Magic, not Mess: Once Upon a Time Episode One

When Boyle pulled it out of the bag last month, we breathed a hearty, countrywide sigh of relief; he’d polished the national pride of the Diamond Jubilee back to its glistening best and deftly silenced all those who’d scoffed at his Tellytubbyland opening set in the process. But there were, inevitably, a couple of detractors amongst the flag-wavers and painted faces, poisonous to the pomp and patriotism of it all. Sporting or not, what some of us had had our fingers crossed for was a right British cock up. Yes, yes, yes, the helicopter bit was flawless and it was nice enough to titter at Mr Atkinson (who got drastically funnier when coupled with the image of bemused American spectators), but I bet we’d have wrung close to equal pleasure from the hours-long extravaganza if it had been one (royally) hot mess. Why? Because we’re warped like that. Call me cynical, but there’s a malicious satisfaction that comes from speculating on the screw-ups of others. Negative is the new positive. Mel B’s X Factor stint was hailed for one reason and one reason alone; she went baying for blood, Cowell-style, and tearing strips out of anything below-par is now one of our most revered past-times. Go harsh, or go home.

Always keen to wrangle DitB the prodigious popularity it deserves, I’ll admit that when I sniffed out shows this week I went looking for a stinker. With withering one-liners being such hot property, I needed something I could really go to town with and another ‘B+’ was off the table. Channel 5‘s Once Upon a Time seemed just the F-grader I was looking for; having waxed lyrical about fantasy-drama Grimm a few months back, I envisaged a comparatively scathing post that could slam OUAT and niftily reaffirm my waning interest in Grimm at the same time. Resourceful. 

Something old, something new: The series began with the wedding of Snow White and her Prince

The show’s premise alone, though, threatened to be an irritatingly slick snag. The series opened with the revival and betrothal of Snow White (Ginnifer Goodwin) to her Prince Charming (Josh Dallas), with their fellow fairytale favorites rejoicing in the union. When her Wicked Stepmother swept in unannounced at their wedding and vowed vengeance for her humiliation, Charming was quick to scoff at her warnings and, a few months on, Snow looked fit to burst with their first child. In a parallel universe (ours, fortunately), bonds bailsman Emma Swan (Jennifer Morrison) was visited by the son she gave up for adoption ten years before, Henry (Jared Gilmore), and urged to return with him to his home town of Storybrooke. Things got a helluva lot more elaborate at this point, but suffice to say that cynic Emma turned out to be the daughter of Snow and her Prince. She had, said Henry, been cast out of their fabled world to protect her from the Wicked Stepmother’s curse: a dark magic that had trapped dozens of fairytale characters in in a US town, devoid of their memories and with no hope of getting their mojos back. Only Emma, Henry told her, could undo the Queen’s ensnarement and return the characters to glory, but only Henry, Emma told him, would believe such tripe. The outline, I’ll admit, reads less like an outline and more like a neoclassical Picasso, but it’s well worth getting your head around. Grimm took its strength from that inexplicable pleasure we get from raking over and reorganizing the familiar, and OUAT makes use of the same formula. There’s something irresistibly gratifying about a show whose characters we’ve already got the measure of; first episodes are too often juggling acts between hooking our interest for people we care nothing about and having them do engaging things, but OUAT, even more effectively than Grimm, had the luxury of working almost exclusively on the latter. 

Aside from its conceding a promising opener, OUAT’s plot just made plain good sense (honestly). It was intricate without losing its own thread, and original without being alien. Emma’s timely arrival in Storybrooke, as the biological mother of a distressed child a little disenchanted with her own lonely life, was entirely tenable; her being the ‘key’ to undoing the curse came off as secondary. That’s not to mention the rationale behind the former-storybook-ers’ new personas. Of course Rumplestiltskin was now a pawnbroker called Mr Gold; obviously Snow White had wound up as primary school teacher still flanked by people half her size, and it was only logical that the Wicked Stepmother was Henry’s adoptive mayoress mum. Despite all its tangles, the show didn’t once ask too big of a leap of its adult audience, which, when your basis is as other-wordly as this one, is quite something. 

