Dead Set: Part 5

 "This makes you the winner of this year's Big Brother".

That quote up there... yeah, it's an empty prize, but aren't they always, zombie apocalypse or no? Blimey, this is far more Hobbesian than I remembered. Utterly, splendidly bleak.

The dark catalyst of a character is, of course, Patrick- a toxic boss and an utter wanker, a liability in normal ligfe but absolutely impossible in a situation of base under siege. This isn't a message of conformity or that individualism is bad; the group are diverse, different and act as a democracy. But the Patricks of this world have no time for the collective. Here, his pointless escape will open the gate and risk everyone. He has to die, as decent people must realise. It's horrible.

Worse, we have Joplin- weak, pretentious, not as clever as he thinks, the perfect pause. And so things degenerate into utter hopelessness. Kelly's heroic last stand consists of just an immediate short scream. We end with a landscape of only zombies and cameras. Metaphor much?

Wow. Zombie apocalypse? Thatcher's children stand no chance. Simply superb.

Dead Set: Part 4

 "I mean, don't forget, this place used to be like a church to them."

Things are hotting up. The Big Brother house is under siege by zombies who are quite blatantly lampshaded as cheerfully blatant metaphors for consumers of celebrity culture. This cheerfully winks at us, knowing that it isn't very clever. But so much else here is.

At last Pippa and Patrick get out to the others, and Patrick- surely based on real producers Charlie Brooker may have encountered: he says, after killing zombie Davina, "I hired her. I can do what I want." And his effect on the group is immrediate, profoundly obnoxious, alienating and clearly making no friends, which may not be very clever in the long run. Yet he's ruthless, makes the hard choices, and you can see how he got where he is.

Meanwhile, we have Riq, the decent romantic, and Alex, the hardened cynic who, in the end, sacrifices her life for romance hoped for vicariously. The characterisation, darkly witty humour and encroaching sense of threat are approaching perfection.

Dead Set: Part 3

 "I'm only on the front cover of Heat!"

These episodes following the first are only twenty minutes long and the whole thing isn't obviously structured in an episodic way. Was it originally planned as a TV film? Never mind, this is good stuff, mixing typical zombie tropes with good characterisation and social commentary.

Thus we get to see the scary, pointless, power tripping behaviour of the police once society has collapsed, interesting to see on the day when a scathing report into the Met is published. Concepts like looting are now meaningless. We hear, via the radio, that France is swiftly following the UK to zombie apocalypse.

Yet there's still time for Joplin to show himself a perv and a coward as well as a pseud. For Patrick to poo his pants, yet indeed. And for the pathetic laddishness of Marky to be contrasted with the loving joy of Riq discovering Kelly is alive. Humanity is often pathetiuc, yet there is hope. This is very, very good and, oddly, far less bleak than Brooker's later Black Mirror despite the premise.

Dead Set: Part 2

 "Does this mean we're not on telly any more?"

After all the Big Brother fun of the first episode we were always going to slip into more of a standard zombie story. Hence the characterisatyion as everyone adjusts to the fact civilisation is over... and we have the tension of knowing that Angel will die and become a zombie.

We get more of Riq, and are introduced to the magnificently blunt Alex. I love her. Meanwhile, the gloriously rude Patrick and the delightfully stupoid Pippa keep up the comic relief. They're both doomed. The fun bit is working out who else is, Angel aside. Marky? His sense of guilt for pretty much killing Angel is palpable.

It's the 2000s: zombies were in the zeitgeist. But this is Charlie Brooker and, much though the metaphor of poular telly consumerisn has to break down a bit from now on, this is still brilliant.

Dead Set: Part 1

 "Please do not swear!"

Long before Black Mirror, in 2008, when Charlie Brooker was still giving us his excellent Screen Wipe on BBC4, we had this, what is at first glance a high concept bit of fun about the Big Brother house during the zombie apocapypse. But it's so much more than that and, indeed, so much more fun than that.

