Anything that has been filmed before This Time looks odd now, as sequestered in our homes, we resemble alien life forms peering down. We observe the contestants, hugging, high-five-ing, slapping each other on the backs: Where’s your social distancing?! Thank God they make their own pasta, as there’s no ready-made stuff to be found in the whole of Christendom at the moment and the sight of it might tip someone over the edge.
So, it’s Knockout Week. Pedantic of me to say, I know, but isn’t every episode? Each week of the heats started with twelve and finished with three - I don’t think those other nine were in a holding pen waiting to spring back into action. Anyway, there’s no boxing gloves here, just an occasional blue plaster on sixteen eager beavers chomping at the bit to progress.
After the giddy excitement of Apron-geddon, I’ve been a bit underwhelmed by this week, I can’t deny, but maybe Lockdown is making me grouchy. For starters they split them into two groups of eight and whittled down from there. Surely those last sixteen needed to see the whites of each other’s eyes, not least the whites of their aprons. Those aprons, my preciousssss!
First up, they had to make their showstopper dish. Again. Wouldn’t it be better to have given them something more challenging, something unexpected? If you haven’t perfected this one dish, heaven help you. Still there seemed to plenty to criticise, nonetheless. Jane’s adorable Woodland Wonder of toadstool meringues on pistachio moss. ‘It could be a fun looking plate,’ sniffed Toady beforehand, ‘I hope it doesn’t look like a novelty toy.’ No, Toads, cos that would be too much fun. In the event, it was too dry.
Shaheen went rogue with his mashed potatoes Beef Wellington, where pancake merged into potato in an unholy mess. I don’t know why contestants haven’t learned this yet. Don’t call your dish by its official name, otherwise that is what they will expect! Call it Boeuf Pomme de Terre Surprise or something. So they went, along with energetic James and his tonka bean sauce that didn’t taste of tonka bean, even though Toady had grumbled beforehand that it might and how could that possibly work in a savoury dish .
On the second night, I was mesmerised by the fact that Natasha’s colours on the plate matched her rainbow of eyeshadow. Such matching should be noted, you would have thought, but it wasn’t mentioned. Then off to the Pro Stint they went and we heard at least three times that we were in 2015 champion Simon Wood’s restaurant, thus affording us a lot of footage of him from five years back.
While Beverley in the kitchen hunched over her pasta, looking for all the world like Julie ‘Two Soups’ Walters, Toady, in his professional masseur black tunic, seemed staggered by their locale. ‘Incredible, isn’t it? We’re in former champion Simon’s restaurant and here’s five contestants who aspire to do exactly the same thing.’ Right. They’re not aspiring astronauts, man. Get a grip.
Shrek meanwhile, had come dressed as his granddad in tie and cardy combo, marvelling at how the ‘amachurs’ had followed a recipe where someone had stood over them, literally every step of the way.
So, to the last episode and the remaining ten had to produce a plate of nine canapés in order to progress - ‘the sort of thing you’d pass around at a party.’ Thanks Shrek. Next week he’ll be explaining the wheel to the hard of thinking. This also seemed an odd challenge. To produce a perfect example of something, then do eight more of it, seems to diminish it somehow.
The fellas, who’d been a bit depleted in the first two rounds, came storming back, with all four of them sailing through. Sandy was the only female exempt from criticism, as they muttered over the saltiness of Charlotte’s artichoke (not a euphemism), the blandness of Claire’s balls (again, not a euphemism) and the hardness of Beverley’s rice (again… ok you got it).
In the end, it was another unholy mess of a tiramisu type affair that saw Marla, a confident American in the way that the Brits often aren’t, take the walk of shame. Actually, I don’t think it was really the mess of it that was the problem, especially as a. it looked great and b. she’d given them an espresso martini shot alongside. It was the fact that she said it could be eaten in a couple of bites. Shrek reached out eagerly, cavernous mouth agape and managed only a third on his first attempt. That won’t do at all, Marla. You can’t pull a ‘Not even a black hole can eat three Shredded Wheat’ stunt here….
