Greenwalt and the Grimms

Nine years ago I was struck inconsolable by the brutal end of a romance. Following a tumultuous seven-year affair I had hoped we’d be together for the foreseeable (she had lobbed herself off a tower on one occasion and we’d managed to ride even that out), but fate had ordained differently. I went through a stint of resenting vague reminders of what she had meant to me, of snarling at second-rate imitations who tried to steal her crown. I’m talking here about the end of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (what else?) and the chasm the series’ end left in the genre of fantasy drama. But time heals all. I’ve been hearing a whole host of promising things about the new detective-cum-fantasy show “Grimm” which premiered in the States late last year, and this week I resolved to smash down my lingering slayer-issues and take the plunge.

The show’s premise is ingenious; it’s based on the fairytales compiled by the German folklore-whizzes the Brothers Grimm in the 19^th Century- our most abundant source of children’s tales. The series follows the detective and newly discovered “Grimm” (someone with an ability to see “Wessen” or other-worldly creatures for what they really are) Nick Burkhardt navigate his way through murder cases using his mythological endowments and broadly lead a double life as Grimm and average-Joe. He’s joined in life one by his dead aunt’s scrapbooks and a reformed Wessen; in the other by an oblivious fiancé and a swaggering friend slash partner detective. The parallels with my beloved stake-bearing, vamp-boinking Buff-stuff are palpable, which is no doubt down to co-creator David Greenwalt who featured on Buffy’s and spin-off Angel’s credits episode upon episode.

Bad impression: Monroe's transformations leave him in Nick's firing line

I decided to adhere to the three-date rule when downloading and bought the first trio of episodes (potential iTunes marketing ploy?), but after just the pilot I was gushing about the show’s virtues like some love-struck teenager. Things got going with the grisly murder of a red-hoody clad college student jogging in the woods and the disappearance of a similarly dressed schoolgirl. The hunt for the killer would have made a stellar episode in its own right, with Nick mistakenly tackling and accusing a shifty looking guy who lived close to the scene of the crime whilst the real culprit kept his latest pray locked in the basement of his wood cabin. Alongside all this routine killing, kidnapping and macabre postman stuff, however, the show saw Nick being visited by his terminally ill Aunt Marie. She brought with her both an axe-yielding demon that made a claim on her life (to be gunned down by Nick) and the revelation that her nephew is destined to fight forces of darkness. She mysteriously revealed that Nick comes from a line of Grimms, who have the ability to detect Wessen presence and must stifle their attempts to wreak havoc on mankind. As it turns out, the hallucinations Nick had been having about people in the street disfiguring have some weight to them, and he must act upon rather than suppress them. Cleverly, the aforementioned innocent guy (Monroe) Nick the detective took out is a reformed wolfish Wessen himself, and became an asset to Nick as he hunted down the real Big Bad Wolf and rescued the snatched Red Riding Hood. Greenwalt’s ability to cram all this into an hour’s slot is testament to the genius he showed with Buffy. Without being bogged down in explanations the episode offered up a fast-paced and double-stranded first helping.

Episode two, “Bears Will Be Bears”, was a second story of two halves. Aunt Marie continued to be hospitalised and yet more attempts were made to bump her off before she wound up dying in Nick’s arms (tough week for her, as they go). One of her attempted murderers was a bitingly attractive “Hexenbiest" creature Nick encountered in the pilot, and she goes on (from what I have gathered) to become critical. In a twist, it was revealed that she had some tie to Nick’s boss who knew all about the double life of his employee. That half was done masterfully; the lines between good cop and bad cop became blurred (something that even “Buffy” avoided during Season One), Nick was left out on his own as a Grimm and the efforts of Monroe to go against the Wessen-grain and protect a Grimm was a toss-up between comic and heart-wrenching. The remaining 50% of the episode, consisting of the case Nick became embroiled in as a detective, was just so-so. Based loosely on Goldilocks and the Three Bears, it focused on a boorish family arranging a hunting rite of passage for their teenage son with a human couple as game. The use of the Grimm elements came across as fresh, still, though it all became pitifully overshadowed with what was going on with Aunt Marie and Nick’s calling. To have held its own as an equally arresting thread of the show, the story needed to be a smidge more multifaceted. In the Red Riding Hood pilot there were false trails and red herrings: both noticeably absent here. Plus it was taxing to care too much about what happened to the human pray; the episode opened with them breaking into a house and being a little too irritating to scoop themselves much more than indifferent audiences. In all, a bittersweet second date watching.

Love-hate relationship: Adalind and Nick are thrown together

Third time lucky, as they say. Episode number three, “Beeware”, saw the series reach dizzying new heights (this is especially of note because Greenwalt is absent from the writing credits- a reassurance that he isn’t carrying the whole caboodle). When a flash mob was organised via Twitter and a young lawyer came a cropper in its midst, Nick rapidly discovered that one or two in the mob around her were bee-like beasts, called Mellifers, who are used in the world of Grimm creatures to send messages. I won’t give you a blow-by-blow (partly because I’d be here for hours) but the show culminated in a battle that was ostensibly between three attorneys who shut down a factory and its miffed owner, but was ultimately a face-off between Hexenbiest and the Queen Bee of Mellifers. Nick wasn't only tasked with concealing the true nature of the dispute from his co-workers; his job as a detective called him to defend the very Hexenbiest who had tried to do in Aunt Marie a few weeks before. Naturally, Nick’s being pulled in two directions by each of his respective paths gave the episode pace and suspense (“If something happens to me it won’t just be a Grimm killing a Hexenbiest. It’ll be a cop letting an innocent woman die.”), and his spontaneous decision to gun down Queen Bee bucked all my expectations. Equally arresting was the dynamic he shared with Hexenbiest Adalind; there was resentment, vengeance and outright threats being hurled about, but also an unmistakeable attraction between the pair that provided a darker, less clear-cut close. What episode three excelled at was to provide a plot that was entangled intimately with Nick’s infantine Grimm role so that the two egged one another on, rather than to offer an imaginative but too much disjointed concept a la “Bears Will Be Bears”. After Beeware? I was buzzing (sorry).

The day job: Nick and Hank investigate

"Grimm" holds promise, for me, because of its sharpness and symbolism. In episode three the ironic use of social networks by beastly creatures that creepily set murder plans in motion enabled viewers, if they so wished, to look a little deeper than the words on the script. Even in the less heralded “Bears Will Be Bears” the use of a barbaric hunting game as a coming of age celebration tactfully poked at Western society’s dressing up of its activities under the guise of refinement and taste. Nick’s continued use of Aunt Marie’s trailer following her death, meanwhile, and its dual role as a research base and arsenal, emblematizes what we less obviously take from parental figures as we gain adult independence. And if astute and witty metaphors don’t whet your appetite? Grimm has a tip-top cast, right down to the junior policeman Wu; when asked if he can fiddle with CCTV recordings in the hunt for a murder culprit, he responds with droll, “Of course I can. I’m Asian.”