Lady in red: Emma held her own

With such a liberal use of identifiable real-world characters, lead Emma could quite easily have come off as the weakest link; she was (bar Henry), the only one without a transcendental counterpart and, as such, asked for a little more legwork. In her own way, though, Emma did seem oddly familiar; here was the girly-but-feisty independent woman who’s become such a staple on our dramas, soaps and tubes; the city-girl who pays her own bills and still has cash to splash on looking good. For all her primped locks and tight leather jackets, though, Emma’s place in the plot kept her immune from becoming just a stereotype. She lost a chunk of her thorniness when her parentage became clearer, and her destiny as fairytale-restorer gave her the edge over the dozens of similarly blonde but ballsy leads (this is Snow White and Prince Charming’s daughter: even Buffy Summers can step down). When a little more of her (supposed) backstory came to the fore, Emma’s place at the helm seemed even more deserved. Her apparently being abandoned on the side of a road, a troubled childhood that saw her flip-flop in and out of care and an inability to tie down a boyfriend all did their bit in endearing her to viewers and ensuring she didn’t get lost amongst the would-be princesses and dragon slayers, whilst her selfless sticking around for fellow nobody-wants-me son helped her to usurp Snow White in the heroine stakes.

Perhaps the show’s biggest boon was that it didn’t feel much like a television show; in its scale, in its pace and in its conception, OUAT seemed born for the big-screen. Its movie-esque quality, which left me expecting, yearning for, a premiere three times its length, was afforded most by its dazzling visuals. Glossier than a Kim Kardashian pout and bigger than her backside, the show was an aesthetic as well as a logical triumph, and its costumes and scenery rivaled the big-leagues in Hollywood cinema (Rupert Sanders, watch your back). Crucially, though, the special effects were reigned in when they needed to be; the ‘real world’ scenes acted as stoppers to the spells and sorcery whenever it threatened to get a little stale but had enough of their own Swan-shaped action to remain visually commanding in their own right.

Wicked: 'Hilary Devey ain't got nothin' on me'

Mills’ performance topped those given by a sumptuous supporting cast (Robert Carlyle as Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin was a tangibly close second), with her Jessie-J Stepmother just enough of a deviation from what you’d expect. True, the creators had given her a lot of scope with arguably the episode’s most instantly affecting figure, but the elaboration she brought to the role was something a director could never take credit for. Her is she/isn’t she evil, does she/doesn’t she know about the curse, will she/won’t she harm Henry dilemmas were strung out until the end, and she played each of them with enough mystique to remain enthralling but enough lucid hints to trick us into thinking we had it sussed.

With the plot, character and gloss boxes firmly checked, I wondered if I could at least slate the series’ use of fairytales as a touch rusty, as a moth-eaten way of playing it safe that didn’t allow enough progression. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Indeed, OUAT seemed to consciously position itself as a distinctly modern elongation of the classics, and to stress that it could function just fine if it were to shed the fable-element (it won’t have to if its keen enough to explore those around Snow and Prince in enough detail, and something assures me that it will be). The producers turned the fairytale format on its head more than once, having our world’s answer to Snow White, teacher Mary Margaret, tend to coma-patient and former Prince Charming, David Nolan, and Granny and teen Ruby (need I clarify?) running a B&B for waifs and strays. The feminist rewriting of our culture’s inherently patriarchal stories is easy to spot if you want to, but with a show that views so smoothly its almost a shame to get bogged down in it.

I might be one pig’s ear short of a scathing review, but in OUAT I’ve picked up a new telly favorite. Every cloud.

Bad Education's B+

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said (and I know this not from being an English undergraduate, but rather from being an adroit Googler) that ‘An ounce of action is worth a ton of theory.’ I’m not much of a one for stoicism either, Ralph; tentativeness is far too pervasive nowadays. We Brits, especially, seem to cherish the chance to ‘sleep on it’ and ‘think things through.’ Granted, a smattering of forethought is never a bad thing (never, Prince Harry...), but where would we be without the odd hasty decision or satisfied whim? Our soaps, for one, would shrivel with such caution. There’d be fewer abandoned post-Christmas puppies, sure, but spare a thought for all those dashed classic silver screen proposals: ‘Let’s grow old together, sweetums!’ ‘Erm...Can I let you know by the week-end?’