These are lean mean times in 2020, chaps. What with us going to hell in a handcart, the collective teeth-sucking at the continued existence of the BBC licence fee means some tough conversations have almost certainly taken place offscreen. ‘We need to show we’re not Oxbridge educated layabouts. We need to show we understand the value of money. We, the BBC, what hath spawned the mighty Shrek (Gregg Wallace); WE must lead the way. And verily we shall do this by making the Masterchef contestants bring their own food in.’
Where once the hopefuls glided across the approach to urban edgy Masterchef headquarters in a slow-motion Reservoir Dogs style, now they’re humping cool bags over their shoulders like demented hausfraus. From which they emptied the contents of their kitchens, literally in the case of Dev, whose bench was strewn with half empty cartons of this and that. Obviously the Beeb could have cut massive corners by painting a smiley face on a giant boiled egg, but no, here was Shrek - gurnometer turned up to the max and Toady (John Torode), perhaps too much of the good life. There used to be a vast discrepancy in their sizes. Now, not so much.
The new regime didn’t stop there. Are they wearing their nice white aprons? No they are not, in these lean, mean times, no they are NOT. There’s four aprons and six of them. Even Shrek can do the math. ‘Two of you will be going home,’ he announced, boiled egg aquivering so that his yolk nearly runneth over. The aprons sit, demurely folded, on a stool out of reach. You’ve got to earn me baby, they silently emit.
First batch of contestants also included Teddy, who is most definitely actor James Norton moonlighting. I’m going to call him James in fact, no space for cuddly teddies here in this dystopian nightmare, and smiley Glaswegian Karen. ‘Was it important to bring something from home’, Shrek patronised. Yes it was, she had some haggis. Yorkshire lass Becky DIDN’T appear to have brought something from home. Oh yes, a squeaky cheese. Like halloumi but better. She’s a cryer though. In the first challenge! No space for cryers here, love. Off you go.
Karen and Dev made the first cut and she clutched her newly won apron as if it were her firstborn: ‘No-ones taking this away from me.’ I wouldn’t be too sure, love. They’re not embroidered yet. In the next cook off they had to create a splendour from sea bream, fennel and tomatoes. Amanda told Shrek she didn’t like fennel. Too bliddy right lass. I’ve never been fond of the toothpaste taste meself. It had been all of two minutes since his last gurn and predictably enough, the mouth saucered open. James and ‘Three-sauce Pete’ got through and also worshipped at the Altar of Apron. It’s as if they were made of gold. I damn well hope previous years’ contestants realise how fricking LUCKY they were to get handed one, willy-nilly, on the way in.
Next up sees the four of them, their aprons now adorned with their names, having to cook for last year’s finalists. James announced his dishes as being, ‘simple but good-looking. Like him. No, don’t put that in’. Uhuh – it’s been noted, sunshine. They were indeed simple - these are dishes from ten years back. Perhaps he should focus less on the acting and the being good-looking and make recipes with 435 ingredients in like Dev.
‘This is Masterchef life and death for Karen,’ piped up Shrek at one point (a whisker away from calling in the Apron-Removal Squad). The excitement didn’t stop there. Adorable Delia the cop and splendid teacher/sports star Jilly came back to judge their food, along with 2019 winner Irini, who looked twenty years younger and was dressed for a cocktail party. Were THEY wearing Masterchef aprons? They were NOT! They competed in pre-Brexit days when aprons rained out of the sky like rain does.
But there’s yet another twist. The three of them got to choose their favourite. What?! Lessening the stranglehold of Toady and Shrek! Clearly the good looks had worked for James - making dishes that everyone had seen before paid off as he went through. As did Dev and Pete, at the same time, so James didn’t really have that much advantage. He’ll swagger though, you mark my words. Sad that no woman made it through having faced an all-female finalists’ panel, but there you go. Everyone’s got to man up here.
We’d like to think Karen got to keep her apron but who knows? Perhaps it was wrestled off her as she exited the premises and her embossed name whittled off with a partridge feather by an Oxbridge graduate determined to show his worth. In later episodes look carefully at those aprons to see if the segment of cloth bears the residue of disappointment.
Yep, the gladiatorial instalment is back. Much the same as ever. Marcus - still wearing his ‘nice guy’ mask, Monica – a little bit feistier and more relaxed than in previous series, Gregg…words fail. When teamed with Torode, I think of them as Toady and Shrek. On his own that doesn’t suit, so I’ll just call him Boiled (Gr)egg, Boiled for short.
