No Valley Low Enough? Beg to Differ…

As an English undergraduate, I make it my business to keep abreast of the top-seller list, to keep an eye out for the profound yet subtle masterstrokes most likely to shape our cultural bents and tomorrow’s literary canon. Naturally, then, this week I chanced upon Honest: My Story So Far, the penetrating and provoking debut autobiography of the ever-erudite Tulisa Contostavlos. She’s made mistakes that she’s learned from, we knew that bit already, but in her new memoir the X Factor judge offers new snippets from her slog to the top. Never one for reticence, T muses at one point that, if it hadn’t been for her happening upon music, she’d most likely be living with a drug dealer by now. And then what? We’d be one sex tape down, for one thing. FHM’s ardent readers would be pretty miffed, for another. And Nicole might be our favorite female on the panel. Perish the thought.

‘What do you want to do when you leave school?’ It’s the third-degree opener we’ve all been stung with at awkward family weddings, and one about 95% of us have given bungling, cringe-worthy responses to at least once. And it seems like such a needless exchange. Could Tulisa have known, as she (apparently) vomited over her first would-be lover aged 12, of the unfathomable pedestal we’d come to set her on? External circumstances sometimes call for a rethink. This week, I myself came terrifyingly close to jacking in the degree, the blog, the lot, and chucking myself into the closest monastery around. Yes, you read it right.

The culprits: The show's line-up ranged from sleazy to sleazier

The reason for my new leaning towards abstinence is MTV’s brand (dare I even type it?) spanking new reality series, The Valleys, which I ill advisedly tuned into for its opening episode last week. The show plucks 8 of the orangest, crudest no-hopers the South Wales Valleys has to offer and plonks them in a Cardiff pad, tailing each of them as they attempt to live out their glamour model/party boy dreams. It has induced almost Celebrity Big Brother circa 2007 controversy for its boorish representation of Welsh youth, with the not-exactly-demure Imogen Thomas and Jonathan Ross weighing in on the fall-out via Twitter. The worry, amongst those who quickly panned the programme, is that MTV is lavishing the same sleazy reputation upon the people of Wales that it heaped on Newcastle with Geordie Shore. At the risk of sounding like most of its stars, however: what about me? I’m about as Welsh as a punctured rugby ball, but I felt violated, ashamed and, at the same time, bored to tears by the show.

'You can't s**g a personality': Chidgey showed a way with words

From the moment its smutty cast made their introductions and entrances into the house, The Valleys’ lack of likeable figures was manifest. First into the fray was supposed Beyoncé dead-ringer Lateysha, and Ms. Knowles will be glad to hear I’ve seen spatulas that look more like her. Lateysha went on to become the episode’s instigator of audience enmity, not least when she cavorted over wannabe-rapper Leeroy and then refused to bed him on the basis that the ‘only thing she was giving head to was her pillow’. Aside from the time she slobbered all over fellow housemate Nicole, Lateysha treated any potential competitor for male-attention with theatrical ill-will, lashed the majority of her roomies with her spiky tongue and generally made me thank Christ for my Y chromosome.

Classy lady: Carley quickly did away with her top

To be fair to Lateysha, though, her lewd and bawdy contemporaries didn’t do much better. As bricklayer Chidgey talked over snogging with his mother, model Jenna surmised that her 4K breast implants were just ‘meant to be out’ and frisky kick boxer Aron arrived wearing a V-neck deeper than the Atlantic, it became clear that the episode would continue to be almost pornographically indelicate. Aspiring PR-girl Carley showing up and hastily whipping out her pierced-boobs for Chidgey to cop a feel of was probably the hour’s lowest ebb (though, admittedly, not for Chidgey), but debasement was never out of the frame for too long. By the time the show’s subjects were flailing around on the floor of a Cardiff nightclub and being as liberal with the booze as they had evidently been with the fake bake, I felt like I needed a good scrub down.