In the face of my fellow devil-may-carers, however, I deployed an uncharacteristic amount of contemplation for this post. Why the concession to reflection? When I tuned in to Bad Education last Tuesday, I anticipated a laugh a minute; Jack Whitehall is, as Fresh Meat evidenced, one funny guy, and Matt Horne isn’t what you’d call lacking in comedy credentials either. The duo’s involvement in this project, with Whitehall bringing his jolly hockey-sticks pomposity to the scripts and the screen and Horne heading an otherwise relatively unknown supporting cast, tipped the BBC Three six-part sitcom for success. Of course, by the credits of its premiere last week I was tickled. Whitehall stars as hapless history teacher Alfie Wickers, a sort of Jack Black/ Barney Stinson/ Daniel Radcliffe mash-up who’s picked on by his own students and seems pleasantly nonplussed by the state system he’s wound up working for. And yet, on reflection (bah!), I couldn’t be sure if it was Whitehall’s gags or my own pre-estimation of them that had me so cheered. When I first found Friends I’d cackled when the audience did, and when Only Fools was on I’d mimic the guffaws of my parents. Had I internalized the laugh-expectation and applied it again here, using not the sniggers of my mum and dad but my esteem for Whitehall as a cue? Only time would tell. Thus, a week on, I’m cocksure of my judgement. 

Running a tight ship: Whitehall and his tutees

Plainly, with its successor this week hauling in even larger viewing figures than the record-breaking premiere, the episode did something right. Whitehall’s camp delivery, as ever, proved telly gold when pitched against the rough-and-ready loud mouths sat before his stark blackboard. Whatever Whitehall says commands immediate mirth, and if his comedy career ever goes down the pan (that’s one mighty if), he’d be an asset to any hospital ward. ‘It’s terminal, dah-ling. Frightful business. Now who’s for polo?’ The most sides were split, however, where Whitehall had been understated with the script. The school corridor’s ‘Hot Babes Through the Ages’ display scooped a laugh for being refreshingly understated, and Mr. Wickers’ ‘Oh, we’re learning about South Africa’ to explain the segregated, apparently Apartheid-esque table arrangement of his classroom was downplayed enough to remain droll. Alfie’s students, too, continue to make me smile a week on for their (sadly) entirely credible brashness. With hard-nut Mitchell ripping him to shreds, class bike Chantelle giving him the eye and hoody Grayson stealing his shoes (‘Sh’up Downton!’), Whitehall’s supporting cast made sure not all the onus was on him. Gold star, Jack. Here, though, one can’t help but regret Whitehall’s own independent schooling; had he instead fallen to prey to the state, he might have inflated those class numbers and given viewers another couple of giggles.

That's the best you can do? These weren't Horne's best lines

What dragged the episode down, in places, was Whitehall’s tendency to milk every gag dry. When Alfie sought to impress his beloved philanthropic Miss Gulliver (Sarah Solemani) in a canteen scene, I squirmed at how long the situation was strung out despite it being promising to begin with. The joke wasn’t undone by its own predictability, but that’s only because it’s course was so unforeseeably aimless. Even worse, a couple of Whitehall’s quips were shoddy to start with; ‘If I were a font I’d be Comic Sans. You are so Times New Roman.’ No, you didn’t have to be there. The series could also certainly do better in its originality. Alfie finds himself the choice target of formidable deputy headmistress Miss Pickwell (Michelle Gomez), the tightly-bunned disciplinarian who, unlike her soundly stereotyped pupils, smacks somewhat like an easy option; with his stand-up record, Whitehall could have showed a touch more flair. The same assessment applies to his cringeworthy head Fraser. Horne did his best last week, but there’s only so far flawless expression can carry increasingly tedious lines. ‘Just organizing a post-work-age meet-age at the pub-age, Dukes Arms...age.’ We got it the first time.

In all, Bad Education’s first offering performed above averagely for a British premiere, and particularly deserves credit for sustaining a tolerable plot at the same time as introducing an oddball cast. Next week’s show (or rather, this week’s left to stew for seven days) needs to ditch the desperate puns and stick to its subtle strengths. Then again, as long as Whitehall’s at the helm, the show’s never going to miss too many marks.

One Line Wonder

Mitchell (clearly making the best of a likely downbeat Parents’ Evening): Oh sh*t! Rem-dog’s dad’s got a glass eye! What a penis!

The Fortune Telly-er

I have my fingers crossed for more Pickwell/ Wickers scenes, but not just for the comedy; the more the deputy’s on screen, the more likely it is that Whitehall will right what he wronged this time around.