Boiled is clearly there because they have an hour long slot to fill and think we all need to see him shovelling forkfuls into his gob, being faux chummy with the contestants, gurning and repeating what Head Girl and Boy have said, with a puzzled frown on his face. I don’t need it, frankly. Wouldn’t it be marvellous if each episode was only 45 minutes because he had been shelled, sorry shelved and the proper judges could get on with it without resorting to picture cards?
Astonishingly, we seem to have reached the final twelve and they’re not all young, white men – who would have thought? So, what’s new this time? Not a whole lot, although I did notice they made less of the ‘bottom four’ having to cook-off and focused on saying the top eight had got through. A subtle distinction, but less damning.
Oh but there is SOMETHING different. They announced this proudly last night, as if baby had just taken its first steps. What is this brave new world of cuisinedom we have entered? Preparing soufflés while juggling knives? Performing the macarena while reducing their jus? Peeling Boiled while he’s still alive….? Sorry, got carried away there.
They have, drumroll, a pop-up restaurant. They’d never done that before! Right, so the past challenges where they have to cook in tents or on the streets with makeshift ovens, what are those then? No, those are worlds apart. Unlike a Pizza Express and Tramp nightclub, which are easily confused.
Who are the clientele sampling this food? Joe Public? No, 25 specially invited ‘guests’, who are, by and large, a bunch of irritating hipsters who run their own pop-ups and cannot believe they’ve got to advertise these on prime time telly. Not sounding much like a pop-up, is it? But lo, the contestants have been released from their chef whites to wear white t-shirts and they are serving food on rustic plates. Oh, that’s alright then.
The other thing this set-up had was waiters. Give. Me. Strength. I’m surprised there wasn’t a maître’d pottering about asking if they’d like to sample anything else from the wine list. Have any of the production team actually been to a street food pop-up?
Well, never mind about that, what about the nosh, which was supposedly street food? Looked pretty much like the usual stuff they produce. Except for Arbinder, who went rogue making quinoa with pomegranate sorbet. This is not good news for Marcus, who is apoplectic if cheese comes anywhere near fish and in his halcyon days used to get more aerated than the foam anyone foolish enough to attempt dished up.
The only thing really different was a vote, exempting the winner from having to cook in the next round. Admittedly, from the invited guests, but at least Boiled wasn’t there, shoving his oar in. I sense we’re a whisker away from a public phone-in in future series.
‘Yes, I’d like to vote for Boiled to go please….’ Sorry son, back to your saucepan.
They claimed every dish had votes. What fool is going to vote for quinoa and pomegranate sorbet?! Anyway, it’s not like a rigged referendum (ahem) so we’ll take that on trust. Of course, Exose had the most votes. All the hipsters were in ecstasy eating his banoffee style triumph. However, we had to go through the charade of getting him back in the kitchen in shiny whites to say he was going straight to the semi-final. And what about the food on his bench? Dear God, the waste! Exose missed out on the bubbly at the end though, so it wasn’t all glory.
In the cook-off, Andrew, a raisin bun version of Richard Gere, was the next best. Tom unfortunately, made ‘a dog’s dinner’ – the Marcus smiley mask slipped a bit there as he delivered this damning verdict. To be honest, I think Tom will be far happier in his veg patch. He didn’t have the cut and thrust necessary.
Exose is clearly a contender for the title, which would be lovely. He’s talented and chilled with a beauteous smile. However, in his first outing in the skills test, he did abysmally. Granted, I’d be appalling; I got antsy the other day with my colleague watching me mess up a simple spreadsheet she’d explained. Never mind being on national telly with two judges and Boiled making dramatic faces in your eyeline. Why, oh why, does the skills test have to be classic French though? Can’t remember what Exose had to make, but it was something he’d never heard of. But, that’s the great hallmark of cooking apparently. Here’s a thought: Indian food, for example, has been around for ooh, just a tad longer, why can’t they make a samosa or a particular spice mix? Curried (Gr)egg, perhaps…?