The series’ stars soon added ‘fast’ to ‘loose’ and proved their supreme indifference when picking a mate. ‘Romantic’ relationships became more confusing in five minutes of The Valleys than it has in 50 years of Ken Barlow, with Lateysha first liking Leeroy, then Leeroy liking Carley, and Carley liking Chidgey, and Chidgey liking Jenna, and Jenna just liking her chihuahua. Though it’d be naïve to expect it to be subtle and meandering, even for a reality show, it all just seemed hopelessly fast-paced for an opening episode. It’s been a day or two since I (somehow) finished the installment, and I’m already fuzzy on its erotic ups and downs. Even if I could get beyond the debilitating sexual debauchery, I’d be fighting a losing battle trying to learn or care about house-dynamics.

I’m assured, by MTV’s site itself, that the series does have some sort of discernible format. Granted, occasionally a wide-eyed, smirking 40-something would take to the camera, introduced as ‘Boss’, and jabber senselessly about giving the cohabitants a tougher time, but it was hard to see their place in the ceaseless fornification of it all. One such ‘Boss’ gave Carley a dressing down (about the only time she’s needed any help) for her shenanigans whilst another hauled Chidgey, Jenna and Nicole off to the beach for a modeling shoot, and I’m led to believe they have some mentoring role in the format… In other news, hairdresser Nicole weed all over the shower.

In all, it’s an ignorantly bleak picture of The Valleys that, with Carley labeling it a ‘f*****g s***hole’, has every cause for concern. But I wouldn’t worry yourself too much, Imogen – even the chihuahua came off pretty poorly.

Downton: Third Time Luckier

Of all of our modern institutions, Marks & Spencer is surely the most indispensable. Governments come in handy, hospitals pitch in now and again, but it's those green plastic carrier bags that most assuredly stop us from heading the same way as the Neanderthals. Last Tuesday, on my bi-weekly pilgrimage to the Temple of Twiggy, I was reminded of just why we’re so indebted to store’s namesakes. Just as the Egyptians relied on grandiose obelisks to tell the time of year, we need Marks and Sparks to signal the change of seasons, to give some import to the months on our calendars. This week, Marksies proclaimed the beginning of the end for 2012; in my local branch, shelf upon shelf of reindeer- and holly-adorned cards heralded the approach of December, and enormous tins of biscuits signaled the end of beach-body worries. Yes, it’s been given the sacred green light; Christmas is round the corner, and the omnipotent M&S says it’s going to be as overdone as ever.

Christmas, Marks’ divines, seems to be something that we readily slip back into year in year out, despite gorging ourselves silly on it just 11 months before and not giving it a moment’s thought ever since. Why? Because it’s just that good. It doesn’t need yearlong plugging or some primped up format; we’ll take it back exactly as we saw it off. Here’s where I justify this rambling preamble. TV shows (or, I should say, good TV shows) are accustomed to this very same warm welcome when they return for another stint on screen. Doctor Who does it with ease. Strictly does it pretty well, and The X Factor would do it better if it weren’t for its shape-shifting panel. Last Sunday, it was Downton Abbey’s turn, and judging by the praise it’s scooped since, it did it better than all of them.