Mew, Mates & Malice: The Last Weekend Episode One

Generally, I’m a stand-up guy. I bung my change in the charity tin and I’m liberal about it. I let old women board the train ahead of me, even in rush hour. St. Peter, throw those pearly gates wide. Not even I, though, claim to have made it 21 years without the odd moral mishap. My biggest episode for self-reproach came when I was eight and glued to a Game Boy; my best friend, let’s call him Mark (wounds might still be raw, here) had left me to care for his Pokémon game whilst he went to Tenerife with his parents. For those unacquainted with the Pokémon series (what did you do with your childhoods? Outdoor activities? Get out!), the aim of the game was to capture as many creatures as possible. The most coveted was Mew, who appeared only once in each person’s game in the depths of a dark cave, and whom I myself had blunderingly let evade capture in my own. Mark, at the time, had been prodigiously compassionate for his years, vowing to let me co-train his Mew when he got a Poké Ball to it and opting not to pursue the cave-dweller until he was sure of his ability. Now for my transgression; I tailed Mew in Mark’s absence, deliberately let it escape and jealously slashed my supposed sidekick’s chance of achieving what I had not. Loathsome, aren’t I? Peter, just remember all those ladies who have had seats on me. What my pre-teen malevolence points up is the masked but heinous bitterness of friendship,  the ugly tension that rears its head whenever one suit is promoted over his buddy or one playground mum goes down to a 10.

Got your back? Ian and Ollie take to the golf course

In the first installment of ITV1‘s three part drama The Last Weekend, which aired on Sunday night, this tension was staggering. Indeed, it made any lingering bad-blood between Mark and I seem laughable. The series centers on longtime pals Ian (Shaun Evans) and Ollie (Rupert Penry-Jones), whose closeness violated the university social hierarchy when they met as undergraduates over a decade before; Ollie, a top-class toff with fluffy blonde hair and a whole plum tree in his mouth, went on to become a well-heeled barrister, whilst Ian landed himself a job as a primary school teacher and a clapped out car. The episode saw the now-men meeting up at Ollie’s summer digs and reigniting the hidden enmity that they’d first sparked in halls, and that Ollie had kindled when he wed the woman of Ian’s heart, Daisy (Genevieve O'Reilly). With Ian’s wife Em (Claire Keelan) along for the ride, the guys revived their triathlon tradition and wasted little time in fronting up to one another...behind each other’s backs. 

By the five minute-mark, the show had smashed barriers. Literally. Throughout the episode, Ian broke the fourth wall and narrated the trip from a future, erratic point of view, taking jibes at the apparent joviality of the men’s reunion and eerily hinting at its tragic outcome. Initially, this macabre Ian looked set to be a sticking point; he was commenting on a former, sunnier version of himself, and the discrepancy between Ian-past and Ian-future lacked credibility; how could one man be so buoyant in one frame and so unhinged in the next? By the credits, though, the reconciliation between Ian’s two poles was complete; subtly, swiftly and shrewdly, we saw his cheer evaporate and his sinister side come to the fore. This was one instance of the show’s fluid use of chronology. During others, we were propelled back to the trip being arranged, plunged into Ollie’s graduation party and teased with semi-flashbacks, semi-fantasies of an increasingly unstable Ian. Format-wise, the show was bold enough to be disconcerting but smart enough to tie up any loose ends.

Oblivious to the tension? Daisy and Em party

Pertinent as the plot’s premise might be to all of us who, like myself, have had a Mew-moment, it doesn’t exactly scream titillating on paper; the first episode saw the story’s arc barely getting off the ground and, for the large part, deferred the showdowns to a later date. This week, the episode’s hair-raising capability came not from high-octane drama, but instead from its being an achingly slow-burn. With Ian’s future, sinister self stalking into the shot whenever things got too upbeat and promising trauma before the weekend was up, the action seemed always tantalizingly out of reach. With its format alone keeping things sufficiently piquing, the episode even ventured to mock its own lack of bona-fide action; a knife-wielding teen in the kitchen turned out to be Ollie’s Hooray-Henry son, a table of apparently prying elderlies in the pub were actually looking over the dessert menu, and Ollie’s intoxicated driving went off without a hitch. The writers didn’t need to use up their dramatic stock just yet, when the stifling atmosphere they created had made every triviality an edge-of-your-seater.