Early days it may be, but I’m the commitment type. What’s stopping me giving myself wholeheartedly up to "Grimm" just yet is its lack of a whopping, top-dog villain. The few adversaries Nick has bagged himself, thus far, he’s pretty much taken out, and the absence of a mammoth big bad has hindered things just a smidge. Of course, this area looks set to be rectified post-haste; Nick was warned in episode three, “Beware. It’s close.” Ominous. There’s also his sinister-looking, bent boss, who could nimbly spring to the calling of nemesis. Unlike episode one, I feel the second and third handicapped themselves by having Nick’s visions serve, on a silver platter, gargantuan indications of who would turn out to be assailants. It struck, as Nick interviewed a witness in “Beeware” and he happened to morph into a demon on the spot, a little too easy.

In all, the show looks set to be ace. It’s satisfyingly different to its fantasy-drama predecessors and (much as it has been inevitable for me) deserves to be judged on its own glaring merits. There are well-crafted, age-old stories, conflicted characters and stunning one-liners. If I have to move on from “Buffy”, at least I’ve waited for a corker.

One Line Wonder

Hank (Nick’s cop buddy, after Nick sees Adalind transfigure into a grotesque Hexenbiest): Why can't you look at her ass like the rest of us?

The Fortune Telly-er

I see Nick’s fiancé Juliet becoming a bigger presence as the series progresses; her being put in jeopardy or even being bumped off would give Nick the drive to fully commit to his new life as Grimm.

There’s got to be some more explanation about the deaths of Nick’s parents on the way. His Aunt Marie merely said that they had been killed- by whom? Will their killer become Nick’s much-needed adversary?

Is Religion Good For Children? Jury's Out. But Sunday Mornings Are Good For Me

Ah, Sunday mornings: to the devout, they likely foretell worship; to the not so devout, the walk of shame; for Lionel Richie, they’re simply easy; for me, they herald a time sacrificed unfailingly and gleefully to post-noon lie-ins. To my parents, and to my grievance, they this week seemed to connote a time ripe for raucousness, saucepan-banging and door-slamming. Ergo, two mornings ago I could be found crabbily flicking through Sunday morning’s small screen offerings searching for something to numb the effects of a rude awakening.

Having not much explored weekend morning telly since the days of SM:TV, I admit I hadn’t heard of the BBC ethical discussion show “The Big Questions”, hosted by Nicky Campbell and now in its fifth run. Assuming you’re as clueless as I was: it’s a “Question Time” inspired quasi-debate show that tackles religious and moral issues as a priority. Becoming more clued up on the show since watching it, I discovered it recently underwent a format overhaul that meant scrapping its panel-of-experts element and becoming audience-driven. The moment I got to grips with the premise of the show I was interested (and infinitely less riled by my parents’ blaring). Part of why I’m such a proponent of daytime T.V is because it is its shows that tend to tackle current debates candidly and accessibly. They’re scoffed at for being choc-full of frivolity and cooking-segments, but slots like “This Morning” and “Loose Women” consistently take sensitive subject matter and talk about it in a way that provokes viewer thought and involvement. “The Big Questions”, then, makes these open discussions about contemporary issues its point of focus, and does away with the soap-talk and fashion-segments that puts so many people off sticking with Holly and Phil long enough to get to the good stuff.

Rather than focusing broadly on in-vogue news items, though, “The Big Questions” benefits from increased specificity: it’s attention to prickly subjects within the sphere of religion and ethics. Now I took school painstakingly seriously, but even a 16-year-old Declan perceived Religious Studies as an hour for minimal effort. Countless times I used my R.S. lessons during Year 11 as a revision period, randomly leafing through textbooks chucked on the desk when the teacher came snooping. The snag was the absence of enlivening debate used to make the content remotely engaging; teachers dared not inject controversy into the curriculum and students fresh from the P.C. of P.S.E. and didn’t venture to flag up points in the work they found illogical for fear of being branded xenophobic. What worked so seamlessly for “The Big Questions” is that it dealt with the show’s topic “Is Religion Good For Children?” in a strikingly frank and down to earth manner. Maybe because of its total inclusivity of different faiths and values (more on this in a second), the reign of political correctness was temporarily overthrown and the question was batted about without timidity.

By and large the main contributors to the discussion, and henceforth the backbone of the show, were the invited experts sprinkled amongst its audience. It’s customary to recruit two clashing and resolute figures when hosting a debate (“This Morning”, again: hats off) but “The Big Questions” didn’t trivialise its issue with such polarity. A rabbi, a reverend, a Muslim, a humanist, a psychologist and an atheist (this is reading like a complex “walk into a bar” joke, so I’ll leave it there) all had their chance to grapple with the opinions thrown forward. I’ve already spoken about how the show refused to be curbed by political hypersensitivity, and I think that invaluable quality stemmed from the diverse audience. Each and every contributor was putting his or herself, beliefs and all, up for discussion and the option of being pettily offended or flustered was void. Putting aside the question itself for a moment and at the risk of sounding cringingly clichéd, I found something poignantly uplifting about the eclectic mix of figures sat discussing an issue that, after all said and done, we all have a vested interest in: the future of the country and world in which we live.

Side by side: Reverend Janina Ainsworth, the chief education officer for the Church of England, with Rania Hafez of Muslim Women in Education

Thanks for the show’s topic development goes to Nicky Campbell, who has monumentally upped his game since “Watchdog”. What he especially excelled at was giving the views put forward (bear in mind they were expostulated by people who dedicate their entire lives to them) some bearing within the everyday experiences of viewers as religiously nonplussed as I. When the talk honed in (again, thanks to Nicky) on faith schools specifically he fuelled the discussion by mentioning the recently documented King Fahad Academy in East Acton, the private school thought to have taught forms of Anti-Semitism and Creationism over fundamental scientific principles. I might be naïve, but his only half knowing the ins and outs of the scandal, and the way he had to rely on Andrew Copson of the British Humanist Association to fill in the blanks, lent him an air of spontaneity, genuine involvement and not a whiff of having pre-meditated subjects. Nicky deftly plucked the relevant expert opinions as discussion twisted in various ways, spotting opportunities to enliven the debate a mile off and lining up the most pertinent individuals in time for their arrival. He was tangibly eager to launch himself, come what may, off the fence of indifference and into the sticky issues, regularly challenging the contributors on what they had said and demanding they clarify potential hazy points. Crucially, Nicky kept the talk at high octane levels for the entire hour slot, openly preferring provocative and implication-laden language (“Muslim child”, “Christian child”) to enrage his experts and dexterously returning to topics that got the biggest audience jeers. Why haven’t “The Voice UK” tried to poach him yet?

