of Hoess and Frank to face the facts of their ancestors, the program seemed at pains to stress variation in the manners used to pacify the burden of being a “child of Hitler”. I remarked that Hoess’ journey to Auschwitz provided an underlying fabric to the other subjects’ stories, and this was as striking with Niklas as with Bettina Goering, the great niece of Hermann Goering (a prevalent member of the Nazi Party). Bettina’s very inclusion as an indirect descendent of a Nazi figure widened the net of the documentary, and forced viewers to consider the less obvious individuals afflicted by the actions of the movement. Bettina first discussed her close resemblance to Hermann relatively light-heartedly, and I reasoned that she, more distantly related to him than Niklas and Hoess were to their father and grandfather respectively, had evaded much of the woe they were badgered by each day. This trail of thought pervaded when Bettina explained relocation to Santa Fe, Mexico, thirty years ago, hypothesizing that it had offered her the distance needed to come to terms with Hermann’s crimes. The documentary, like the most apt of teachers, questioned the audience head-on with a voiceover: “But how much is that to do with distance, and how much is to do with isolation?” Goering briskly admitted that she and her brother had opted to be sterilised so as not to pass on the shame they felt to further relatives of Hermann, and instantly my perception of her shifted. With lightning agility, the show’s creators stunned viewers with the hint that the issues faced by “Hitler’s Children” may lack palpability, but want for nothing in the way of poignancy.

Spots four and five on the show went to Monica Goeth, the daughter of Amon Goeth who had spearheaded a concentration camp in Plaszów, and the great niece Heinrich Himmler, who had overlooked the Gestapo and is remembered perhaps as the man closest to Hitler himself. Again covering all bases and catering to every pallet for entertainment, “Hitler’s Children” stressed the variation between each of these women. The former’s screen time was dominated by her remembering an encounter with a concentration camp survivor who had reacted to her with fear and animosity, whereas the latter figure took a more philosophical route, speaking of her desperation as an average German to conceal her accent in foreign countries and her uncertainty about the point at which it becomes impossible to love one’s elder relatives in spite of their actions. Divining the necessity to monopolize viewer interest, the brains behind “Hitler’s Children” avoided making these two accounts (or, indeed, any of the other three), too samey.

Admittedly, I turned off the telly on Wednesday with my less than encyclopedic expertise of 20^th Century politics and warfare not especially advanced. But this was not a show about education, but about guilt, generational conflicts and the motley of ways humans come to terms with the evils of their forefathers. And looking at it this way, it ticked every box with taste.

Fatally Overlooked? “Casualty” and Its Hold on Saturday Night Telly

A couple of Decembers back when anti-Cowellism reached a hitherto-unseen pitch (this was before he fired Cheryl, remember) and Rage Against the Machine trumped poor Joe McElderry to the coveted Christmas Number 1 spot, a lot of the propaganda supporting it charged “The X Factor” and its bigwigs with crimes against music. The Facebook campaign supporting “Killing in the Name” emphasized the show’s tyranny of the charts at the expense of alternative and less commercial acts. So does Cowell’s dynasty of shows unjustly dominate our airwaves? I’m too much the closet One Direction fan to wade in. What I can comment on, though, is the routinely forgotten collateral damage of the singing/dancing-competition shows’ joint takeover of Saturday nights. Hard as it is to recall, Saturday night telly existed pre-Dermot, pre-Strictly, pre-Pop Idol, indeed, even pre-Popstars. Many a weekend evening didn’t involve pop-songs at all. Honestly. A few posts ago I lamented my fickleness with T.V. shows, so this week I resolved to delve back to my deepest of telly roots.

Still holding on? "Casualty" has taken a knock thanks to the rise of talent telly shows

With “Blind Date” consigned to the T.V. graveyard, I settled instead for the aptly entitled and entertainment-show whipped “Casualty”. Frankly, heartened as I was that I could satiate my telly-nostalgia cravings (“Casualty” being a former staple of my Saturday nights), I was a touch perplexed as to why the show hadn’t yet come a cropper to BBC budget cuts and updating; after ITV’s “The Bill” gave up the ghost in 2010 I figured all emergency-service based T.V. would follow suit. I flicked on the box feeling almost philanthropic; this was me doing my bit for the “The Voice UK”’s overlooked and displaced older brother. Who needs Oxfam? The show’s signature emergency was the collapsing of a secondary school roof, screened within the first ten minutes of the opening credits. Though the scene itself was pretty jaw dropping, high octane T.V. at its best, it paled into insignificance when set against the people involved in and reacting to the drama. Indeed, Saturday’s show was driven by the easily identifiable yet satisfyingly complex dynamics of its character list rather than long-running plots, which made it entertaining without being newbie (or returnee) alienating.

Starting with the youngest, Saturday showed five interconnected students all, in one way or another, embroiled in a Head Boy election campaign. There was the sweet, culpable Alicia (the eagle-eyed amongst you will recognize EastEnders’ Lucy Beale), her Head-Boy hopeful, slimy beau Jonas, her best mate Meera (pregnant, coincidentally, with said slimy beau), Meera’s expelled elder brother and fellow vote canvasser Isaac. The show swerved the ever-awkward portrayal of young people as caricatures and stereotypes and managed, with Alicia’s chagrin at illicit images of her being passed around the campus, to infuse contemporary issues facing young people without over killing it. Jonas stepped forward as the comprehensive’s answer to Tom Riddle, luring Alicia onto an unstable school roof and tugging at her hair until it gave way. Unsavory a guy as he was, Jonas’ character deserves credit for propelling the episode forward. It’s no picnic to pick his lowest point: realizing Meera lay trapped beneath the debris and opting to remain tightlipped to paramedics, hiding her schoolbag in an effort to cover his tracks, pressing for Alicia to be tended to by another doctor when good-guy Tom smelled a rat or impelling her to take responsibility for being atop the roof are all contenders of note. Lucy Beale might be Walford’s biggest bitch, but at least she has standards.