Sign of the times: Downton dominates September telly

What furnishes Downton with the ability to pull us all back, now to its third season and to sprawling, decade-long plots, is its mastery of drama. All drama. Downton can deal with death in one scene and with the wrong cutlery being laid out in the next, treating each with equal gravitas. It doesn’t discriminate between the ladies and the lady’s maid, and with deft writing makes us genuinely (annoyingly) care about what Mrs. Patmore’s got planned for dinner just as much as we care about the Crawley sisters’ love lives (or certainly Lady Edith’s). In one of last week’s heavyweight storylines, Bates (Brendan Coyle) remained incarcerated for a murder he may or may not have committed as Anna (Joanne Froggatt) set about trying to prove his innocence. Not since Richard Hillman has a murder plot been so titillating; good-guy Bates’ relentless ‘how-do-you-know-I-didn’t-do-it’s, coupled with that sedate smirk and the refusal to believe this pair will ever really end up happy, would leave even the most naïve defense lawyer doubting Bates’ clean hands. Equally engrossing, though, was the appointment of O’Brien’s (Siobhan Finneran's) nephew Alfred (Matt Milne). Though less obviously of moment, the conflict the new boy sparked between former damnable duo O’Brien and Thomas (Rob James-Collier) was passably dramatic and, essentially, even a little funny. The preview for next week, as far as Downton’s fusion of big and small melodramas goes, offered a resounding relief. Too often with once-masterful series, producers see fit to make every episode a life or death, larger than life dilemma from theme tune to credits (I’m looking at you How I Met Your Mother), so it’s reassuring to see that Downton looks set to continue to concern itself with all of it’s characters quibbles and quandaries, be it Lady Mary’s (Michelle Dockery's) betrothal or Daisy’s (Sophie McShera's) baking mishaps.

A tamed shrew? Hope not...

Comforted though I was that Downton stuck to its tried and tested format, I couldn’t help but be a little sad at the change in Matthew (Dan Stevens) and Mary’s now-romantic relationship. For the last two seasons, the pair provided some almost Cowell/Cole-esque chemistry, a will they/won’t they scenario that eclipsed even Anna and Bates’ budding romance and thorny lines that Lady Grantham (Maggie Smith) herself would be proud of. Last week, however, they strolled serenely in Downton’s grounds and made puppy dog eyes at each other over the dining table. Mary’s indignation at Matthew’s refusal to accept the bequest of his ex-fiancé’s father gave them the chance to get back to their acidy best, but the pair wound up looking more like a bickering old couple for the majority of the 90-minute premiere. With the show now in its third run, and the on-off status of Maryhew being so previously explored, it was unavoidable that the thoroughly watchable courtship couldn’t last forever; how could a show that romps through months in a single episode hang on to the same tried and tested character dynamics, no matter how good they may be? Though the lackluster lovers didn’t do much to enliven last Sunday’s show, there were hints by the end that we might not have seen the end of Mary’s feisty best, nor Matthew’s defiant bewilderment of her, and I’m hoping the twosome shed their newfound vanilla in future episodes despite now being man and wife.

Welcome to the family: Branson and Sybil returned from Ireland

The high point in the series premiere, for me, was Branson (Allen Leech). In seasons one and two, it was an uphill battle whenever the family’s driver appeared in a scene; his routine socialism, his sultry, toddler-like countenance whenever Sybil (Jessica Brown Findlay) mentioned her family’s wealth and that anticlimactic episode in which he played a footman hardly endeared him to audiences, plus Lady Grantham never much liked him and she’s a difficult woman to disagree with. On Sunday, Branson’s change in status from chauffer to in-law gave him new gusto. His interactions with Sybil’s family, which toward the end of season two were predictably stale, were last week tense, barbed and engrossing every time, and his return to the servants’ quarters as a man of wealth and noble marriage proffered some impeccable Downton-showdowns as he came face to face with a formidable Carson (Jim Carter). Branson’s newfound bromance with Matthew (why did they never think of this before?) and their resolve to stick together after ‘taking on the Crawley sisters’, gave him yet more solid screen time, plus the chance for Downton to introduce a solid male friendship to replace Lord Grantham’s and Bates’.