The Ringleader: Nicky Campbell directed the debate with ease

The non-expert majority of the audience provided yet another asset, especially considering the all-key accessibility factor that makes shows like “The Big Questions” indispensable. Nicky ensured the focus was kept on the debate’s spectators from square one by announcing that not one of those who defined themselves as religious were raised outside of a faith. It steered the discussion down one route and I’ll bet silenced some of the experts’ pre-considered points.  Towards the latter part of the discussion a young woman made the argument that religion can be taught in schools without that making them faith schools per se, and therefore that religious and moral lessons can be learnt without enforcing measures of exclusivity. The comment followed a period of the debate I wont degrade by trying to squeeze in, but suffice to say her offering was a refreshing and frank wake-up call to the fairly abstract surmises being hurled around by the experts. Equally welcome were the “they were like”’s and “he were like”s of a former Catholic school Head Boy who had announced his atheism during a school leavers’ speech. Hearing him articulate his reasons for doing so, and watching devout religious figures respectfully do the same, made me feel that these were issues I too could participate in debating. Accessibility: check.

I’ve already alluded to how absurd it would be to force into a nutshell the sentiments of the debate’s esteemed contributors, but I wouldn’t be doing “The Big Questions” a trifle of the justice it deserves if I didn’t back up how legitimately contemporary, arresting and impassioned the talk became. Nicky, shrewdly picking up a comment by Evangelical Christian Mark Mullins that Christianity is the weakened “glue” that gives our society cohesiveness, directly asked Jenny Taylor of the Lapido Religious Media Centre what the effects of a dwindling sense of religion would be on the U.K. She readily responded that religion underpins strong and assured identities, and that without it children are more vulnerable to the “rampant sexuality being taught in some schools.” Whether Ms Taylor imagines Year 8 maths being taken by Rihanna while Russell Brand heads up the geography department was, unfortunately, left unanswered, but author Stephen Law contested that morality and identity can be fostered independent of religion. Rania Hafez, of Muslim Women in Education, gave her interpretation that morality has become so exclusively imbibed in religion that we need to use religious tools in order to expose children to ethical rights and wrongs, whereas Rabbi Dr Jonathan Romain controversially claimed that during the recent austere times it has principally been religious people manning the soup kitchens. Copson, the aforementioned humanist, belittled the idea that only religious people can feel a sense of obligation and commitment to their fellows and cited his own philanthropic involvement as evidence. Phew, all this and more before my customary Sunday surfacing time…

After just one hour viewing of “The Big Questions”, it was arduously hard to get it out of my head; it is, as far as I can guess from my infantine experience of it, one of those shows that stubbornly sticks with you. Whether you’re accustomed to spending Sunday mornings in a comatose state or not, whether you’re a political and philosophical buff or not, the program makes zero distinctions and achieves more in ten minutes than R.S. would have taken years to execute. Watch it.

Rachel Bilson Takes the Lead in a New Medical Drama/ “The O.C. 2.0”/ Series Where We Hate Her. Oh, Who Cares. At Least She’s Good Looking

The black suit that my parents gifted me with before I left for Exeter has been a gem. During a cash-strapped first year I paired it with ties of every shade of the rainbow (thanks H&M), resourcefully eluding the need to splash more cash as end of term dinners raced round and student finance dried up. My other best-value wardrobe gain has got to be a pair of brown leather brogues: a steal at £40. Preparing for an end of year ball I recently hauled both out to check for signs of wear and tear and chucked them on to be doubly sure of sizing. It was devastating; my two smart-money investments, which I hoped would never let me down, had done so in a severe deficit of style. A black suit and brown brogues? Individually they’re supreme, together they were foul. With hindsight, the more I think about it the less startled I am about it being such an ill-matched paring. Some things in life just shouldn’t go together: the sun at Christmas; denim and pyjamas; Adrian Chiles and Daybreak; Ashley and Cheryl; periodically a coupling will crop up that is plainly unsound.

I feel that this was part of the problem I had when catching up with the new Really show “Hart of Dixie”, which made its UK premiere last week. After noting the involvement of “The O.C.’s” Josh Schwartz and Rachel Bilson (the former created the show and the second starred in it, then and now) plus its mellow, summer evening, Hollister-esque advertisement material, I was anticipating the next big thing in teen comedy-drama. Tersely, the series follows Bilson’s Zoe Hart, an esteemed yet fellowship-less young doctor, travel west to Bluebell, Alabama where she has always been guaranteed a job. Once there, she last week discovered she had been bequeathed half a medical practice by a guy she had never known as her dad, smack-bang an incestuous community where everyone knows everyone else’s business: a marked change from her treasured life in the Big Apple. After 50 minutes of shoddily delivered jaw drops, sluggish one liners and Bilson doing her utmost to muster up chemistry with the mainly-male cast, the pilot’s crescendo was Zoe delivering the baby of a chubby store-worker she had befriended earlier. The head-scratcher for me was where the teen-drama ended and the medical drama began; the labour scene itself wasn’t too substandard (it was no “E.R”, but it was passable), though being tacked on the end of a mediocre girly-girl show fatally compromised it. There’s a Chinese proverb that “Even the best needles are not sharp at both ends.” If Schwarz and co. had gotten to grips with this I may have last night been introduced to a one-ended but piercingly compelling medical drama. As it was, the two genres clashed on a black suit-brown brogue level and it was taxing to appreciate either.

Model Doctor: It's hard to get to grips with Bilson's medical role

The show’s other pitfall was the introduction of its lead (not exactly a stellar start, is it?). By the three-minute mark it was patent that Dr Zoe Hart was sour, shallow and self-absorbed. Following the bar set by “House” the show’s creators sensibly sought to create a volatile protagonist that watchers have a love-hate tie to, but with Bilson’s they delivered an indifference-to-mild-resentment inducing lead. The snag was her seemingly superficial persona being displayed so vigorously so early on; there were no redeeming features to dilute our prickly dislike of her, and it was frustrating to be exclusively tied to her from the off. Zoe would have been substantially less aggravating, and abundantly more comic, had she not occupied the lead role. Think Cordelia of “Buffy”; there would have been the off chance of her redemption but had her ankle-deep personality been permanent it could have been scoffed at and forgiven. Admittedly, my dislike for Zoe lessened as the show rolled on, but it stubbornly refused to dissipate entirely. Portraying her as merely out of her comfort zone in Bluebell would have been commendable, but her systematic and brutal alienation of its residents (“Could you get me a venti soy latte so I don’t fatigue?") left viewers wishing they had been left behind with her old life in New York. And maybe I favour the underdog a trifle too much, but having a character I had already developed a settled dislike for being left half a medical practice by a stranger, exactly at the point she needed a vacancy, did little in the way of endearing her to me. Then there’s Bilson’s suitability, or lack of, to portray an assumingly clued-up medical junior. Maybe it’s because my own doctor looks like Shrek, but it was tough to get past Bilson’s glamour and see her as a credible G.P.