I first watched this as it aired. Watching it today reveals starkly how long ago 2008 feels- the "edgy" vibe, the toxic workplaces and bad bosses, the pre-#MeToo mores, Heat magazine, the phones, trashy pop culture on mass market telly as opposed to the online ghettos to which it is now rightly consigned. Reality TV is well made, and there's an art to it, but in the same way that there's an art to Sun journalists managing to present the news in words of one syllable. It's genuine talent, wasted.

And the zombies are the most bleeding obvious of metaphors. They first attack the screaming crowd after a Big Brother eviction. Are the ensuing ravenous zombie hordes really much different from what they replaced? There's a glorious shot of a dead eyed zombie watching the feed from the Big Brother house. It says it all.

The script is wonderful. Charlie Brooker gives us a fun and real-seeming set of housemates and, in Jaime Winstone's Kelly, a star we can identify with: a runner, probably an unpaid, exploited intern, The satire of the TV industry and its working is splendid too, from a writer who knows his stuff. And, of course, zombie Davina McCall. Need I say more?

First class stuff.

Black Mirror: White Christmas

 “It's just a state change...

Ok, I haven't blogged any Black Mirror since 2017. This is literally because I happen to be at this particular episode, I feel it has to be blogged at Christmas and, er, I happen to have forgotten to blog it for three Christmases in a row.

However long it’s been, though, it’s always magnificent to be exposed to the dark, twisted, dystopian imagination of Charlie Brooker, and this is a particularly good episode. Starting with two men seemingly in an Arctic outpost on Christmas Day, this delivers thought-provoking shocks and twists within a clever and highly satisfying narrative that draws four different stories into one.

As well as the script, the cast is superb, headed by the excellent Jon Hamm. There’s some impressive directing, too, particularly during Greta’s mind-bendingly trippy operation. But it’s all about the ideas, mostly revolving around the consequences of “z-eyes” which add various apps to our eyes. Hence you can “block” people in real life, or invite pick-up artists to remotely advise you as you gatecrash an office Christmas party. There is, really, a simple premise behind all the evil twists here, but the twists themselves are devastating- especially the first and last ones.

There’s much ruminating on the ethics of things like privacy, child custody, crime and punishment, and the ethics of how we should treat artificial intelligence, but it’s all done as subtext to stories about very real and sympathetic characters. This is genius telly, and the most twisted Christmas ever. I’ll never again listen to Wizzard in the same way.

(This week has been hectic, so fewer blog posts and I’ve had to blog short things where I could. Fear not, things are proceeding as ever- I’m alternating Life on Mars and The Crown, squeezing in a bit of Sex Education, The Mandalorian and Once Upon a Time when Mrs Llamastrangler and I watch them, and films on weekends. The Christmas period may be weird though. And I’ll be doing more Black Mirror early in the New Year

(Review)

(Summary of what I’m blogging)

Black Mirror: The Waldo Moment

"You could roll this out worldwide..."

There hasn't been a bad episode of Black Mirror so far but, well, this is the closest we've come. While a collaboration between Chris Morris and Charlie Brooker may seem attractive it's nevertheless true that this is a script from (the excellent) Nathan Barley that didn't make the cut. So alarm bells are ringing already. And yet... the roots may be showing, and the message may be verging on mere "all politicians are corrupt, duh" fatuous nihilism, but this isn't a bad bedrock standard for a relatively poor episode.

The conceit- perhaps influenced by Ali G, H'Angus the Monkey being elected Mayor of Hartlepool and, less blatantly, by all that UKIP silliness that, in a rare positive consequence of Brexit, seems no longer to be a thing- is a rude cartoon bear (think the teddy bear Ronnie Corbett character from Bo Selecta) running in a by-election. There's a smarmy Tory, a sympathetic but careerist New Labour lady, and a lot of the cheap gags at the Lib Dems' expense that were fashionable in 2013. It's all very scattershot and isn't saying anything very deep, but it's watchable.

What elevates it, I think, is the eventual message (signposted by a sinister American from "the Agency") that political cynicism can be harnessed for authoritarian purposes and that things can get very, very dystopian. But such a thing could never happen in real life. Right?

Black Mirror: White Bear

"I think this is my daughter."

Wow. It's hard to discuss this without revealing the twist so, if you don't want to know, look away. SPOILERS. Lets just say that this seems a fairly anodyne episode until the point where the revelation of the huge twist alters everything. Charlie Brooker has done it again.