When I watched BBC1’s three-parter Blackout, I made much of Alex Demoys’ comparative simplicity as a character when set alongside her husband’s, his mistress’ and her wayward ex’s. It was, I complained at the time, a shame that the writers’ canny ability to carve out complex characters hadn’t benefitted Alex. The Last Weekend, too, had a figure of relative one-dimensionality, this time in the shape of Ian’s wife Em. Unlike Ian’s, her happy-go-lucky attitude didn’t evaporate as she settled into the episode, and whilst Ollie and Daisy’s infuriating airs and graces quickly both rattled and awed her husband (‘Oh look Ollie- Cava!’ ‘Smashing!’), Em remained down-to-earth, ready to giggle at their friends’ snobbery and to raise eyebrows at their secrecy. Far from being drab, though, Em emerged as a sort of audience anchor as the episode wore on: a stronghold of perspective and normality that viewers found empathy for. We, like Em, were baffled and alienated by Ian, and couldn’t decide whether Daisy was a long-suffering, tragic sort of wife or a snobbish and shallow one. That’s not to say that Ollie, by default and through his being a question mark, dragged the episode down either; his outlandish behavior was complemented by Em’s stoicism rather than shown up by it. 

Mixed-up: Ian turned dark as the show progressed

Next Sunday, the series needs to come good on its promise of bust-ups in order to dodge stagnancy; the smell of frying bacon is all well and good, but it needs to be followed by a few butties. The second installment should have little trouble in the drama department, though, if it merely tends to the seeds its predecessor has already sowed. The arrival of Daisy’s ‘client’ Mo at the episode’s close, coupled with Ian’s now unwavering instability and his unnerving determination to bed Daisy, looks set to be particularly explosive (and cleverly intricate, too, if Ian’s resentment for him is mirrored in his maltreatment of a black schoolchild as hinted by the ‘next weeks’). Then there’s Ollie’s claim to have an ‘inoperable’ brain tumor and a recklessness to match, Daisy’s apparent need to speak to Ian on their own and the evasiveness that met Em when she teased the men’s friendship as ‘a bit gay’. Eyes on every space.

Awful...In All the RIGHT Ways: “Blackout” Comes to its Close

I’ve never understood why sinister films tend to make such box-office smashers; just what is it about blubbering one’s way through 123 minutes of “The Notebook” that makes audiences crawl wistfully back time after time? Why do we readily shun perky, sunny summer-flicks, but flock to lugubrious death-tales and moody murders like woe’s going out of style? I’ve checked and, as long as Wintour holds on to her Vogue throne, it isn’t. So it must be something else, some endemic screw-up that evolution never got got a chance to iron out, that gives us all our craving for calamity. I guess, somehow, this sucker for punishment bent has its dividends; if no one ever reverted to what they’ve formerly found bothersome, gyms would certainly lose a hefty chunk of their profit, we’d never eat celery and we’d have lost Cheryl Cole long ago. I’m no novice to the quirk myself; since I signed off on my last “Blackout” post I’ve been itching for a load more of its peculiarly bum-out bleakness, torturing myself with various outcome scenarios and even, once, rereading my previous posts and sorrily basking in the wretchedness of the Beeb’s three-parter. So this week, at long last, I got some much-needed closure on at least one city mayor who will certainly not be merrily dangling from a zip-wire anytime soon...

Betrayed: Demoys' relationship with Durrans soured

What the episode did well, as it panned out, was to make its culmination seem inevitable; its twists came off as unlabored, its eventual tidiness satisfying. Episode three opened with the revelation that Jerry Durrans, the spearhead of Demoys’ mayoral campaign (who had slipped under the net so stealthily in previous episodes that that was the first time I’ve typed his name) knew of Daniel’s grisly murder of businessman Pulis. Corrupt, oily and the father of Daniel’s unborn niece or nephew, a bent Pulis turned out to be in cahoots with the city’s police and with corporate giant Danto, determined to make a puppet of Demoys and derail his designs for cooperatively-operated public services. In one expert maneuver, the series salvaged the tautness that it risked in its sophomore episode and provided a flawless ‘will he/won’t he’ climax for the capricious Demoys. Equally fortunately, the finale unshackled Sylvie from her bunny-boiling, awkward worst; her wearisome obsession with Demoys came to a halt and she sought reconciliation with ex Bevan, who, without debasing one of the episode’s most powerful moments, stepped up to the mark as the series’ chief performer in the chilling stakes. Plot-wise, the sole glitch came with Ruth Pulis; despite an almost Beckham-esque sluggishness in episodes one and two in realising Demoys’ hand in her father’s demise, Ruth of this week seemed razor sharp. So too, Ruth was the one character for whom writers fell short of providing closure. She was, as the end approached with impressive momentum, slightly redundant, but the lack of finality for Ruth was an unnecessary smear on an otherwise gleaming conclusion.