Most exasperating about Zoe’s irrevocable estrangement of viewers is that show’s producers could offer some depth to her character, and tried to, but did so far too late. When we saw her twice call her (apparent) father and tell him she loved him to no avail it was genuinely quite winning, as was the even more engaging dynamic she shared with her brash and impersonal New Yorker mother (a comic goldmine for the show from its opening scene; here’s praying they utilize her). Show producers make hints, using these strained parental bonds, why Zoe is so ostensibly cold-blooded. Had these been more nimble in coming forward, or more express when compared to Zoe’s grueling and unrelenting first few scenes, they might well have salvaged her character. As it transpired, when Zoe took on a more softly-softly role at the episode’s close I couldn’t forgive her earlier ruggedness on account of her mucked up parental relationships, but instead questioned her character’s coherence. As such, the shift from Hitler-ette to Florence Nightingale struck as hasty, illogical and implausible.

Tense: Zoe struggles with parental relationships

The show’s most arresting character, particularly when set alongside Zoe, was George Tucker by a clear mile. When he first offered Zoe a ride into Bluebell and clarified “I’m an attorney. Not an axe murderer” I prepared to hate him for some of the same reasons fueling my Zoe-aversion; the clean-cut, Adonis-like, cocksure type doesn’t seem to deserve or need viewer support as much as a modelling contract. That said, show producers rapidly performed with George what they had omitted to do early on with Zoe. When he spoke of his discomfort at being in New York and love of more intimate, cozy communities it was hard not to soften to his character. He was saved from becoming the naïve butt of the episode, too, when he defended his eyebrow-raising engagement to the series’ she-devil Lemon (what an overlooked celeb-baby name) Breeland by detailing how affectionate and innocent she once was. Here, show’s producers ticked off loyalty, openness and sincerity with aplomb, plus set the seeds for a potentially more conflicted character by making such unmistakable hints about George’s fondness for Zoe.

As far as burgeoning subplots went, the episode offered up a mixed bag. There was definite tension between Lavon Hayes, Bluebell’s mayor, and Miss Breeland, which could hold interest providing it doesn’t devolve into anything too foreseeable; Lemon breaking George’s heart, George finding solace in Zoe, etc. It was an adequately unpredictable, though not astonishing, twist for Tucker to be revealed as Dr Brick Breeland’s lawyer, and thus potentially tasked with getting Zoe’s half share of his practice vetoed, but this regretfully became speedily entangled with and swamped by the overshadowing George-Lemon engagement. Zoe’s discovery that the man who had creepily sent her postcards from Bluebell for years was in fact her father was the moment that the scandal-loving Schwarz’s presence was most strongly felt, and it provided more than anything else the compelling reason to tune in again. The outlook that Zoe will have to rebuild her testy personality in line with the bombshell gives the small glimmer of hope that, by the close of the season, she will be a more cohesive and supportable lead. Naturally, there’s also the option of it being thrown in for sensationalism and of the series reverting to its confused and disaffecting worst. Schwarz, take heed.

One Line Wonder

Zoe’s Mother (having admitted to Zoe she had her illegitimately after an affair and then lied about it for 30-odd years): “Can we just go home and discuss this in therapy like normal people?”

The Fortune Telly-er

The Face-Off: Will things sour with Lemon?

As much as I hope Lemon and Lavon’s dalliance doesn’t become too straightforward and inevitably exposed, I can’t help but imagine it will given the way show producers ruthlessly seemed to sacrifice the fruitful “George V Zoe in court” plot to George and Lemon’s engagement one.

If Zoe persists as the series’ least favorable character it could still have longevity (Ted of “How I Met Your Mother” blazed the trail on this one) as long as the lesser dwelled upon cast come into their own. It would be satisfying if Mabel, the shop worker and new single mum, got some more time in the spotlight a few episodes down the line as she could compensate for such a lack of protagonist progression. Failing this, George Tucker has already set himself up a drama-laden storyline.

It goes without saying that for the series to do well it needs to make up its mind about what it is. Genres are there for a reason; lose the suit or kick off the brogues.

When in Rome: The Bard’s Italian Roots

Typing “Shakespeare” into Google returns 152 million search results in a heartbeat. Impressive, no? “JK Rowling” flags up a comparatively half-hearted 93.4 million, “Bronte” warrants a paltry 45.8 and “Roald Dahl” a barely worth mentioning 8.43. Even with cyberspace E-readers and newfangled publicity campaigns, contemporary writers don’t hold a candle iPhone camera light to good ol’ Bill’s pulling power. Dare to utter the word “Shakespeare” in the majority of public places, though, and you’ll be sniggered at, swerved and branded pretentious. Despite being lauded across the syllabuses as top dog of British literature, the Bard remains a question mark to thousands: apparently off-limits to the masses and the guarded preserve of the world’s snootiest. I took a module on Shakespeare during my first year as an English undergrad (it was obligatory) and found it Countdown-dull until I did my own digging. The snag in the course, for most of us at least (a select and overwhelmingly pompous few claimed to relish it), was that we were pitched in the deep end without a float. Having hitherto scraped by with knowledge of one or two plays, Wills was still a great, fat, bearded blank. Exams aside, it hits me now as a crying shame that Shakespeare’s connotations precede him; if he could be dissociated with the idea of drabness and stodgy plots it might just mean those 152 million search results could inflate still more. Now, BBC2 isn’t renowned for its particularly enlivening subject matter but last night’s Francasco de Mosto-fronted “Shakespeare in Italy” did a stellar job of sprucing up Shakespeare’s image. Was it all factually accurate? Who knows; conspiracy theories about what the man behind the pen actually wrote rather than nabbed off others are ten-a-penny, but the show’s attempts to excite genuine interest in those very sorts of issues shouldn’t be sniffed at.

Brought to life: The show used actors to recreate certain scenes

Crucially, the focus of De Mosto’s Italian excursion was Shakespearean work itself; it must have tempted the show’s producers to make it a sideline of the picturesque Italian scenery or mute it with failsafe and recognizable adaptations, but Shakespeare claimed centre stage. First order of business: explain why Italy is even remotely connected to the most quintessentially British of powerhouses. By beginning with the basics (over a third of Shakespearean plays use Italian backdrops, Italy was the cultural hub of the Renaissance, etc) the show ensured the most clueless watchers were swept along for the ride. De Mosto succinctly outlined (as well as anyone can, with Shakespeare) the premises of “The Taming of the Shrew”, “Othello”, “Much Ado About Nothing” and, to cover all eventualities, “Romeo and Juliet”, and let the works dictate the shooting itinerary. Constant and unedited reenacted scenes sprung up whenever De Mosto relinquished control, and, in one segment, he gave “Romeo and Juliet” some contemporary grounding by dropping in on the building rumored to have once belonged to the family behind the Montagues. Continuing in this vain (eat your heart out, Luhrmann), he headed to meet the nearby “Club of Juliet”. This troupe of bubbly Oprah-ettes act, in the name of the play’s heroine, as agony aunts to dozens of troubled lovers worldwide each year, and producers wanting to give the Bard some modern applicability hit the jackpot when they sought them out; the “Guilliettas” obligingly shared their most touching notes, including those from a prison inmate desperate for a visitor and a homosexual looking for love.