Alicia's saving Tom: Those first on the dramatic scene dug the students from the rubble

Whereas Jonas’ wayward tendencies became palpable after a few moments spent in his company, the show’s writers took an astutely different tact with Isaac. His was a slow burn, and the glaring question mark that popped up around him when he implored paramedic Dixie to “never leave me” took its time in abating. In the final quarter of the episode Dixie fathomed that the Jonas-preoccupied Deputy Head was in fact Isaac’s father, and I thought I had him nailed: he’s mother-deprived, desperate for a spot of paternal recognition and worn down by competing with hundreds of other kids for it. Sorted. No? “Isaac’s gay. Get over it.” When Dixie dropped the bombshell on Isaac’s dad, writers hailed it upon viewers with the same line. In Isaac’s case, the show offered up ebb and flow rhythm and refreshing depth until the curtain call. This was the route favoured with Meera’s big bro, too; 50 minutes witnessed his transformation from bullyboy thug to in-the-closet screw up facing an arranged marriage and life without a sister (it was left a discreet and tantalizing blank whether he had confided in her about his sexuality woes).

For Alicia, around whom the bulk of the student relationships revolved, this was a sophomore run on the show. When she was recognized by doctor Tom I was a tad ill at ease, envisaging forthcoming scenes demanding prior knowledge of the characters and their on-screen experiences, but my fears were allayed pronto. Gladly, Alicia’s persona was amply explored prior to the roof’s collapse and her battle with bulimia and affiliation with Tom were nimbly made explicit. Better still, when she conjured up her inner Beyonce at long last and gave a cheating Jonas what-for, it was cathartic without lacking credibility. Hers was not a “happily ever after” conclusion, and the show’s producers resisted the temptation to paint everything as naively dandy by leaving Alicia with the prospect of a galling, counseling-rich road to recovery.

The watchability factor: Linda was torn between work and auntie-hood

Skipping over to the “Casualty” pros, character dynamics and tendencies were covered with equal dexterity. When I blogged about “Hart of Dixie” about a fortnight ago I detailed how irritating it was too watch multiple ill-fitting strands of the episode compete pitifully for attention instead of complement one another. With “Casualty”, however, the love-matches, rivalries and affiliations seem to be strictly within the hospital environment and therefore cohesive with the medical drama backbone of the show; work and play, in this case, were more “salt and pepper” than “chalk and cheese”. Linda the nurse bounded into the spotlight as engaging from the get-go. Her unexpectedly becoming guardian to a niece and nephew was mentioned (again bolstering the show’s accessibility to “Casualty” novices) without being excessively detailed, and she rightly asserted herself as a show veteran. What I relish about telly is that countless arresting and exhaustive storylines can run simultaneously; listless big-budget Hollywood titles have made the “party girl suddenly has to care for infant” premise their main focus, but “Casualty” added it to its mix on Saturday as a fifth of just one episode. It’s the episode-spanning but accessible plots like these that may well sway me into reinstating “Casualty” on my Saturday to-do list. Storyline aside, Linda struck as amiable and, crucially, watchable each and every time she entered the frame. Whether she was on the receiving end of a slap from her demanding niece Britney (flawless choice of name for a precocious and diva-ish teen, by the way), being called to care for her ill nephew whilst balancing work or being turned down by soon-to-leave nurse Lenny, she was scooping my support unfailingly. On the subject of Lenny, the show’s writers deserve applause here for allotting a fairly crushing line (“I feel like I’m becoming the surrogate dad here”) to a thoroughly relatable nice-guy character. One more, “Casualty” refused point blank to serve up one-dimensional plots, people or “happily ever afters”.

If I were to knit pick, my only gripe with Saturday’s show was its handling of thorny doctor, Dylan. In the first few minutes of the episode he displayed a knack for alienating both fellow characters and new viewers; his standoffish persona and lack of likeability made him prickly viewing. Fast-forwarding about twenty minutes, he was shown receiving a solicitor’s letter with trepidation. Granted, this being a long-running drama there has to be a sprinkling of long-running plots that are going to be a touch baffling for new viewers, but by coupling the episodes only hardcore-fan plot with its most ostracising character (Jonas, perhaps, excluded), the show’s writers made it tough to engage with scenes that focused on Dylan. Had it been Lenny or Linda at the centre of a multifaceted and history-rich plot? I’d have Googled. In this case? I glossed over.

Indifference: Dylan's situation left this new viewer baffled

In all, I feel that Saturday’s viewing robbed me of selfless intentions and the chance to reminisce on the days before viewer voting: I enjoyed it as an astute and entertaining show in its own right. “Casualty” struck as fresh, dextrously composed and totally able to hold its own on the weekend telly battlefield. Time to take it off the life support.

One Line Wonder

Dixie (the paramedic, showing all the finesse and due care of an NHS professional just summoned to a crisis): Collapsed roof at a school. That’s a court case right there.

The Fortune Telly-er

Dixie and paramedic hubby Jeff were edging into the thick of things this week, with Dixie yearning for a maternal role; there may well be an adoption on the horizon for these two. I see Linda’s Britney-woes gaining momentum in the coming weeks, too. Perhaps Britney will be put in danger and Linda the nurse/super-aunt will save her. Something mammoth is going to happen with Dylan and his solicitor’s letter, but I’m already beyond the point of caring.