Many, many (far too many) column inches have already been dedicated to self-styled The GC: aka Gemma Collins, formerly of TOWIE, now of 'any bloody programme that seems to be on the telly.' She must almost have the full house of 'Celebrity...' type shows, having done Masterchef, which I wrote about here www.rantsreviewsreflect.co.uk/reviews/celebrity-masterchef-the-wall
Dancing on Ice, The Crystal Maze and probably a whole lot more I've thankfully avoided.
Now Diva Forever is (dis)gracing our screens, where we follow GC round her clothes shop, her various engagements, and most awkwardly, with her fellow Weeble, boyfriend Arg. I think she and Arg are no longer an item. Lucky I hadn't bought a hat.
There is a small (quite small) part of me that feels a grudging admiration for a woman who doesn't forever downplay her abilities and kowtow to men. Sadly, the abilities are questionable and the men fairly hapless, so it's a back-handed compliment. Mostly what comes across is eye-watering arrogance and an unshakeable belief in her uniqueness. Hell, we're all unique, love. Or are there indeed two Gemmas? My son watched a bit of it with me and asked 'who's that?' 'That' was Gemma without her make-up on.
The only genuinely interesting moment in Episode 1 was when she revealed in a live interview that she'd voted to leave the EU, only to confess afterwards this was a lie. Annoyingly, we're not told if she voted the other way, or most likely, didn't bother voting at all. For most of the hour (it was a LONG hour), I felt like a inverse Chinese nodding cat, I kept shaking my head at the audacity of it all.
And the titles sequence! Which she was several hours late to the filming of, then stomped about crossly as if it was someone else's fault. The resulting sequence shows our GC in sparkly outfits preening in front of a star-filled background, while a voice croons in the background about how fabulous she is. Shake, shake, shake...
I've come to this all topsy-turvy, having watched the second series, then gone back to see the first and now rewatching the second again. To be honest, this doesn't detract hugely from an understanding or appreciation of the programme. It gives more information on the itinerant naked lady torso statue and the story behind the demise of Boo, (but no reason as to why Fleabag looks to the audience to be complicit, or where the nickname originated) but everything else can be gleaned from the second series. The soundtrack is also spectacular, with dramatic classical music stings. And there is the same wicked humour and devil-may-care attitiude to character portrayal as in Killing Eve. I bet Phoebe Waller-Bridge is an excellent drinking companion.
So cleverly written is it, that you don't really notice until someone points it out; how few of the characters are named. (Another poke in the eye to traditional drama that feels that naming characters is imperative). 'Hot Priest' Andrew Scott is indeed delightful and manages to remain hot, even after you have read the comment that he looks like both Ant AND Dec. Some took umbrage to audiences finding him hot because he is emotionally manipulative and toxic, but as others riposted, so is Fleabag herself.
In fact, the hottest scene IMO is the bar scene between our Pheebs and Kristin Scott Thomas. The latter's speech about how women carry pain, whereas men invent it, should be made mandatory reading. Stick it on the Tube please. Watching Fleabag being drawn, moth-like, to older, authority figures of both genders made me realise how entrenched her parent issues must be. It's a shame we never got to see the mother in a flashback. Dad is bumbling and easily swayed by The Godmother, yet clearly the problems inherent in both his daughters' attitudes to relationships weren't caused by him alone.
I wasn't disappointed that Fleabag and Priest didn't end up together (And I'm the soppiest romantic EVER). It wouldn't have been right for either of them. Anyway, with no more series planned, we can invent our own ending. Maybe they can both work on their 'issues', he can ditch the priesthood for which he is clearly not suited and they'll get together in a few years time. Possibly in Finland with Claire and Klare.
Like several thousand others, I watched the Bros documentary over Christmas. Its popularity clearly took the schedulers by surprise, who’d parked it in a 10.00pm BBC4 slot with repeat in the early hours of New Years Day. I nearly missed it because my Radio Times only awarded it a paltry three stars. I thought it was an outstanding piece of film-making - it wouldn’t surprise me if it popped up again in the near future with a primetime spot on Beeb 1.