Inspiring: De Mosto toured Italy searching for Shakespearen influences

Not content with detailing and breathing some long-awaited freshness into the plots, De Mosto braved the sticky area of intertextuality. In my own ill-fated module we spent a couple of lectures on this that bored me to tears; the idea that Shakespeare essentially stitched together others’ work and in cases even neglected to edit names. When the initial revelation is over it gets a bit stale, and this was far and away the hour’s lowest point. Ovid was quoted, the (apparently) renowned Italian poet Petrarch was credited with handing Shakespeare the sonnet form, and it was all left behind before it got too painful. Again, drab as it might have been the show’s producers were resolute in making this a legitimate exposition of Shakespeare, and credit must be given to them for not letting it detract from his wider rejuvenation.

The producers openly stressed that a lot of what we “know” about Shakespeare is conjecture; when talking about his so-called “lost years” (between 1985-92, when his whereabouts is still disputed) De Mosto conceded that Shakespeare having ever been to Italy was a debated point. It was a risky strategy: to call a show “Shakespeare in Italy” and then admit Shakespeare might have always stayed out of Italy, but it opened up doors that other producers would have been forced to keep closed. De Mosto was like a journalist on heat when investigating Shakespeare’s supposed unhappy marriage, affair with “The Dark Lady” Emilia Bassano and eventual eccentricity. Kind of takes Brad’s thunder away, doesn’t it?

Passionate: De Mosto took his job seriously

With the show’s success resting on whether or not it could ignite a spark of passion in the face of Shakespeare-apathy, De Mosto was the model presenter. His own passion for the Bard was tangible, his heavy Italian twang spot-on (and although the snaps of his childhood were unjustifiably irrelevant, they at least gave us a glimpse of how he had evolved into such a curious Raymond Blanc/Margaret Mountford mash-up). When he was briefly joined by Emma Thompson, who was struck by Shakespeare-mania when starring as Beatrice in 1993’s “Much Ado About Nothing”, I thought they would implode with eagerness. The pair wound up visiting a stage director for the play who proudly showed them the cream of his 27000-strong prop collection. Much as I wanted to be carried away with Emma and De Mosto’s hysteria, it sadly dipped into the shameful for a few moments; Emma caressed a piece of cloth that could have been my mother’s old net curtains like it was Shakespeare’s own hand and her counterpart got disproportionately distracted by a fan. The Renaissance stage was a colossal part of the reception to Shakespeare’s plays, granted, but it struck me as markedly redundant to a modern audience and removed from this show’s agenda.

I guess any way of making Shakespeare less of a big bad for contemporary audiences deserves commendation, and a show as determinedly anti-highfalutin as this one is especially welcome. After stacks of coursework, presentations and handouts Shakespeare remains a no-go area to the majority of our school leavers, but De Mosto rustled up engagement after less than 60 minutes. Someone, please, give Michael Gove his number.

One Line Wonder

Chief Guillietta (similing sanguinely, unaware of how her advice has affected countless people around the globe): We don't have any background in psychology so we just give suggestions, just like a friend would, maybe even making mistakes.

Celebrating Soap Since 1999

A few weeks back I found myself slumped in a London café wading through Charles Dickens’ “David Copperfield” in an unbearable state of indifference. I didn’t give a dam whether Emily was reunited with Mr Peggoty or whether Trot finally got his Agnes: sorry Chaz, but after 800 pages I was over it. And I was scared; this is a supposed literary masterpiece, revered by book-buffs and lecturers far and wide and I, an English student, couldn’t make myself care about a word. Opting to cut my losses I resigned myself to the idea that my Dickens-time was done for the day and got another coffee. Sitting back down, I caught a snippet of the conversation of a couple of fifty-something women on the next table. “He’s wicked…I think he’ll set Jay up…Shirley’ll find out eventually.” After that Dickens didn’t stand a chance; I knew that they were talking about EastEnders and its recent murder storyline and I became fixed on listening to what they had to say. Scoff if you will but it’s times like this, I thought, that the gargantuan influence British soap operas hold in our everyday lives is at its clearest. Two sets of people, both smack-bang the cultural and financial centre of our country: one drenched soap-talk and the other resenting a revered and sophisticated work for taking up valuable eavesdropping time. Love them or hate them the soaps are an adored fixture of millions of living rooms nationwide, five nights a week. Being in the former camp, I didn’t feel even a jot guilty about sacrificing 90 minutes of my Wednesday evening this week to ITV’s screening of “The British Soap Awards 2012”, which celebrated for the 14^th time the prime talent of our country’s most beloved form of drama.

It’s always somewhat surreal to see soap’s hottest out of context, jocularly enjoying posing for the cameras in their finery rather than dodging bullets, tearing one another’s clothes off and popping out more sprogs than Octomom, but I relish the obligatory red-carpet start to these ceremonies. After a year rife with alcoholic teens, drug-dealing bouncers and knees ups across the board, Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger” was an apt choice for a soundtrack to this segment, though maybe “Moves Like Jagger Circa 1960s following a trip to Italy” would have been a little more accurate. Presenting the show was ITV’s golden silver boy himself Philip Schofield, who instantly gave it the light-heartedness it needed. Indeed, what I most appreciated about Paul as a presenter last night, with his boyish grin and nearly tangible enthusiasm, was the way he didn’t try to make soaps seem anything more than what they are: nothing more than outlandish storylines that strike a chord realized by exaggerated characters that we can’t help but become fascinated by.

The first order of business: Sexiest Male. I think it’s prudent to stress again how shows like this play on their own refusal to take themselves too seriously; parodies, if you like, of the Tinseltown gongs. EastEnders’ Scott Maslen (Jack Branning) scooped the prize and followed Schofield’s example by posing mockingly as he swaggered to the stage. Without trivialising the nomination or coming across as overly arrogant he made sure it was all about good fun and frolics. I had to laugh at the way newcomer Jamie Foreman (Derek Branning), who’s used to starring in shows with a little more grit than the Walford serial, grabbed Maslen triumphantly as his name was announced. Jamie, a word to the wise: categories like this don’t necessarily make or break anyone’s careers. He’s new. He’ll learn. Next up: Sexiest Female. This title deservedly went to the goddess that is Coronation Street’s Michelle Keegan (Tina McIntyre)- hardly surprising given the amount of magazine coverage she gets as the on-again/off-again fiancé of boy band The Wanted’s Max George- and she, like Maslen, insisted she was flattered without getting ahead of herself. More interestingly about this category, for me, was the nomination procured by EastEnders’ Jacqueline Jossa (Lauren Branning). Though she is the second actress to take on the part, it’s testament to the way soap writers can cunningly transition characters from childhood to adulthood: when Lauren first popped up in Albert Square she was just a 12 year old girl but is nowadays ranked amongst soap’s most dazzling sirens.