Confessions, Reconciliations & Warrants: Tuesday on Albert Square

When my sister was born 15 years ago I, at four, was tickled pink with it all. Did I see myself as a victim of that classic usurping that countless older siblings claim plagued their childhoods? Not even a smidge. But I do remember my mother being that touch more attentive towards my brother and I than before, as if all the baby-lit she had read had brainwashed her into believing we would otherwise feel displaced. I hadn’t ever gotten to grips with this surge of parental paranoia, but this week I experienced a minor epiphany. It came to Monday evening, around nine, when something about my night (spent thus far captivated by “Grimm”) suddenly felt monstrously offbeat. Then I grasped it: "EastEnders". I’ve been a notorious Walford fanatic since birth (my first word was “Rickaaaaaay”. Maybe…) and I had neglected my Monday night calling in favour of this newfangled, flashier project; I grappled, on Monday, with that acute sense of guilt my own mum must always have been petrified of. I resolved, flicking off “Grimm” in a state of intense shame, to atone for my ills by turning to iPlayer immediately, and dedicating my next post to the following night’s "‘Enders" offering.

Unconventional brotherly bonding: A murderous Ben opened opened to Ian

All self-condemnation and making amends aside, Tuesday’s episode was "EastEnders" gold. It picked up on the cliffhanger Monday’s had closed with: Ben had just announced to half-brother Ian that he was responsible for the murder of Heather Trott. So how did Ian take it? It could have gone better. He first dismissed Ben as a liar and then, when realization dawned, fled the house. One of the listless reasons I think soap operas are such unsung heroes in 21^st century telly is their surprising use of subtlety; being ongoing rather than snipped into series blocks, writers can sow elements of future storylines weeks ahead and cultivate them to culmination across months. The Ian-time in last night’s show was such sowing at its best, and verified last week’s rumors that Ian is to bow out of the show for a stint later in the year following a mental breakdown. Granted, he'd just discovered his former angelic, Billy Elliot-wannabe little brother was now into caving in heads, but Ian’s flight to the allotment (where else?) was marked with incoherence and tangible distress, not to mention Phil’s later whispering “What’s wrong with you?” when catching up with the brother duo. The Ian/Ben scenes on Tuesday came up trumps, too, with Ben finally talking about his remorse for doing in Miss Trott (other episodes have underlined his eeriness at the cost of his humaneness), and when he lamented “She was my friend” it was far more manageable to see the Ben that father Phil has been crazed to protect than it was to see the picture-frame wielding demon we’ve been lumbered with since February.

Speaking of Philip, he was another big-league player on Tuesday night thanks to a long-overdue showdown with Shirley. I think this pairing is superb, and Tuesday showcased why. Notoriously thorny towards their E20 neighbors, it’s always welcome to see the two of them grapple with more sensitive, lovey-dovey stuff behind closed doors (another asset of soaps, by the way, is that we’re in on both public and private affairs simultaneously). Shirley has, naturally, been having a rough few months coming to terms with the death of her lifelong pal, and Phil’s haven’t been a bed of roses spent harboring her assailant, but up until Tuesday they’d each have given Victoria Beckham a run for her money in the void-of-all-emotion stakes. Last night witnessed Shirley collapse on her friend’s bed and Phil uncharacteristically yet tenderly talk of his fondness for the late Heather. He also proved himself quite the charmer when he begged Shirley to move back in with him and the boys: “I don’t know how you’ve done it. I don’t know how you’ve worn me down. I love you.” Shakespeare it wasn’t, but it did the trick. As titillating as it has been to see the pair of them fight it out in recent weeks without being able to pick a clear villain (a relative rarity on the Square) I’m relieved Shirley’s back at Casa Mitchell for now; it means the show can get back to exploring Ben’s unease at being locked up with his victim’s oldest friend. Equally fascinating, if not a little dodgy, about these scenes was Phil’s Usain-Bolt speedy ability to sober himself up. Monday night (set a couple of hours before last night’s viewing) saw him comatose and clutching a bottle of scotch, yet here he was skillfully pacifying Shirley, outpacing Ian and Ben to the cop shop in the episode’s final five minutes and (worryingly) driving. There’s a man that can hold his drink…

Elsewhere in the Square the Brannings had gathered to meet and greet Derek’s estranged daughter Alice, and things went off in customary Branning style. I cherish this family’s get togethers; whether its affairs being uncovered on Christmas Day via video cameras, an edge-driven Tanya deciding to bury Max alive or Lauren mowing him down, they know how to put on a soiree with a bit of class. Alice arrived before her long lost dad because he was busy having his home searched by police for stolen booze (not what you’d call the right foot) and the awkwardness between the newbie and the veterans was tangible. As good ol’ Dot endorsed Derek’s stand-up attitude and (brilliantly) fashion choices, Tanya ploughed her way through the pinot (bravo for the top-notch example-setting to the binge drinking daughter, there Tan). Clearly a girl of sublime intuition, Alice sought five minutes alone with Tanya to get the unabridged version of her father’s character and henceforth understandably proceeded to do her own vanishing act, Beale-style. Slimy as Derek came across on Tuesday, duping the police rifling through his house by stealthily tucking his knocked off absinth in the bins outside, "'Enders" once more rustled up that bit of ambivalence towards him. It would have been taxing to sit through twenty minutes of his itching to get to Alice and not feel a touch of benevolence when he failed to do so. The emerging dynamic between Lauren, the aforementioned lager-swilling college dropout with a penchant for hit and runs, and her butter-would-freeze cousin Alice provided yet more promise for "'Enders" plots on the horizon. I pray Lauren invites Alice into her fold and introduces her to the rest of the gang. Her responses to the prostitute, the exams cheat and the backstreet antiques dealers would make must-see viewing. Things weren’t going much better behind the scenes of number 5’s shindig, either; an intoxicated Jay seemed a hair width’s away from confessing all about Hev’s nasty end to Abi. I hope the writers at the soap carry on avoiding too much “Romeo and Juliet” style Mitchells versus Brannings escapades with this pair. They provide that once in a blue moon youthful relationship in soap land not dominated by false pregnancies and playing away, and despite being amongst the Square’s most unseasoned residents add to the mix one of its most credible couplings.