Change, whether it be regrettable as with Maryhew, or much-called for as with Branson, was something Sunday’s installment didn’t shy away from, and couldn’t if the series really is to go on for the future stints that creator Julian Fellowes has promised. It must be a nag for the show’s writers when their initial set up won such wide acclaim, but they needed to move their characters’ personal lives on to keep in-step with the ups and downs of 1920s England. And they did. Glaringly, though, the program’s makers neglected to do the same with the namesake of the series, Downton itself. When the show first hit our screens in 2010, it was preoccupied with ‘the future’ of the Abbey, and whether it was to stay under Crawley control. Matthew’s arrival dually resolved and complicated the matter, but the wellbeing and ownership of the estate was always held in near distance, a lingering reminder that Mary needed to pull Matthew or kiss her childhood home goodbye. Two years on, and this opening episode was still harping on the same theme, this time around because Lord Grantham had made a botched railroad investment that saw his family’s wealth drop faster than Red or Black’s viewing figures. Though a spot of calamity’s never a bad thing for a drama, it’s a bit of a pity that its writers couldn’t come up with something more original, not least because it half-trivializes Mary’s finally bagging herself the Downton-heir.

Nurturing the special relationship: Martha's arrival shook things up

A final word has to go to Shirley MacLaine for her stand-out performance as Cora Crawley’s Yank mother, a role which has seen Shirl take on that of unlikely poster-girl for series three. True, her best lines were all in the adverts and, yes, Maggie Smith still outstrips the rest of the cast as far as wit goes, but Martha Levinson’s character proved last week to be outlandish enough to ruffle feathers but not enough to wreck the show’s reserve. As the series wears on, I’ve got my fingers crossed that she and Carson will be locked in a room together for five minutes as a social experiment on who would crack first. My money’s on the butler.

The Last of The Last Weekend

It’s that ubiquitous childhood memory that none of us is sure actually happened, the staple film scene that calls to mind about a dozen titles without having been in any of them. A boy, let’s call him Tommy, is finally shunning the stabilizers and going it alone. His dad, let’s call him Joe, for a brief time eschews his movie-role as the hapless thirty-something who never quite bonded with poor Tommy to take on the role of cycling mentor. It’s green, and there’s dog-walkers and children looking on, maybe even the bigger kids from Tommy’s class. Joe guides his junior carefully along as Tommy beams: he’s doing it, daddy! Swelling with pride, Joe releases Tommy to go it alone, to steer unguided. Cue triumphant music. Then adversity hits. Providing a timely twist to the story, as Tommy’s burgeoning trust in his father is dashed and the only way to salvage it is an airport chase, Tommy realizes his old man has relinquished support. Tommy panics, and his handlebars twist furiously; he snakes off the park’s path and onto the lawns before careering disastrously away from his father and smashing into the bushes (or pond, dependent on whether the film’s budget allows it). After an auspicious start, it’s all gone horrible awry. This week, I watched the final two parts of ITV drama The Last Weekend, which garnered a favorable DitB post for its first installment. Wherever could I be going with this?

A tall order: The Last Weekend had set the bar high

Perhaps I’m being a touch too harsh with my Tommy-analogy; there was, throughout the penultimate and final Sunday-night episodes, some accomplished drama-writing. The headache came from picking out the good bits from the bad, especially towards the end when the latter very much held sway. Thematically, the series continued to offer food for thought with its format as Ian (Shaun Evans) resumed his role as involved narrator and proceeded to tell his story. At the start of episode two, he revealed that he was facing an investigation at the school where he worked for the apparent racial assault of a playground bully, and the revelation succeeded in making us reevaluate the memories he’d shared with us in part one; it added a layer of complication, of deceit and mistrust, to Ian’s account. Towards the end of the show, too, Ian remembered the line ‘come and give me a hug’ cropping up in a conversation between himself and his beloved Daisy (Genevieve O'Reilly), but wouldn’t or couldn’t clarify the specifics. As he became increasingly fixated by the wife of his former best friend, Ian seemed capable of convincing himself of things that had never been true, of doctoring his own recollections to appease himself, and even remembering words spoken by Daisy that were never said in reality. The unease we felt towards Ian quadrupled with these semi-edited memories, and it was thought-provoking even without this bonus. Can we trust what we’re told? Can we believe first hand accounts? Is everything we remember, or are told, a censored and warped form of the event? Judging by our universal Tommy-memory, maybe we’re all a little bit Ian.