Turnaround: Pulis' daughter realised Demoys' crime

Episode three hurtled along, but it crucially did so without sacrificing poignancy.; indeed, this was the series at its most stirring. The onus on family this week, with Sylvie’s reconciliation with Bevan alone, was striking (‘I have a husband, and I have two kids....and I didn’t even notice’), but with the Demoys it was made centrally-thematic. As Alex and Daniel discerned the net tightening round them, and Demoys’ comeuppance became a mere question of ‘when’, it was almost harrowing to see them put provisions in place for their children (who, by the way, seemed to become as infinitely cuter as Ruth did sharper). The ‘last supper’ template, time-worn by telly dramas in need of a spurt of tension, was used sparingly and with the series’ signature originality. It was dark (fret not, misery-lovers), but the segment afforded surprising tenderness to what was essentially the goodbye-party of a murdering politician. The other prime mushy-moment came when Demoys’ nurse mentor and fellow recovering alcoholic, Donna, turned therapist to his troubled son. As the boys’ insecurities, thankfully, were sidelined, Donna spoke lengthily about the relentless struggle against the bottle and, in so doing, reminded viewers not to go too harshly on Demoys. It was refreshing, perhaps assuring, given how much time was given up to the issue of drink early in the series, to see it brought back up and not trivialized as a mere plot device.

Touching: The episode didn't skimp on the soft-stuff

Without sounding too inane, my biggest bug-bear with dramas tends to be their drama: that is, their borderline-fantasy flourishes and dubious characters. Gladly, and again without tainting the ending, “Blackout” finished with credibility, with a powerful curtain call that, happily, ditched the theatrics. Even prior to the final five minutes, the finale seemed thoroughly, nearly uncomfortably, realistic. The attention to continuity (especially with regards to the booze issue) played its part, but what gave the biggest dose of verisimilitude was the series’ niftily put together characters. People, they seemed to show, change their minds, have alternating work- and home-personas, act occasionally out of emotion rather than rationality, and can be unpredictable without being sensational. In short, the series’ writers refused to work with limiting character categories (the killer, the cutie, the doormat), and in a mere three episodes showcased each key player as multi-dimensioned.

Watch “Blackout’s” finale with a hankering for gloom and it won’t disappoint. Settle down to it with one eye on the bleakness and the other on savvy production, applaudable candidness and deftly used sentiment, and you’ll get doubly lucky.

Standing Up “Suburgatory”

Once I’d turned 18 it seemed I couldn’t come within an arm’s distance of a bank cashier without being badgered about “upgrading” my account. Whereas before they’d smiled tenderly, almost paternally, at my kiddies’ savings card, they now plugged credit ratings, overdrafts and honeyed incentives; “it’s the natural next step,” I remember one fervent young assistant telling me, smuggling leaflets into my hands and grinning frenziedly. A fortnight ago I relented, somewhat reluctant to ditch the bright yellow plastic I’d picked up when I was 12, and made an appointment with one of the bank’s advisors. Gratefully, Wendy was noticeably more placid than her juniors out front, managing even to utter the words “current account” without petrifying avidity. As I skimmed a list of rewards (available for just £20 each month), one stuck out as particularly coaxing: phone insurance. Wendy explained that by signing up for an “Ultimate Rewards” package, I’d bag myself the insurance plus a whole host more perks. Redundant, irrelevant perks. There was the unlimited travel insurance (for all the lavish holidays I take as a destitute student...), the home cover (when all my costliest possessions fit, with room to spare, in a rucksack) and the indispensable AA Breakdown Service (the furthest I travel at university being the edge of its pedestrianized campus). Momentarily tempted though I was by the phone cover (my iPhone’s “reinforced” screen proving to be about as sturdy as soggy toilet-tissue), I knew that taking the entire package for its one merit would be moronic. 