Time to get serious? Kim struggled with Ray's paternal duties

In my last "EastEnders" post, “The Bianca”, I applauded the soap’s sly escalation of humorous characters and situations into issues with a bit more grit. Frankly, I found the farcical Kim drama on Tuesday too much of a contrast and distraction to the weightier storylines. To recap, she had donned a military-style number as a treat for beau Ray and prepared her own booty-camp when he showed up with a daughter in tow, and subsequently fled to the Minute Mart (what is it with these characters’ choices of bolt-holes?) It was, as I say, mildly funny if not slightly out of sorts with the rest of the episode, but Kim’s final admission that “I got chocolate body paint and everything at home yeah? I’m interested in you. I just don’t do kids” paved the way for heavier storylines in future. It would be captivating to see party-girl Kim have to occupy a maternal role without all the frivolity and excessive lightheartedness, and it looks like the bigwigs at "'Enders" are preparing to show just that.

After how unsettled I felt on Monday, and the jewel of an episode Tuesday’s "EastEnders" turned out to be, I’m wholeheartedly recommitted to my religious following of Walford’s residents. Sorry, “Grimm”, but these are the ties that bind.

One Line Wonder

Dot (to Alice, in the midst of Lauren and Abi squabbling about alcoholism, Jay’s dad’s death and general cheerful Square goings on): Would you like a piece of sponge?

The Fortune Telly-er

I don’t see Ian going to the police about Ben’s grisly activities just yet; it would be far more worthwhile to use the set-up to explore old tensions and rivalries with Phil. As for Derek and Alice, I see them getting over their differences with more haste. I thought the Jonny/Ruby father-daughter dynamic about five years ago was ace, so here’s hoping the writers use what was done well there.

“7 Up” STILL Refuses to Go Flat…

It’s not easy to believe that 2005 was a measly seven short years ago. This was the year that a relative unknown, David Cameron, became leader of the Conservative Party; the year that London secured its hosting of the 2012 Olympics (remember not giving two hoots because it was such a remote distance away? Oops.) This was the year that Dumbledore died; the year that Nicole Scherzinger began her incessant interest in our wishes. As far as our cultural interests go, evidently, we’ve shifted shape. This was the year that began with Steve Brookstein atop of our charts, for crying out loud. And as individuals? Seven years is ample time for planetary personal transformations. Way back when at the start of ’05, Brad and Jen were Hollywood’s power couple, Britney hadn’t even thought of trying out Bruce Willis’ new do and Kate Middleton was curvaceous. I was 13, dedicated my existence to EA Games and remained blissfully optimistic that doing so would one day bring me riches.

What with the happenings outlined above and a busy Year Eight routine, I admit I must have missed 2005’s “49 Up” and only educated myself about the series this week. The “Up” series, for those of you as buried beneath “The Sims 2 Nightlife” as I was in ’05, consists of documentaries screened every seven years which are based on the same fourteen subjects. When the program began in 1964 it introduced audiences to seven-year-olds, who were this week revisited in ITV’s “56 Up” as post-middle aged. I was acutely suspect of the concept when I initially read about it; was unassured, recognizing the personally mammoth and culturally paramount shifts that can occur over seven year intervals, that anyone would especially care about what might be going on in the lives of fourteen randomly selected people. Surely, reality shows have pulling power because we as viewers either have a hand in their outcome or because their characters live anomalous lifestyles. Delving a little deeper, I learnt that the premise of “Up” back in 1964 was to highlight the long-term influences of a child’s socio-economic background. It was kicked off, in short, with the prediction that these children’s lives were already stretched out ahead of them and that their paths were irreversibly determined. Although director Michael Apted has since commented on the series’ permutation into shows about existentialism, personal changes and situational shifts rather than social immobility, this made me rethink my earlier skepticism. Though I might not have been enthralled by the subjects’ lives in isolation, when they were set alongside one another and compared with what one might have predicted their lot to be at 7 years of age, my attention was grabbed. “56 Up” shouldn’t be thought of as a stand-alone documentary, and if it were I might as well have taken myself off to people watch at the local bingo night. Rather, it needs to be viewed as the latest link in a 49-year-long chain.

I’ll get to the participants themselves later on; I’ve already prattled on about the relative insignificance of the ins and outs of their individual lives when considered alongside the wider purposes and initial premises of the series, but I’ll cover them nonetheless. Hats must first be taken off to the formatting prowess showcased last night. When the participants were revisited and re-interviewed, footage of their previous declarations, aspirations and values was trotted out liberally. Baring in mind how imperative it was to watch the show as part of a series with a specific hypothesis in order to find it remotely worth turning on the telly for, this was a prudent step on its producers’ account. By organizing the old snippets thematically (“love”, “work”, “family” and “politics” most markedly), it was child’s play to see how each participant had fluctuated over the course of decades (and credit to the series’ makers for acknowledging these transitions despite the initiatory principle that life’s paths are straightforward and inflexible). Striking was the almost total absence of an interviewer or commentator’s voice. Plainly, audiences were forced to watch the musings of the series’ subjects and cultivate their own conclusions; the program's makers remained as objective as the interview set up rendered feasible. Indeed, manipulative editing had been one of my headaches when I settled down to watch last night. I didn’t grasp how 2555 days could be impartially squished into 15 minutes for each subject, but the show didn’t endeavor to do so. The focus was on discussing rather than showing uniform areas of each interviewee’s life and morals, which swerved my unfair synopsizing gripe and made the all-important comparing the subjects’ situations a doddle.