The episode is, in retrospect, extremely well-constructed but also hugely evocative of the dark, fearful power of the mob, from the writer of Daily Mail Island. Lenora Critchlow plays, in effect, Myra Hindley and her punishment is to have her memory wiped and relive the same day for the rest of her life, as we eventually discover- the moment where everything collapses into a clapping crowd is deeply surreal, and the ride of shame in front of a baying crowd is truly horrific. But Victoria isn't going to her execution but to something worse, from the deepest tabloid id of the British population.

It's clever. So clever. It's eve signposted early on with Victoria's "Mystic Meg" predictions, but I defy anybody not to be surprised.

I've missed this.

Black Mirror: Be Right Back

"Are you sitting down? This might sound a bit creepy.."

It's been a while since I did the first season of Black Mirror, but now I can gradually catch up through the wonder that is Netflix.

This is a typically well-executed piece of Twilight Zone weirdness from the great Cjarlie Brooker, as usually extrapolating from current trends to give us a disturbing yet plausible near-future. It's hard science fiction with wit and weirdness.

Here we have Martha, grieving her suddenly gone partner Ash, a social media addict. This being the near future, there's a program to mimic his online persona from his social media footprint, expanding in believable increments to a simulacrum of even his body. Yet this can never be enough, culminating in the sex; the simulated Ash has no record of his sexual response, just a "set routine, based on pornographic videos". It all plays out naturally, believably and very weirdly. I can understand why the critics loved this.

Hayley Atwell is superb in a part very different from Agent Carter, but Domhnall Hleeson is extraordinary as the still, awkward android Ash. Also worthy of praise is the stark, Scandinavian use of light throughout. 

Black Mirror: 15 Million Merits

“That throat cutting thing? Neat gimmick.”

Wow. So much to talk about, most of which will only occur to me once this post is finished. That was proper good telly, that was; Nigel Kneale for the age of YouTube, iPhones and bloody X-Factor. How ironic that the best and most cutting statement about Britain in 2011 should come from something so old-fashioned as a one-off teleplay.

This feels very Charlie Brooker, but I suspect much of it (it’s hard to tell- I have no other script by her with which to compare) is by his missus, Ex-Blue Peter presenter and person with X-Factor related baggage Konnie Huq. Unlike last week’s, though, it’s a very human story. Daniel Kaluuya is superb as Bing (his name is a reference to modern tech in itself), our everyman. He’s a very subtle character, hardly uttering a word for most of the story and expressing his disquiet with his surroundings by means of passivity and inaction. It says a lot about him that we don’t even learn his name until we’re some way in. This gives him a certain nobility of character. Unlike most of his neighbours in this depressing world, he maintains a sense of feeling and authenticity. And yet, as we see, his fine feelings are ultimately rendered meaningless as he eventually learns, if not to love Big Brother, then to be co-opted by it, and to take his soma.

This is such a depressing existence, in which everyone lives in small cells and spends their days pointlessly cycling nowhere so they can earn credits with which to buy crap. There is no joy, no social interaction, and no attachment to the physical- everyone wears dull; grey clothing and even bits of origami are confiscated as “detritus”. Worst of all, people are forced to watch adverts for the crudest of porn and the tackiest of light entertainment shows, and heed to actively pay to opt out. Life exists to a constant soundtrack of the most awful and cynical of chart pop. There’s no fast-forwarding through the adverts in this society, and no peace, time to think, or to be truly alone. Significantly, Bings’s moment of connection with Abi, as her avatar blows him a kiss, is interrupted by porn.

Ah yes, Abi. I don’t watch The X-Factor, but I really, really don’t like these sorts of talent shows, It isn’t just snobbery (Although I really, really hate the way that this sort of thing is once again reducing pop music to the culture of the exploitative Svengali figure, after we all thought the Beatles had slain that particular dragon back in the ‘60s by writing their own songs. I exaggerate, but still.)- it’s the cruelty, the element of public humiliation, that I have often found just too upsetting to watch. And that’s what’s skewered here; poor Abi’s dream is cruelly reduced to a life of pimped sexual exploitation, alleviated only by drugs. It’s not difficult to see the metaphor here, or the implied comment on the ultimate fate that awaits the winners of these talent shows. And Jessica Brown Findlay is devastatingly good at portraying the sheer horror of Abi’s life as a “star”.