Leaving aside any of the content, it was a supremely well put together piece. It cunningly opened with a teaser of one of their backstage rows during their oft fraught rehearsal period last year, knowing that no-one would be shifting until they saw this played out in full. There were beautifully lit, revealing speeches to camera by our eponymous brothers, intercut with footage from their heyday in the 80s, their lives now in the US (Matt in Vegas, Luke in California) and their reunion gig at the O2 in August 2017. There was a slightly eerie refrain of Wogan asking ‘What will you do when the screaming stops?’ from an interview he’d conducted with them at the height of their success.
One of the brothers’ complaints, and it is a justified one I think, is what a slating they were given by the press ‘back in the day.’ I can’t deny that I was NEVER a fan of their oeuvre; insubstantial teeny pop it certainly was, but no worse than most of Stock Aitken & Waterman’s output that also clogged up the charts at the time. I don’t suppose it helped that their first big hit was ‘When Will I Be Famous?’, grandstanding par excellence. However, in the days of X Factor/TOWIE/Love Island et al, this wannabe-star posturing looks positively tame.
From most of the comments I read from others in response to the documentary, it seems that sneering is still the order of the day. It is true they come across as self-important, overly serious and startlingly un self-aware at times. There’s a definite Spinal Tap-ness going on with their often unintentionally hilarious musings. Matt (the more prolific of the two at these) proudly showing us the painting he had done of his dog with a pint is right up there with Nigel Tufnell’s wide-eyed wonder at his guitars and you have to pinch yourself as a reminder that this isn’t fiction.
There’s a couple of quotes that I did like though, such as ‘Everyone has to be on the same page so that you can turn the page’. And there’s some genuinely touching and tear-inducing moments – mostly footage and subsequent memories of their late mother. They also treat their fellow musicians and fans, both now and then, with genuine respect and affection and I found myself warming to them and hoping that the comeback concert would be a success, which it seemed to be. Whatever your view of their music, Luke can play drums and Matt can sing, so good luck to ‘em.
The relationship between them is fascinating. Luke, we discover, always felt the ugly relation; the bridesmaid, never the bride; parked behind his kit while Matt was in the thick of the crowd, the more ‘successful’ one. And yet it was Luke who exerted the most power in their relationship, being the one to walk away from the band while they were still riding high. He has been married for over twenty years; his wife Shirley is present but not overbearing during the concert filming, and significantly, not interviewed. It is their story, not anyone else’s. It is likely that Shirley has been the steadying influence on Luke, who comes across as more grounded than Matt. For me the most poignant moment comes as they walk the long walk from backstage to start their gig. ‘You’re the love of my life’, says Matt to Luke. ‘I love you too’, says Luke, somewhat distractedly, no doubt thinking of the night ahead. ‘No, you’re the love of my life,’ reiterates his brother. This is not answered.
You have to remember they were only eighteen when they were catapulted into stardom, with crowd hysteria worldwide allegedly not seen on that scale since The Beatles. It does something to your psyche, I’m sure. I’ll forgive Matt some of his ludicrous pronouncements for that.
Ready, Set, Cook! Or rather stand looking confused at a chicken, asking which part is the breast. (Monty Panesar). Yep, Celeb Masterchef is back. Is it the same as before? No, it has ‘The Wall’.
Gregg’s (aka Celeb-irritant Shrek) saucer-eyes nearly expanded off his face with excitement at announcing this new development. As walls go, it’s safe to say that Trump’s one is still uppermost in people’s consciousnesses. My ten year old liked it though, so I guess it has some appeal. The pairs are sent to either side of the wall to attempt to make exactly the same dish. They can call out to each other, a la Pyramus and Thisbe, about what procedure they are doing but never the twain shall meet. Until they are summoned to the judging table of doom to see which offering looks more like a dog’s dinner. Selfish Martin Bayfield nearly toppled the wall (metaphorically rather than literally, although that would have been fun). At 6 foot 10, the pro rugby player/giant was obviously taller than any of the set designers had reasonably expected anyone to be. He could look straight over the wall. However, he is a sporting sportsman and refrained from doing so.
On the subject of sportsmen, I am particularly intrigued by Monty. According to Wikipedia, he is a ‘slow’ bowler, which seems apt. Even I know that bowlers have to run a short distance prior to launching a ball. How on earth did he manage to get up the speed? Did he have those magic trainers with little wheels on? His setting seems permanently on slow and incapable of doing more than one thing.