The way she was: Sue (far right) at the start of the series

The curtain rolled up to Sue. After previous footage whipped us through a marriage, a divorce and the introduction of new love-interest Glenn, the 56 year old spoke of her now 14-yearlong (!) engagement. I’m 20, cynical and (touch wood) haven’t racked up much in the way of heartbreak, but even I found it cockle warming that Sue’s checkered love life had eased up. Sue reflected candidly about her hardships as a single mother, and it was here that the show’s genius exploitation of hindsight was most lucid. Although she had been followed through her difficulties, Sue seemed most ready to confront them having seen them off; the series needed to return to the life she led in “35 Up”, for instance, in order to complete the picture it began to paint 21 years ago. Sue was presented, last night, as ticking over just fine: job satisfaction, healthy aged parents, a long-term love interest and personal fulfillment (having discovered amateur dramatics since the last “Up”). At the end of her screen time, she conceded without a hint of embitterment, “I’ll never be a rich pensioner.” O.K., so in “63 Up” she might have won the lottery and, with her old pal hindsight, grant that she was putting on a façade, but this comment remained with me after the show’s credits. Are we pre-programmed, maybe, to become less uncompromisingly ambitious and more content with what we’re given as we age? Is it not a tricky pill to swallow that, after working tirelessly for dozens of years, we’ll never be Simon Cowell-minted? The show raised fundamental questions about the human condition with good ol’ Sue, and her life has been distinctly run-of-the-mill.

Next in the frame was Paul, and here the show’s bucking of the social immovability hypothesis was plain. The viewer was speedily reminded that Paul had started the series whilst in foster care, before footage was shown of his cynicism towards marriage and rather detached, muted outlook on life. Of all the participants my money would have been on Paul to veer pitifully off of life’s rails, with little guidance and even littler respect for 60s conventions (“what does ‘university’ mean?”). Fast forward 49 years, as last night’s offering wasted no time in doing, and Paul can be found as a handyman in a “retirement village” alongside his wife with whom he shares a “hum-drum” marriage. It was evident, particularly when he was questioned about ageing (this was a savvy move, comparison-wise, given Sue’s notably blasé attitude about getting on a bit) that Paul had metamorphosed, somehow, into a docile and contented grandparent. Paul spoke candidly about the therapy he had undergone around the time of “49 Up” and merely described his refusal to “dwell” on it. I think any medium that can stress the transience of life’s lows, whether it is television program, self-help book, whatever, is doing its audience a service. Paul’s place on the show was worthwhile because of its rags to riches element yet lack of sensationalism; his is a story that underscores the favorable unpredictability of human life. Paul’s segment reaffirmed the stock I had placed in the composition of the show, too. When he took a trip from his new home of Australia to Yorkshire to visit a daughter there, the cameras were there to follow him; the “Up” series is not, gladly, put together solely from five minute chit-chats with its original lineup.

Battered: Paul seemed unimpressed by the series' impact

I labeled Paul’s story as one contrary to viewer expectations and the notion that seven-year-olds have their lives mapped out before them, but it hasn't a patch on Neil’s. After a fairly privileged childhood, “Up” trailed Neil through Oxbridge aspirations, an abandoned degree, homelessness and eventually the securing of a seat on local council. It was promptly made manifest in “56 Up” that Paul was less than enamored with the show’s reappearance in his life; he bemoaned the superficial support he had received following previous episodes and, when questioned about the “nervous complaint” he had been the victim of throughout his life, prickly responded that “its not for this program to expose my private feelings.” His anger at working relentlessly at a writing career to little avail (should I be scared?) was palpable, as was his conviction that he was unable to achieve meaningful relationship contentment (“I don’t have the capacity to make a relationship work”). With Neil, I’m torn. On the one hand, it was undeniably fascinating to see how life can unexpectedly batter someone who looked to have so much promise, especially when set alongside Paul, and he’s a strikingly colorful, if not a little warped, subject. On the other, watching him squirm under the interviewer’s gaze and lament the benefits of featuring on the series made me want to turn to BBC just to cut him some slack. It was like some perverse voyeurism. I’m yet to make up my mind about the ethics of following someone so seemingly irritated by the show and so unstable as a character, but either way the mutability of fortune and our universal vulnerability to it was ineludible.

Best Only Returning Character: Peter appeared to promote his band

Rounding off yesterday’s show was Peter, who at seven years old served as Neil’s comprehensive school counterpart. Peter withdrew from production of the series after the media lambasted his plucky political speculations in “28 Up”, but last night made a potent return to the show. So why the change of heart? Peter admitted it was to drum up publicity for his band, “The Good Intentions” (you would have assumed he had developed more distrust for public reaction to the show when it made him the target of ridicule to the pitch that he hid himself away for nearly three decades, but obviously not). Curiously, the recluse of the series displayed comparable consistency of character when considered alongside the others. Yes, he had married a band mate despite renouncing the institution at 21, but that cast-iron and standoffish self-assuredness hadn’t wavered a jot. Say what you will about Paul’s potent character but the show must be praised here for conveying exactly what he wanted conveying, despite that changing from a 21 year old’s controversial and anti-establishment ponderings to a middle-aged man’s self-promotion of his Americana country band (which, on paper, makes for far less compulsive viewing).