This is tyranny, all right, but it’s the tyranny of conformity, as expressed by Bing’s horrible neighbour on the exercise bikes, and by the reaction of the crowds. Bing’s final speech is wonderfully eloquent, and all the more effective coming from someone so passive and quiet. But he, like everyone, is co-opted, and the shard of glass he places to his neck is eventually reduced to a mere prop.

This is extraordinary stuff. It’s bleak, it’s brilliant and it’s Brooker.

Black Mirror: The National Anthem

“The online hive mind did the maths.”

If you expected to see the next Buffy review, don’t worry; the blog is otherwise going to be entirely Buffy (plus a movie most Saturdays) at least until I get to the end of Season Three. After that I might switch to a short, one-off series (probably Edge of Darkness, but we’ll see. It might be Charlie Brooker’s Dead Set- any preferences?) before I start to alternate episodes of Buffy and Angel. After that, I’ll probably do something similar after each 44-episode block. Otherwise, though, the only other stuff I’ll be reviewing is current television. And that pretty much only means Dark Mirror, Sherlock, and Doctor Who. Otherwise it’s Buffyverse all the way!

Anyway… I’ve really been looking forward to this. It’s by Charlie Brooker, for one thing, and the man can (almost!) do no wrong as far as I’m concerned. But the concept seems brilliant; a modern take on The Twilight Zone, with three independent teleplays extrapolating various ultra-modern technologies (Twitter, reality TV, Sky Plus) and extrapolating in a vaguely sci-fi way. Plus, knowing the writers involves, I suspect there’s going to be the exact sort of darkly humorous tone that I like so much.

This episode begins with a ringing mobile phone in the marital bed of prime minister Michael Callow (Roy Kinnear). This is appropriate, as it more or less foreshadows the theme of modern technology, its intrusiveness, and the way it speeds things up to a pace which makes rational thought impossible. I notice the last thing we hear, in the final scene before the flash forward at the end, is also a ringing mobile phone, but the circumstances are horribly distance. It’s a nice touch to bookend things with this motif.

We have the highest of high concept, er, concepts: a terrorist has kidnapped a popular princess, and is going to kill her unless the prime minister has sex with a pig, on live TV, that very afternoon. Eurgh. This is strangely appropriate from a former writer from Oink, a comic I remember well from my childhood. But, obviously, this is really about the media, the twenty-four hour news cycle, the tyranny of mass opinion, and the impossibility of hiding things in our post-superinjunction age. No sooner does the PM see the video than he’s told it’s up on YouTube, and trending on Twitter. D Notices mean nothing in this context, and the British rolling news channels can’t keep quiet if CNN and Al Jazeera are not. The genie is well and truly out of the bottle.

There are some delicious moments of very Charlie Brooker cynicism- the Queen’s attitude; the tweets in general; the journalist getting information by shooting footage of herself naked, and then literally getting shot; and of course the attitude of the public once the severed finger from the princess is apparently received. If there’s one consistent theme in Brooker’s work then it’s a healthy disdain for the mob. Ironically, the PM doesn’t even know of the attempt to fake the… footage in question. But it’s still him who has to face the consequences.

From this point onward we know that the clock is ticking and there’s no escape. Deliciously, it’s the opinion polling that seals the PM’s fate, as well as the clear implication that neither he nor his family would be safe from the mob. From hereon in there are many, many shots of the PM all alone. And that’s what he is, despite the audience of 1.3 billion and the empty streets- Brooker has no doubt that empty is what they would be. We don’t get to see the act itself, mercifully, but the PM’s suffering is very clear. He’s left pounding away for nearly an hour.

The twist, of course, is that it’s all a twisted joke; the ultimate artistic installation from a former winner of the Turner Prize. One year later it’s all back to normal, except that the PM is now dead to his wife, whose final call he couldn’t bring himself to take.