No wonder she didn't win: Jossa seemed flabbergasted with her Sexiest Female nod

Villain of the Year went, without much surprise, to Corrie’s Andrew Lancel (Frank Foster). Frank racked up quite a record during his time on the cobbles; he brutally raped the tragic Carla, he duped cancer-fighter Sally and he manipulated the loveable but dim Leanne. Thank God Mummy Foster did him in. Lancel conquered EastEnders’ Joshua Pascoe (Ben Mitchell) with his triumph, which I think is a minor travesty; Ben’s character seems to have a lot more depth and dimension than the rotten through-and-through Frank, and it would have been a deserved victory for the Enders writing team. Lancel seemed bowled over by the gong, though, exclaiming at the end of his acceptance speech, “Just want to say to my little boy at home: Isaac, daddy got a prize!” What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the Lancel household’s wall when Isaac gets a little older and asks what his dad’s most memorable storylines on the street were…

As well as Enders’ Ben Lancel topped Coronation Street’s Natalie Gumede (Kirsty Soames) with his Villain achievement. Gumede got herself some recognition, though, when she was next named Best Newcomer. Any character that acts as soap-bitch and still win over the approval of show critics and fans is clearly doing something right, and I was glad Kirsty’s presence on the Street was acknowledged; particularly during the forthcoming storyline that shows her attacking boyfriend Tyrone, she has been swiftly constructed as a uniquely multi-faceted and credible addition to the cobbles.

The next statuette was for Spectacular Scene of the Year. This was a tough call. With the explosion of Kim’s Palace over in Walford, the endless jaw-dropping scenes featuring Hollyoaks killer Silas and even (yes, it actually happened) Ken Barlow doing something other than boring his family to a slow and painful death in Corrie, the ceremony’s panel must have had their work cut out. In the end, the crash involving John and Moira in Emmerdale, which saw the latter scramble out of the precariously balanced car whilst the other plunged off a precipice, emerged a worthy winner.

In yet another category crammed full of deserving victors The Best Single Episode nod went to Becky McDonald’s final Corrie appearance. This is somewhat of a tender subject for me; it’s early days and I can’t pretend to be over actress Katherine Kelly’s departure quite yet. For my own sake, then, I’ll say now that Becky was also named as having the Best Soap Exit. I can’t dwell on all this without getting hung up on it, but I must drop in a comment on Katherine storming the stage and crying disbelievingly “I thought this award was Pam’s!” Clearly, judging by the pretty stung expression pasted on Pam St Clements’ (Enders’ Pat Butcher’s) face, she wasn’t the only one.

Coming into her own: Enders' Lorna Fitzgerald

Seeing off stiff competition from the likes of Alex Bain (Corrie’s aggravatingly self assured and mind-numbingly talented Simon Barlow) and Charlie Kenyon (Doctors’ Cameron Waterhouse- I’m told he’s pretty impressive too, but I’m not part of Doctors’ 20-odd regular viewers), Lorna Fitzgerald (Abi Branning) took to the stage to accept the Best Young Performance title. Again, seeing Lorna come into her own on screen and it being recognized in last night’s ceremony is a massive mark of achievement from the team behind EastEnders. When the aforementioned Lauren Branning was still a pre-teen handful (Christmas Day 2006 and Stacey Slater- need I say more?) Abi was just the chubby, pop-loving, boring sibling of the family, but six years on she’s a strong Square fixture in her own right.

The night’s Lifetime Achievement Award went to Pam St Clement (suck it Katherine Kelly), but despite the efforts of her on screen step-kids Charlie Brooks and Sid Owen to add poignancy and prestige when presenting the gong it was all a little overshadowed. Not only did Philip quip “Walford’s loss is our gain because she’s the new pet expert on this morning”, but the later honoring of Corrie’s Betty Driver (Betty Williams, who passed away last year) took the focus more than a little away from St Clement and her Pat Evans (nee Harris, Beale, Wicks AND Butcher).

Rounding up the panel-decided categories, Jackson Walsh’s euthanasia plot over in Emmerdale scooped the Best Storyline prize and the Best On-Screen Partnership went to Jake Wood and Jo Joyner. In what was probably a personal highlight, Bradley Walsh sauntered onto the stage to present the Best Comedy Performance (claimed by Corrie's Stephanie Cole, who plays Sylvia Goodwin) and took jibes at members of its audience. If press reports are to be believed, and I’m not necessarily saying they are, he took a dig at Michelle Collins’ shoddy ability to speak with a Northern twang that she later demanded be edited out of footage. Granted, she’s taken disproportionate stick for the accent since she started in the role of Stella Price, but given that pint-sized Alex Bain could handle Walsh’s digs with poise such a diva response is a bit uncalled for. Here’s hoping it’s tabloid tat.

Soap fan: Robert Bathurst presented Best Actress Alison King with her gong

Danny Miller, who plays Aaron Livesy, did Emmerdale proud with his Best Actor triumph, and it was only fitting that Emmerdale should scoop a coveted prize given its recent ability to pack a ratings punch and regularly rival EastEnders when they go head to head. Justly, given the way she handled such a sensitive and intense subject as sexual abuse with ease and without taking the obligatory “time off to rest” demanded by many of her peers, Corrie's Alison King (Carla Connor) was named soap’s Best Actress by the immensely acclaimed Robert Bathurst. This was another peak of the show; it’s testament to the role soaps have in our lives that genuinely revered actors distinctly removed from soap-land turn out to show support.

At the ceremony’s culmination, EastEnders was crowned Best Soap as its cast and crew flooded the stage. Was it deserved? Well, it trumps Dickens any day of the week. When accepting the award, spokesperson Shane Richie (Alfie Moon) fished out the show’s brand new exec-producer, Lorraine Newman, and ensured she took a spot centre-stage and camera-facing. I’m glad the show honored the brains behind the soaps in such moments rather than just the faces and names beamed into our living rooms night on night. Earlier, a Special Achievement Award had been presented to series consultant and chief writer Simon Ashdown (the genius behind EastEnders’ most astonishing twists), and it was refreshing that without taking itself too seriously the awards show ensured raw writing talent got a mention.

In all, I won’t pretend the ceremony was quite as scandalously unpredictable as our beloved soaps themselves: Corrie and Enders coming neck and neck; Emmerdale edging in; Hollyoaks and Doctors way off the show’s radar; the 14^th round of British Soap Awards followed the trail blazed by its predecessors with diligence. Still, it was gratifying to so publicly salute soaps and the genuine stimulation and structure they add to the British public’s days month after month. 

Oscars, eat your heart out.

One Line Wonder

Philip Schofield (announcing an advert break): If you even think about turning over we’ll send round Derek Branning. Your call.

The Fortune Telly-er

I wish I knew. Judging by the past year’s colourful plots, it’s anyone’s guess.