Moments in episode three, too, threatened to undermine my father/son cycling-metaphor. Unhinged and jealous, Ian set out to sabotage the intimacy between Daisy and her art client Milo (Alexander Karim), and cover his own tracks in Ollie’s (Rupert Penry-Jones') eyes after forcing himself on Daisy at the end of the penultimate part. Ian planted the seed in Ollie’s head that Daisy was being unfaithful, leading to a dinner-scene in the final installment which saw an erratic Ollie almost come to blows with his wife’s client after demanding to know who had slept with whom over the weekend. There was something notably Othello about the situation (especially with the pervading mentions of racism and storms), and the awkwardness around the dinner table was almost tangible. Although it was subtle and sharp, though, the scene proved poisonous to the pace of the series. Ian’s manipulation of Ollie had, in the end, come too late on; a slow-burning part of the plot, it was introduced five-sixths of the way through the run and served only to disrupt the momentum we’d built up to this point. In my last post, I celebrated the show for its understated drama and gradual build-ups, but the time for such measured writing was long since passed by the time the five-some sat down to dinner.

Three's a crowd: Ollie and Daisy are watched over by Ian

With the pace taking a pummeling, the tension of the series became its only hope; sluggishness could almost be excused if it had been anxious or edgy, but The Last Weekend offered neither. When Ian, still guilty after effectively raping Daisy, walked back to the sofa where it had happened, Ollie launched towards him with a sword in hand, ranting and crazed. But it was just a joke. When Ollie ominously told Ian to get in his revving car and that they ‘needed to talk’, things look set to finally get going. But it was just about their blasted sporting competition. When Em (Claire Keelan) got teary at the table following Ollie’s remarks, she tantalized us with the thought of her own secret. But it was just about not being able to conceive, and she hurriedly shrunk back into the woodwork never to be heard from again. When Daisy’s protestations were ignored, she looked ready to sensationally tell Ollie what his supposed friend had done to her and Ian would finally get his comeuppance. But she kept it to herself. With each of these anti-climaxes we felt cheated, and the series’ ability to conjure up any semblance of tension became less and less as time wore on. By the time Ollie and Ian did have their final spar and Ollie came a cropper, I half expected them to both start heartily embracing and giggling ‘April Fool’s!’ at one another; it was an unremarkable, silent underwater episode that did little to remedy the tedium that had gone before it. Tension-trouble also came from the fluid dynamics within the group. In episode two, Ian seemed buoyed by his and Ollie’s apparent joint mistrust of Milo and disheartened when, in a doubles tennis match, he was paired with the newcomer against his decades-old buddy; the rapidly shifting relationships meant that any established tension quickly counted for nothing, and with Ian’s Milo-angst and Ollie-angst being so interchangeable it was difficult to care about either.

Bookish: The novel adaptation should perhaps remain in print

The series’ close was the biggest giveaway that this was telly based on a book, namely Blake Morrison’s thriller novel, and also the time that my Tommy-analogy was most unreservedly applicable. As Ian’s past and present fused, and he finished his story by visiting Daisy, it became clear that some time had elapsed between Ollie’s demise and Ian’s account: Daisy had moved on, Em had divorced her wayward husband and Ian was gaunter and shabbier than ever. After a final rejection from his university sweetheart, Ian was left jabbering obsessively about mathematical signs (having revealed, conveniently, that he was fixated by the number 9 about twenty minutes back) and plots to finally claim his triathlon prize money from Ollie. After such a promising start, it was bizarre without the excuse of being symbolic or well thought-out, and wholly unsatisfactory having persevered with episode three. In novel-form, perhaps it came off as uniquely cathartic or more justified, but on screen I, for one, felt more duped than a dripping-wet Tommy heckled by those pesky big kids.