One of the funniest things I’ve seen recently is Head Chef Frank, apoplectic with rage at having to deal with him and Gemma Collins in the same kitchen. Sadly the two were on separate teams, how delicious it would have been if they’d been put together.
‘Come ON!!!’ bellowed exasperated Frank. ‘They’re eating this today, not next week!!’
Meanwhile Monty ambled about in a daze and Gemma went for a natter with a customer. Fortunately for these two, their partners, Stef Reid and Zoe Lyons, picked up not only the slack but the whole damn rope, grafted themselves into the ground quietly and food was served. The meek did inherit the earth, or rather their places in the next round, so we won’t have a reprise. Shame that. I did LOL muchly.
Gemma Collins is of course, a sitting duck for wrathful comments. One of those orange-hued ducks you put in the bath. Some reality ‘stars’ (and I use the word loosely) have the grace to look a little abashed at their lack of knowledge or skills. Not so our Gemma, who boldly declares before each challenge how she will ‘smash it’. She does indeed smash a plate, but that doesn’t make it into any of her dishes. We assume. Perhaps that was the crunchy part?
Gemma doesn’t believe in doing herself what others can do for her, so she bosses about the staff in both the professional kitchens they are sent to. ‘It’s done’, she announced proudly, each time a harassed chef wanted to know if she’d peeled her effing potatoes. Yes, done by SOMEBODY ELSE. She is staggered to the point that her face nearly moved that the contestants have to also serve the food that her team-mate has slaved over.
It is quite refreshing in some ways to see a woman who doesn’t forever downplay herself and her abilities. The irony being that those with the least ability often have the most arrogance. Spencer Pro-Stud-Muffin Matthews, her posh counterpart, is similarly confident. He’s also quite good though and hard-working. Damn him. Gemma is indeed breath-taking, having reached through TOWIE a level of infamy completely at odds with any discernible talent, but directing rage at her is misguided. We have created these reality TV personalities and we must pay for it. They’re just another brick in the wall.
I didn’t watch Love Island at all for about five weeks. Then I saw a couple of extracts with my 13 year old son, snorting at the ridiculousness of it, the ‘melts’, ‘salts’ and ‘mugging offs’. He announced to our cat that he’d like to ‘couple up’ with her.
Sadly, like Icarus, I watched slightly too long and then fell into the blaze of the last two weeks. I didn’t have the app, I didn’t watch any of the spin-offs. But I did see all the remaining episodes.
Having now observed some snippets from earlier episodes I realise I missed most of the good stuff. The ‘recoupling’ sections I saw were completely yawnworthy for the most part.
‘Who would you like to couple up with?’
‘The same person I’ve been with for the last week.’
Repeat five times.
There were some exceptions obviously. Jack (or OluwaJack/Blackjack, as some desperados tried to claim him as part of the brethren).
‘I’d like to couple up with Laura.’
Not ‘old’ Laura you understand, who he’d been tongue-tonsilling with only a day or so earlier, but ‘new’ young fresh Laura. It was unfortunate that the Laura who was older had also been in the villa longer, as there was a contemptuous tone to the tweets decrying her desperate has-been behaviour at the grand old age of 29.
It would have been excellent telly if ‘old’ Laura had ‘misunderstood’ and gone stampeding up to reclaim Oluwajack, but she had her own plentiful awkward moments at other times, revealing that she is a tad insecure and perhaps not suited to maximum exposure on TV. Getting jealous and snippy when Plank’o’wood Paul, as gorgeous as he is dull, told her he’d kissed Britney Spears in a music video. When she asked him what they would call their children on Day 2½ of their acquaintance. Or sniping bitchily at gorgeous Alexandra’s sexy attire.
There was the whole Dr Alex conundrum. From what I can gather he was on the shelf for a large portion of the show, then acquired Alexandra, dumped her, reacquired her, redumped her…he’d probably still be at that, if let. We had the magnificent speech from the wronged lady… ‘You’ve wasted my time, you’ve wasted your time. Shame on you.’ Not quite up there with ‘I have a dream’, but in terms of trash reality telly, pretty damn fine. As indeed is Alexandra, who is so hot you could fry eggs off her.