The documentary arrested my interest for its whole run, and disproved my preliminary doubts by provoking some genuinely engrossing thoughts. Will I be watching the next two installments, spanning across the coming fortnight? Perhaps. I just can’t shake the feeling that now I’ve seen one installment, I’ve seen them all. Without having any legitimate interest in what these strangers might be getting up to, I think that everything I could ever take from the “56 Up” round of shows (regarding middle age and the onset of grandparenthood) I took a belly-full of last night. I promise, though, to pencil in at least one “63 Up” for 2019. Who knows, by that time Paul’s band could have trumped One Direction and The Wanted stateside, Neil could have stepped forward as out generations Tolkien and Sue might finally have made it down the aisle…

The “Grimm” Binge

I read last week about this concept that physiologists dub “the refractory period”: essentially the few milliseconds following stimulation that a muscle goes on strike, as it were, and will only half-arsedly perform its previous response. Think of a toilet’s irksome refusal to flush if it’s already done so in the past five minutes (apologies for lowering the tone substantially following the physio-speak), instead only permitting a pitiful trickle. With the omission of Sergio Aguero’s tardy Man City cup-clincher last night, which I’m assured was sensational, a solid rule of thumb is that when B follows hot on the heels of A it turns out to be a bit of a flop (any second-born twins reading: sorry, but truth is truth). Now, I’m guessing this truism holds firm in the world of telly blogging, too. Well, to hell with protocol. Despite a resolution to furnish this blog with more variety than the spiciest of lives and the having only critiqued my newfound small screen darling two posts ago, I’m bent on dedicating the second post in a week to the fledgling U.S. show “Grimm”. So what warrants one show getting a second serving of DitB so soon? It’s ace, I failed to rave about it quite enough last time round, and I’ve ploughed through 100% more this time.

What lies beneath: The B&B with a dark side

The last “Grimm” post reacted to its opening three episodes. Recall, casting your mind back a whole six evenings, the way I thought it opened strong, dipped a jot and then excelled itself for a third viewing. The following three episodes were all firm and indisputable tens. Number four, “Lonelyhearts” opened with the mowing down and death of a nightdress-clad damsel. After ruling out her fisticuffs boyfriend, Nick and Hank wound up at the B&B she had checked herself into before coming a cropper and face to face with its smirking yet slimily sinister owner. Soon exposed was his savage ability to charm the pants off whomever he picked, and the whole host of beauties banged up in his basement. The episode was based on the French folktale, “Bluebeard”, in which a bestial aristocrat lures new wives to his fortress before doing them in. I could prattle on at length about the astuteness of plot choice and its being an indictment of casual sexual relations in the 21^st Century, but if you’ve even so much as glanced at my last “Grimm” post you’ll know its sagacious stories are a given. Suffice to say, it was reassuring to note that producers were open to incorporating fairytale elements not exclusively compiled by the Brothers Grimm without budging a smidge on quality. What jutted out in “Lonelyhearts” was Nick’s settling into the role of competent hero; when his buddy Hank became locked in the aforementioned death-chamber himself (providing urgency and eventually an “Ahhhh!” moment as cop and cop were reunited), Nick was left to sort things out unaccompanied. When he disregarded police decorum and stormed the B&B because he had clocked its owner’s boorish side, it was taxing to believe only three episodes back he had been relying on a frail old aunt. I must mention the resolution of episode four, too, for its symmetry and open-ended brilliance. When the supposed Bluebeard looked set to escape Nick and Hank’s pursuit he was himself struck down by a car- what a karmic way to go. To see our villain on a stretcher, apparently bewitching the paramedic tending to him unbeknown to Nick and Hank, enabled also a faultless close.

Parallel to the Bluebeard comings and goings was the increasingly suspect Captain Renard, Nick’s boss. During “Lonelyhearts” a bloodcurdling, axe-bearing foreigner became fixed on avenging his friend’s death; remember the guy Nick shot dead to protect his Aunt Marie? He had pals. I casually lamented the series’ lack of an obvious big bad in the last post, and this guy looked set to fill the vacancy with aplomb. In a shake-up it would have been unthinkable to foresee, Renard forced this unnerving newcomer to his knees and unmercifully lopped his ear off. By having the bona fide baddie usurp the supposed one in a heinously Van Gough manner, the show’s producers instantly lined Renard up as a formidable future nemesis for Nick. “Better the devil you know”, perhaps, but what about the devil you know, trust and report to? Poor Nick.

Follow the leader: Rats hung on Roddy's every word

“Danse Macabre” proved to be the churning out of out another gem: it’s premise being “The Pied Piper” gone awry and its featured death the most gruesome thus far. A music teacher was torn to shreds by rats as he prepared to leave at the end of the school day, after they had been planted in his car by school bullies wanting to frame the musical virtuoso son of the local rat catcher (and most teachers bemoan the amount of marking they are faced with when the day is ostensibly done). The aforementioned violin-playing genius turned out to be a Wessen with the eerie aptitude to command rats and a sizeable chip on his shoulder thanks to years of being teased. When mulling over the series’ pilot I extolled its inclusion of red-herrings and omission of predictability, and this episode followed the lead; the Wessen was cleared of being his teacher’s assailant but demonstrated a propensity for cold-bloodedness by eventually luring his framers into a sea of gnawing rats. Nick and Hank were the good guys, plainly, but the bad guy label was more cumbersomely awarded. Equally commendable about episode five was Nick’s eventual dilemma. As a Grimm he knew rat-boy Roddy had orchestrated the nibbling to death of his classmates but as a detective he couldn’t charge the teen. Nick’s being torn in a literal life-or-death scenario a couple of episodes back was noteworthy, and it was refreshing to see the conflict still ticking over even in the absence of a showdown culmination. Aside from its chilling aesthetics and multifaceted plot, the episode managed to sow several seeds for the wider harvesting of the series, notably Hank’s dining with siren slash known-Wessen Adalind and Nick’s fiancé Juliet beginning to clock changes in her fiancé. Even if the storyline had taken a bash in this one (and it categorically did not), it would have enticed me back on the promise of hefty things to come.