So I guess I am, as much as Wendy protested, rather good at knowing when the cons outweigh the pros of a set up, and when to walk away. True to form, after I had to abandon a planned triple-date with brand new E4 sitcom “Suburgatory” this week, I now know the series is a lost cause. The show trails Tessa Altman, a born and bred New Yorker-teen who finds herself hauled to the city’s suburbs when her lone-parent dad, George, uncovers a brand new pack of condoms in her top drawer. Untenable and irrational as his reasoning sounds, I was willing to give the show a go; it’s just been picked up for a second season by American network ABC and performed blazingly with its opening-run ratings.

Just Wanna Have Fun: Dalia and Tessa failed to bond

The pilot was, granted, more than passable. Once you’d gotten past the moth-eaten premise of city-girl going green it was plain to see that someone on the “Suburgatory” writing team had their head screwed on, at least for some of the time. Tessa prevailed as a particular highlight, scoffing cynically at the Stepford Wives of her new neighborhood and raising her shapeless eyebrows at the superficiality of her schoolmates. “Its pretty ironic that a box full of rubbers landed me in a town full of plastic,” she spoofed, before showing her own acid tongue far outstripped her bitchy peers: “I hated Dalia- her personality was as flat as her hair.” Quite the city-cat. George, too, drove the episode on despite showcasing youth and good-looks questionable for a harassed single-parent with a full-time job in architecture. His uneasy easing into suburban life, beginning with a country club breakfast and rounding off with a strained visit to his frisky middle-aged neighbors’, proffered a couple of laughs while Tessa was elsewhere. The pilot’s brightest scripting, as well as its most poster-worthy visuals, came when the pair found themselves on a shopping date with mother-daughter duo Dallas and Dalia Royce. “It’s so lame your mom died, biatch”, Dalia purred as she sized up to a bemused Tessa in the changing rooms, before her equally diplomatic mother gave her say-so on her underwear: “like something a burn victim would wear!” The sequence had its sketchy areas (some trash about “girl 101” only serving to recall the show’s cliched roots), but did fairly well in elevating a watchable pilot into an almost unmissable series. Thus far, the pros were on top.

Proud Parent? George's character survived Episode Two: Tessa's didn't

Perhaps my expectations for episode two were too soaring, but it just didn’t measure up. The show opened with farce, as a slow-mo Tessa and George tried and failed to dodge a dinner invitation from the Shays over the road street. The soiree finished with Tessa being roped into a spot of truth-or-dare (at high school, really?) smooching with Ryan, the elder son of the family and jock dunce of the school corridor, and being struck by her attraction to him. In a heartbeat, every inch of Tessa’s credibility, of her sole aloofness in a suburban hell, was butchered. Five minutes on from Ryan-gate, the formerly cool Tessa was waving obtusely and blushingly from her window as she watched him hose down his car, locking lips with him by the sports field like some bimbo cheerleader and bending the school guidance counsellor’s ear off about how dreamy he was. With Tessa’s fall from grace, the series quickly wound up lacking a chunk of what had set it apart from its similarly-plotted predecessors. Yes, the writing was still smart (“Have you ever seen a foreign film?” “Avatar?”) and Tessa’s reluctance to fall for Ryan’s charms (“An intellectual, neurotic, self-loathing Jew? Much more my type) went someway in mitigating the situation, but her shameful regression was, in the end, beyond salvation. However many nimble one-liners they were interspersed with, the cons just weren’t worth it.

Meanwhile, the episode saw George tied up holding for his new neighbors what he was sagely advised would be the making or breaking of his acceptance into the hum-drum of suburbia: “the barbecue”. Despite his character remaining dependably giggle-worthy, this side story failed pitifully to recompense for Ryan; George’s perma-tanned buddy’s grill, “Sally”, running out of propane was the plot’s most momentous point, and not even George’s comical New York inexperience playing host could make up for that.

What was most maddening for me, as I stood up “Suburgatory” on date number three, was that the series had survived adopting one threadbare formula so well; Tessa and George’s relocation from the city was bedecked with such slick writing that you’d be a fool to hold it against them. Why, having taken such a gamble with the premise, would “Suburgatory’s” producers opt to haul out the timeworn city-girl/small-town boy blueprint so early on? “Suburgatory”: I won’t be calling.