The Balcony Plus 365

I always cherished those textbooks at school which, having droned on for reams and reams, conveniently offered a “Key Points” summary at the close of each chapter; keeping pace with and seeing links between so many fresh and engrossing points would otherwise have been impossible. Gladly, ITV’s “William and Kate: the First Year” shot at a similar role, and I can’t help but applaud the way it squeezed the mother of all weddings, jobs, tours, homes and high street brands into a measly hour slot. Just consider what a mammoth ask that is. Unlike my old school textbooks, the programme’s makers weren’t just dealing with one area of expertise. Since April 29^th last year biology, business, English, history, geography and art have all been at play in the private and public lives of everyone’s favourite new Duke and Duchess (sorry, Camilla, but it can't come as too much of a surprise). And thankfully, whether inadvertently or not, by providing such a concise run-through of Kate and Wills’ first year as man and wife the show offered up food for thought that would have otherwise have been wasted.

Iconic: The couple's first matrimonial locking of lips

Of course, the program could only have started with the wedding. Note the “the”. Watching footage of that April morning last year again was sort of surreal. Did our country really come to that much of a standstill? Did Kate and Wills fever reach such an intense pitch? Any glimpse of that date, which chucked dignitaries, celebrities, a crop of Sloane Square’s finest and a smattering of royals into the mix couldn’t fail to be a stunning start to any show. Conspicuously absent from this play back was the newly crowned “Her Royal Hotness” Pippa Middleton: and thank God. From the off the program makers made a point that this was an hour for nobody but our future King and Queen to shine. No invisible VPLs, no gun waving, and no frankly treasonous overshadowing of older sisters. I’ve found it acutely aggravating that the younger Middleton has even glanced longingly at Kate’s thunder over the past year, and credit to this documentary for omitting what has become such an irksome but prominent by-product of the love-match. Instead, the wedding segment was dedicated to getting the inside-scoop on what went on behind closed gilded doors at the Palace. Hugo Bernand, the man behind Kate and Wills’ wedding portrait, spoke at some length about how he bribed the bridesmaids and pages into grinning for the camera by promising them jelly beans. Admittedly not the most titillating revelation for the show to fill its time with, but at least it kept Pippa-talk at bay. Any misgivings I had about the show’s focus were unceremoniously quelled when it turned hastily away from Hugo and onto that balcony moment. Kate’s “Wow!” as she stepped out, the crowds sweeping to watch the couple smooch and the smacker itself; it was all there. It was joined by some superfluous body language expert explaining that, in her professional opinion, the kiss of the newlyweds was them unwittingly revealing that they loved each other- thanks for that one, doctor- but I’m opting to gloss over it.

Bagging Bargains: Kate refuses to live the sheltered life of a princess

I mentioned that squeezing a hugely content-juicy year into just 60 minutes granted viewers the opportunity to spot links between different stages of Kate and Wills’ short marriage, and the abrupt switch of the program from Westminster to Anglesey provides a case in point. After the enchanting ceremony and Disney-film worthy balcony scene, the documentary turned its attention to the relative “normality” of Kate and Wills’ home life. It was, far and away, stuff we’ve heard before: they have no team of staff, Wills works, Kate hearts Waitrose etc., but coming after a blast of Royal Wedding mania it acquired a new ability to startle. Often I’ve been sceptical of just how “normal” the Wales’ can be at their home on an island just off of Wales; is it actually  “normal” by Royal standards but still preposterous for anyone without Charles’ nose to get to grips with? This part of the programme totally answered my qualms. With a story that put Hugo Bernard’s jellybean memoir firmly in the shade, Gwyn Jones, a regular at an Anglesey pub, amusingly recounted how he once encountered Wills doing a pub quiz amongst the locals. It gave the show’s attention to the duality of Kate and Wills’ lives some credibility, and provided that smidge of warm humaneness that they are internationally loved for.

The third stint of Kate and Wills’ first year together that warranted a sizeable chunk of the documentary was their North American tour, beginning last June. I’ve already used the textbook analogy, so I’ll stick with it. This was the page that all those distinct topics we’d read about came together, that “Aha!” moment: the fairytale romance, the humaneness, the quaint British seaside life and, of course, Kate's wardrobe. When they landed in Canada all those individual episodes and stories that had fueled our country’s adoration of Kate and Wills returned in unison as America fell head over heels with them before our eyes. This was, as the documentary showed, the first time hysteria for the couple had been openly displayed irrespective of the wedding and its monarchical significance. People were turning out not only to see the future King and Queen, but also to see the people Kate and Wills are today, and it was somewhat of a turning point. I hadn’t realised it before watching them both side-by-side last night, but in some ways this was a bigger moment for Kate and Wills than the wedding itself. Though without constitutional significance, it was the first time Kate couldn’t hide herself behind a huge dress and the shadows of the more accomplished royals (not to mention Beatrice’s hat). She had to meet, greet and be adored on her own merit. The documentary makers did a stand-up job here to recapture the high-spiritedness of the trip and I felt myself wanting to join the lines of well wishers shown bidding the couple a big American goodbye at the end of it.

However much I’ve droned on about the documentary’s success as a whirlwind synopsis of everything Kate and Wills related since April 29^th last year, it did manage to dig out some snippets that couldn’t be garnered by combing over old footage and clippings. One of the most noteworthy parts of the show was its showcasing of Wills’ immoveable self-awareness and reluctance to become dictated to because of his bloodline. To further remedy the damage they did by unleashing Hugo Bernand’s anecdote upon their viewers, the show’s producers interviewed Kate and Wills’ minder during their Canadian excursion previously mentioned. He recounted how William, when reminded that they were following a tight schedule and told to move hastily past those who had turned out to see him and his new bride, stood his ground and answered that he would take his own time. During the “normality”-driven Anglesey segment, again, William’s determination to forge out a career independent of his future monarchical role and resolve to be treated like other RAF pilots was striking. So too was his answering for Kate during a clip of their first engagement interview. Granted, this last one we could have seen without the documentary’s help, but by giving us his minder’s account the documentary makers drew attention to elements of William that had gone previously unobserved. I always had a sense that Kate and Wills were groomed, prepped and instructed on how to be polished poster-people for the Royal Family but this show thankfully undermined the idea that they are merely mouthpieces. Make no mistake: it includes concessions from Lady Elizabeth Anson, the Queen’s cousin, that those closest to the Royals scrutinise Kate's ability as a public figure, but it bins the common perception that she and Wills are puppets. Clearly there are people to keep them on track, but right now they’re steaming along just fine on their own.

The Royal Scoop: Lady Elizabeth Anson spoke candidly during the documentary

For me “William and Kate: the First Year” was informative, entertaining and illuminating. Naturally, with such notoriously private people there is a limit to how deep documentary makers can delve. It would be daft to expect some “Keeping up with the Windsors” tell-all in which Kate bemoans Wills’ bad habits and he criticises her cooking. So too would it be foolish to even think we’d get any behind the scenes shots of them going about their so-called “normal” lives. But what can be learnt from this hour is that such “normality” does exist for the couple, and that they are taking shape as the future King and Queen spectacularly. Forget Diamond Jubilees. This year is all about the Paper Anniversary.