Enough of the huffing and puffing: The piggish cop turned tough

After spending 1000 words harping on about the show’s general agility and percept, this next comment cannot go underestimated: if you watch one episode I’ve blogged about, make it “Grimm’s” sixth, “The Three Bad Wolves”. But first, hear me fail to adequately summarize its virtues. The show went off with a bang, literally, with the explosion of an apparent good-for-nothing’s (Hap’s) abode, and his revelation that an elder brother had fallen victim to an identical plot on his home a few weeks before. Nick discerned speedily that this chubby now-homeless Hap was in fact a Blutbad (the wolfish Wessen-type that acquaintance Monroe had already announced himself as). Quickly, it was revealed that Monroe and Hap were old buddies, and that the former used to date the latter’s sister Angelina (who made a show-stopping entrance by tearing Nick out of his car and denouncing Grimms far and wide). “The Three Bad Wolves” took its shape from the inversion of “The Three Little Pigs” tale, and its assailant turned out to be a piggish Wessen working on, and sabotaging, the police inquiry into the explosion (mining the nickname “pig” for police officers was one of those moments of sheer but subtle genius “Grimm” won me over with). The two families, wolves and pigs, were continuing an embittered, age-long feud, and Nick, Hank and the team were tossed about as collateral damage. The episode fueled the running “day job versus night job” conflict of Nick’s, as one scene witnessed him act as spectator of a showdown between family members, wanting to remain objective as a Grimm but required to act lawfully as a cop. Monroe’s character gained cavernous dimension by invoking his own Wessen-core and hunting in the woods, shaking off the crown-jester role he had occupied for far too long and morphing instead into a viable and engaging card in his own right. Episode six didn’t skimp on cohesion and symbolism, either; when vet Juliet was seen bandaging a cat-beaten terrier at the midway point her embedded narrative reiterated the inversion-based, expectation-defying ethos of the wider program. It was witty, fresh, thought provoking and character defining (the resolution is worth a look, too). Watch it.

Do I regret tackling “Grimm” for the second time in a week? Despite my initial hesitation, not a jot. If it keeps going at this pace, expect a third before Saturday.

One Line Wonder

Hank (after dealing with an irate, meddlesome and marginally superfluous mother wanting to report an incident at the station): I haven’t had that much fun since that drunk threw up on me at the Christmas party.

The Fortune Telly-er

It goes without saying that Renard and Adalind will be rearing their ugly heads again before too long, but I’d still like Nick to delve into his ancestry for more potential nemeses. What ever happened, I ask again, to his parents’ murderer? I’m eagerly watching this space.

A Rock, A Hard Place & Two Brits: Graham Norton’s Friday Night Crowd

Few jobs are more consistently underrated than that of chat-show host. For one, people assume that any simpleton could hold their own opposite the hot-seat.  Sharon Osbourne’s foray into the world of teatime shows a couple of years ago, for instance: I still shudder. And don’t even talk to me about Anthony “My-Corrie-character-is-abundantly-more-interesting-than-me” Cotton’s. Too often, it seems, telly producers think that being vaguely popular with the public entitles someone to a weekly hour as interrogator: that the job itself is a doddle. “Mummy, I want to be a chat show host when I grow up.” “Oh darling, it’s such a waste of potential.” O.K., so the coverage of Jonathan Ross’ BBC tax-funded salary a few years back didn’t do a good deal to better the rap those in the biz take, but must we so relentlessly bang-on about what a no-sweat occupation it is?

I think, as jobs that involve having a camera shoved in your face go, the post is fairly exacting. Woodrow Wilson once declared that "The ear of the leader must ring with the voices of the people", and he summed up what I’m getting at here. Sure, being a talk show host requires an aptitude in front of a live audience and personality by the barrel but its only half the check-list (take note, here, Davina).  To be up there with the Parkinsons and the Rosses hosts need to carve through the hot air of celeb-talk and ask the questions we want the answers to, must nimbly switch from carrying the show solo to being engaged and engaging mediums for their guests. Now, I’ve already made plain my reluctance to lampoon Jonathan Ross (the reigning King of chat show hosts at the moment, as far as I’m concerned) and he’s off air at the moment anyway (cue the “part-time but quadruple-pay” slurs), so when I settled on objectively blogging about a chat-show to highlight the amount of forethought that goes into the good ‘uns, “The Graham Norton Show” was the only path left unblocked.

As Graham bounded onto the stage last Friday night I had a minor epiphany as to why I’d always given his show a wide berth during Ross-droughts. I had always found him inexplicably alienating, as if the camp-ness dial he cranks up during his shows, and the persona he dons, is a bit too inflated to get near to. That said, his intro to the show was on the money and won me over a whole bunch. It focused, thanks to one of his impending guests, on the Eurovision Song Contest, and Norton put me at ease by poking fun at that pesky persona I had always found irritating. In reference to a shot of Russia’s along-in-years girl-group entry he quipped, “If they’re singing in Eurovision, who’s cleaning my house?” When ribbing host country Azerbaijan’s imagined reaction to Jedward, he jested about what they might make of him when he arrived. It was tongue-in-cheek meta-comedy, and Norton as host overcame the persona-barrier by skipping around it to our side and ridiculing it with us.

