The Madness of King George III (National Theatre, 2018)

"May I congratulate Your Majesty on another splendid stool?"

Circumstances, not necessarily good ones, make it possible for me to watch and blog this triumphant production from the National Theatre and the Nottingham Playhouse- both of which will need support in the coming months, as theatres traditionally do in times of plague.

Alan Bennett's wonderful 1991 play (look in the films index for my blog of the excellent 1994 film starring the late, lamented Nigel Hawthorne) is, perhaps, dated by the depiction of blue urine and the then-fashionable diagnosis of porphyria. But who cares. Literary art needs not a diagnosis. It deals in human nature. And Mark Gatiss- not, perhaps, a traditionally classical actor, gives us a performance which may well surpass that of the sainted Sir Humphrey.

The play is, of course, a masterpiece. We first see the king as he is- erudite, sexually repressed, an extrovert forced inwards by a role which forbids introspection. He is a force of personality when sane, as the early scenes effortlessly depict. The reason for his lapse of reason may not be porphyria- Gatiss has suggested a nervous breakdown- but it matters not. What matters is the star, and Gatiss more than delivers. The script sings of human nature, of the 1780s, of the British constitution, of the human psyche. Of all the kings of England, Charles II is the one you'd want a pint with, but you’d want George III on the psychiatrist’s chair. He may have weathered the crisis of 1788. but his end would not be a happy one. The gilded cage, inevitably, has its casualties.

It is, perhaps, questionable that the quacks should all be played by women, but one of them is the wonderful Louise Jameson. But the production gets no further criticism, from me. Again, we see an erudite and human script triumphant. And Gatiss is a revelation. Please... see this production before Thursday.

A Very English Scandal: Episode 3

“I was rude, I was vile, I was queer, I was myself!"

After a peerless couple of episodes, themselves a bloody good example of quality telly, this final episode simply knocks both of them into a cocked hat. Extraordinary.

We see the evidence pieced together, inexorably, until the shocking moment of Thorpe's arrest arrives. The storytelling beats are perfect, the mix of humour and pathos just as in real life, the structure of the whole thing an absolute triumph of both writing and direction, the dialogue simply magnificent, the ending deeply satisfying.

There is of course a harsh light, leavened necessarily by humour, into the shocking levels of homophobia, police brutality, hypocrisy and rank snobbery- the way Thorpe blanks his old friend David, who happens to be northern and common, in the courtroom. But there is also a nod to the other side of the '70s- the clothes, the disco, the famous Peter Cook ribbing of the summing up with the line about "player of the pink oboe". There is injustice; there is inequality; these things are not ok and must be fought, but still there is life, and there is laughter, and there is joy. It's all wonderfully RTD and, after the sadly under-viewed Cucumber, reminds us that RTD is one of the best writers we have. That domestic, semi-confession scene with semi-confession, cod in parsley sauce, love, forgiveness and very understated English emotion, is alone worthy of a BAFTA.

Hugh Grant, of course, also triumphs here, finding even more nuance within this complicated, genuinely progressive man who, in the end, reflexively abuses his privilege to do terrible things, yet is also a victim of the prejudices of his generation. Adrian Scarborough excels too, though, enjoying himself hugely stealing the show as the larger-than-life George Carman. Yet Ben Whishaw perhaps lingers in the mind as Norman finally gets his day in court and finally becomes the gay icon he was destined to be.

A truly historic piece of telly, then, and it bloody well better get that shedload of BAFTAs. Perhaps, also, this is posterity's verdict on Thorpe, a complex man but not a good one. But, er, let's not be dissuaded from voting Lib Dem anyway. I'm fairly sure that Vince has never had any bloody huge Great Danes shot to cover up a murky past, and I wouldn't put it past either May or Corbyn...

Doctor Who: A Town Called Mercy

"Everyone who isn't an American, drop your gun!"

Well, that was… adequate, I suppose. Nothing seriously wrong with it but it didn't really sing. Mostly it was the formulaic plot and the tiresomely excessive focus on the ethics of Kahler-Jex at the expense of the fun, but there was a certain lack of sparkle.

On the other hand, a Doctor Who western is a cool idea, even if it was done better forty-six years ago. The location filming in Spain ensured that the whole thing looked great, and there were a pleasing number of tropes to go around, from the lynch mob at the town jail to the gunfight at noon. I especially liked the undertaker, who reminded me of Back to the Future III. Then again, this is a timey-wimey Western. It couldn't not remind me of Back to the Future III.

Interestingly, Amy and Rory disagree on whether the Doctor is right to crudely expel Jex  from the town and send him to his death. Also interesting is that Amy notices a harder edge to the Doctor when he travels alone for too long. He may have regenerated since this was last an issue, but the Doctor still needs someone to stop him. And, right now, this is a problem, because he's gradually drifting away from Amy and Rory…

Ultimately the episode suffers because of the excessive hand-wringing over Jex. Yes, I know, we're meant to see a parallel between the two alien doctors, and the Doctor's crimes are arguably worse than Jex's. But vague parallels don't get us very far.

The cyborg is cool, I suppose, as is the ending, although the narration device seems a little forced and pointless, and there are enough set pieces to stop the episode from being overly bogged down. Still, meh. Hopefully there'll be more to talk about next week.