One Line Wonder

Stephen Gallant (the captain of Kate's dragon boat when she and Wills raced one another on tour): I didn't know if I could touch, what I could touch- I ended up playing Twister with her.

VIP: The Masked Content

Series after series on “Britain’s Got Talent” I’ve been disappointed when the impersonators  are invariably sent packing. Remember that guy from 2011 that did a killer Kevin Webster? I was floored. But, as he undoubtedly now understands, for an impersonator to be a hit he or she has to do a little more than mimic the mannerisms of random targets (Webster has his place, yes, but one couldn’t help think he was picked up here because he fell within the act’s remit). Alistair McGowan’s and Ronni Ancona’s legendary Posh and Becks take sticks in my mind because it came at the time that brand Beckham was born; they were a part of huge shift in what we think of as iconic. Channel 4’s brand new “Very Important People”, opting smartly to mine the once more transformed and even higher charged celebrity infatuation of our times, still could have taken one of two paths as a sketch show: to satirise telly’s most notorious faces in a laugh-a-minute style that, after 23 of them are up, could be looked forward to being seen again but not ruminated on, or to use tongue-in-cheek as a veil for shame inducing observations not just of cultural figures but also of cultural tendencies and values. It doesn’t sound like it at first but it’s a paper-thin line for any sketch show to tread, and what I enjoyed about “VIP” is that it straddled both arenas with skill. It was akin to watching two parallel shows. One was brimming with skewed yet familiar faces/mannerisms and had me howling. The other? It provoked a shade more reflective thought, and cleverly prodded its own role in the reality-star infested culture of today. I’m biased, having already tumbled out of the impersonation show closet and whiled away a half-hour glued to one, but “VIP” has me hooked.

I feel like I have to assert the show’s intellect and style before commenting on the actual impersonation effort and parodied celebrities themselves (this is the aforementioned lighter element of the slot, so I promise if you bare with me I’ll get there). Friday’s offering opened with an on-point Gordon Ramsay in his "Hells Kitchen" set up, loaded with his customary effs, blinds and profane labels. I laughed; this impersonation show was on par with my honoured Kevin Webster-er within seconds. But the show’s stars Morgana Robinson and Terry Mynott, as soon became characteristic, went one further and ironically blended the brutality of Gordon with a celeb-fronted charity appeal (this one being to reduce bullying and name-calling). What was humorous about Ramsay still stood, but became tinged with unmistakable implications, if you wanted to see them, that some reality shows and magazine-faves contribute in a roundabout way to the business of bullying: a business we all recognise is fundamentally wrong when explicitly referred to it.

Such dexterous mashing of telly genres remained a welcome presence throughout (worry not: so did the laughs). Indeed, one of the slot’s most uncanny performances came from Amy Childs as a correspondent for “Very Important News”, as Robinson and Mynott managed to attack both the current Queen of Celebrity Culture and gossip shows in one fell swoop. The reports of Very Important News allowed the show to take aim on documentaries, reality shows and their digital channel counterparts and, maybe to stop it getting a bit heavy, sex tapes. Perhaps even more bravely, “VIP” paired up David Attenborough fronted nature shows with Frankie Boyle-esque stand up. Did it work? Seamlessly. Again, one could laugh at Attenborough’s marginally Joanna Lumley-looking mug parrot on about Boyle whilst perched daringly on the edge of his “habitat”, or could take the show’s hints to consider the barbarism of the Boyle-brigade (Jimmy Carr, given his recent interviews alongside this show’s contemporary style, was lucky to escape Attenborough’s net).

Radio 1 X2: Fearne Cotton met her double last week

I can’t let the hard-hitting side of the show pass by without shifting the spotlight brightly onto the “Fame Skillz” segment (nor can I mention this segment without saying how its Fearne Cotton was sublime, despite how much I’ve sworn to delay comment on impressions themselves). Based on a game show, the sketch saw Cotton guide three pre-teens through a variety of obstacles they might encounter as regular fixtures of today’s most papped nightclub-set. The writers really went to town here, and made it the part of “VIP” in which it was most hard to ignore the social messages of the writers. Suffice to say in one task, “The Cubicles”, Cotton’s cherubs were blasted with white powder. The next was simply called “Rehab”.

Clearly, I’m not as dexterous a writer as Robinson and Mynott. Make no mistake: in “VIP” the hard-hitting complements the slide splitting until the credits roll, but I’m done with the deep stuff for now. On to the much-awaited impressions themselves…

Someone just like you: Adele

After Gordon came Adele; kudos to the show for daring to taunt our most heralded export, both for her sewer motor mouth and her unfathomable articulacy when warbling. Special mention must also be given for picking on Dr Christian Jones of “Embarrassing Bodies” fame; the show can be forgiven for throwing such a random figure into its mix once or twice because of its sheer hilarity. Dr Christian’s Frakenstein-monotone and boorish posture were nailed, and his professional advice to a patient wanting to remedy his, ahem, misshapen package is off the howling-chart. Not content to limit themselves to national targets, Robinson and Mynott’s Katy Perry and Owen Wilson were sharp in concept and portrayal (their Katy sketch is founded on her discussing her upcoming documentary announced just last month- another telling indication that they put a lot of stock on being up to date with their victims).

Not all of the show’s takeoffs were as uncanny as Adele and Ferne. A bit featuring an enamoured Simon Cowell and Dannii Minogue (note again the attention to gossip hot off the press) struck more like a dalliance between Tom Cruise and Victoria Beckham, whilst the Jennifer Anniston to “VIP’s” Owen Wilson needed to lose a few stone, a few locks and more than a few facial creases. The most substandard impersonation, by a mile, aimed for Danny Dyer but instead struck Rhona Cameron (she’d been absent from my thoughts since the premiere series of “I’m a Celebrity…” too, which shows how much Robinson and Mynott erroneously got her bang on).

What the show succeeded on is that, despite its fundamentally sophisticated critique of celebrity culture, it was aware of its own part in such a culture. It would be impossible to create a show to simultaneously satiate and critique peoples’ interest in celebrities without being in-touch with tabloid tat, and “VIP” abandons any airs and graces in this respect. I’ve harped on about the cerebral factor enough, though, and I wouldn’t want to put people off. In a sentence? It’s a hoot.

One Line Wonder

David Attenborough (of sorts, talking about Frankie Boyle): This intriguing creature provides a sort of service for us. If there is something wrong in society such as a pop star who's put on weight, a politician with a funny shaped head or a public figure who's hogging the headlines, such as the parent of a missing child, Frankie will take them down with barbed quips.

The Fortune Telly-er

I hope the show doesn't sacrifice its more hard-hitting stuff for the sake of comedy (even though they can clearly handle that comedy with ease). In future episodes, perhaps the writers will leave reality television alone and widen their net; there have already been hints of this with the take off of a Wilson/Anniston film trailer.