Confused: Had Norton expected more of Kristen?

“The Graham Norton Show” welcomes its guests onto the stage simultaneously, apparently (fellow Ross-lovers: I know it sounds uncouth but bear with me). Once I’d gotten past Norton’s bingo caller-esque welcoming, it added to rather than detracted from the show’s vibe. Kristen Stewart, of “Twilight” fame, was the show’s first focal guest. Norton initially asked her about her new flick “Snow White and the Huntsman”, and it was dire through-and-through; Stewart seemed blasé and unsettled by Norton’s probing, and he wasted no time in glossing over the sticky situation with a clip. The segment we got, as it went, was fairly promising; it showed the film’s flapping Snow White rescuing her male escort from a mightily aggravated giant-creature. I’m doing it zero justice, but it looked engrossing and off the wall. How did Kristen promote it? She said mumbled that it was a “classical retelling”. Riiiiight. I won’t let this post escalate into a Stewart-bashing, so back to Norton. He seemed to know precisely when to give up one line of questions and try a different tack, and despite Stewart’s grunts and clunky explanations he wormed a couple of responses out of her regarding the next and concluding “Twilight” installment (we can expect heaps of Edward-Bella bedroom action). I mentioned that assembling multiple guests on the chat-show sofa at once was an asset to the show, and this was plain during Stewart’s segment. When she tried on the whole modest, arty-actress “I like to fight for a part rather than having it written for me” nonsense, fellow guest and U.S. comedy legend Chris Rock chirped up “I don’t care, just give me the job!” It diffused the cringe worthy and nigh-on incoherent responses of Stewart and Norton, for his part, seemed immensely soothed. Even quiet Brit Stephen Mangan managed to get his two pennies’ worth across as Kristen stumbled over her own words.

In the spotlight: Norton's guests were a mixed back

When talk finally turned to Chris Rock the show was immeasurably enhanced and Norton showcased his extensive talk-show prowess. After covering his new film “2 Days in Paris” eloquently, amusingly and consistently with the snippet we were shown, Rock joined Norton in deriding his career and success; he made it plain how bizarre he found actors’ astronomical salaries and constant complaining over their hardships. It was refreshing to see such a down-to-earth U.S. actor following the Kristen-car crash, and Norton clearly relished the light heartedness Rock showered over the show. This segment also gave him the chance to indulge in a spot of banter with his guests (Ross fans felt at home here), as he jested about Rock’s inability to complete his daughters’ homework. After characteristically bringing guests one and three back into the fold by inviting them to share their own school-related stories (one of my One Line Wonders, taken from this point, is my all-time favorite) Norton seamlessly incorporated into the show the viewing of a website on which legitimate detention slips are posted. It was laugh-a-minute, bona-fide talk show gold, done artfully and without the least hint of Norton’s maneuvering. Rock was opportunely asked to speak about his relationship with Obama, and Norton (displaying that chat-show finesse I spoke of earlier that requires asking relevant and searching questions without compromising program ethos), discerningly inquired about Obama’s recent public support of gay marriage. Was it, Norton mused, Obama pushing for votes or becoming sloppy because he thinks some presidential races are already run? It was a welcome and up-to-date contrast to the hilarity that Rock brought to the table, and it showed Norton as unequivocally in the control seat when it comes to the show's "To-Talk" list.

Strained: Stewart responded to audience applause with grace

Actor Stephen Mangan served as the penultimate guest in Norton’s range, and our host (get me, claiming him and everything) shrewdly refused to let the sparkle of his hour fade after having sparred with two gargantuan U.S. draws. They covered the sophomore series of Mangan’s series “Episodes”, starring Matt le Blanc (Norton did a stellar job of selling it, so expect a review soon), as well as a spanking new project that sees Mangan take on the role of Postman Pat. It could have been flatter than a newly bought IKEA desk, had it not been for Norton’s aptitude for spicing up the dullest of topics with wit and Mangan’s inviolability as far as being star-struck is concerned.

Engelbert Humperdinck swaggered onto the stage as guest number four. Call me cynical but might the billing of Humperdinck as the starring guest, despite his lack of pulling power, have something to do with his and Norton’s mutual involvement in Eurovision this year? Frankly, he’s less current than Stewart is articulate and shoving him in as the show’s supposed crescendo was embarrassing to watch. Humperdink spoke somberly about Eurovision, notably about the timing of his performance being convenient because it comes at a time that his voice is most “open”. Perhaps sensing the jovial and natural momentum he had conjured up post-Stewart coming to a sluggish end, Norton reverted to taking swipes at the contest and what a prestigious and significant national event it isn’t. Nice save, Graham.

Please release us: Humperdinck's performance was the show's dullest point

The show closed with its customary “Stories from the Red Chair” bit, which honestly needs to be cut from the format as a matter of urgency. The first tale was about a girl who proudly “popped her cherry” in a less than orthodox manner, so thank goodness Rock was there to characteristically dispel the residue awkwardness. The second? I’ve already forgotten it, something about batteries.

Fundamentally, despite 50% of the line-up lacking gumption Norton put on a cracking show. Questions were insightful without being monotonous for a Friday night, he evaded the temptation to become obscured beneath Rock’s larger-than-life charisma and he won over at least one hardcore Ross champion.

One Line Wonder

I’ve narrowed it down to two, but I can’t do it anymore: think Bella in “New Moon” trying to pick between Jacob and Edward (both blatantly out of her small-town league anyway, by the way), and multiply by ten.

Graham (having spoken to her for 15 minutes): SO Kristen. Did you go to school?

Chris Rock (speaking about stage acting to Mangan): You’ve done a play. (Turning to Kirsten Stewart) You’re not good enough yet.