Alex didn’t seem to see it. He might be gay, as some slack-jawed commenters believed – who could NOT fancy Alexandra?! However, it’s more likely to be the elephant in the room that I’ve not seen mentioned anywhere, she’s not the same social class as him. She’s bright, beautiful, sexy, kind, but he’s a doctor and he’s ultimately going to want to ‘couple up’ with a horsey girl from Surrey called Julia who’s a university educated ABC1. This is not a judgement on him, or a suggestion that I think he’s better than her. They are just too different and the long term success of a couple usually involves being from the same background. He thought for a while that ‘new’ Laura might have been his Julia, there’s a sense from her ‘I’ve travelled everywhere’ manner and surfer-girl chick that she could have done a spell on Made in Chelsea first, but Oluwajack had better lines so he snaffled her. Mea culpa Alex, you were almost Nasty Nick, but not quite. I’m sure your Julia will be along soon.
Jack and Dani, ‘JANI’, were always going to win by a ginormous landslide (79%). Not only are they perfectly matched, they do seem to genuinely like each other. Of the last four couples, they are the ones most likely to last. Even in our cynical, Brexit-worn days, we can see this.
As for the other three…? Megan will probably ditch poor dear Wes for a Premier League footballer before the year is out, Josh will probably ditch poor dear Kaz for someone who would normally date a Premier League footballer before the year is out, Paul will probably ditch Laura before the summer is out – is Britney available?
I have to confess I was slightly underwhelmed by the first episode of Poldark. Granted it’s been a while since it was last on, so they probably thought a recap was in order, but it felt like over half of it was reminding us what had happened in the last series.
So we have Ross (of course), just as gorgeous and brooding as ever. Demelza, feisty and spirited, still righteously cross about Ross dipping the Poldark toe into Elizabeth, so to speak, although slightly less cross due to her own dalliance with Very Pretty Hugh, who looks like he’d be more at home on Made in Chelsea. Elizabeth, considerably less attractive since her adoption of her husband’s snootiness, George, mouth still like a cat’s anus. Cornwall’s very own Romeo and Juliet – the exceedingly baby-faced Drake and perpetually mournful Morwenna, forever under the watchful eye of the oily Rev, who is like a Christopher Biggins gone bad.
While I was waiting for something to happen and marvelling at how much galloping on horseback across the countryside there seemed to be (it could have rivalled a Lloyds bank ad), I fell to wondering if you put the combined hair of the cast members together, how far would it stretch? For they are all an astonishingly hirsute bunch, man, woman and horse. And there’s always a strong wind, so the locks are blown madly hither and thither. Demelza’s hair has definitely got redder, which is interesting because I don’t think L’Oreal stretched to Cornwall in the eighteenth century.
Finally, some action happened. There was a skirmish on the dock between the merchants, who were shipping grain abroad, and the starving locals. George’s hitman Tom, who looks like a demented Jaffa cake, witnessed the demise of a merchant due to cracking his head on a bollard. Seeing as Drake and Pious Sam, Demelza’s brothers, were in the vicinity; and knowing how his owner, sorry, master, doesn’t like ANYTHING to do with Ross (bit of a pisser as his master's son is Ross’ as we all know), he went scuttling back on his piggy legs to stitch them up.
In the blink of an eye, they’re a noose away from meeting their maker. Of course, at the eleventh hour, Ross gives an impassioned speech and the brothers are saved. Not the other one though. Can’t remember his name. He didn’t kill the merchant either, but he was involved in the fighting. George struts off in a huff, resolving to try harder next time. Jaffa wouldn’t let it lie either. In episode two, he challenged Sam to a wrestling match. Seeing as he’s the size of about five Sams, this is monstrously unfair, but no-one blinks an eye as the ring is set up, ready for all the children to witness a nice piece of brutality. Jaffa wins by insinuating he’s already had Sam’s crush Emma, then literally knocks the stuffing out of him. He proceeds to get drunk as a skunk much to George’s embarrassment, who promptly fires him.
Elsewhere, Demelza and Caroline-whose-face-never-moves, manage to sort out the spat between the gentlemen about which bit of land belongs to who. I’m a bit hazy about this, but then I’m only a silly girl. Which was precisely the argument the women used. Demelza also found time in her busy schedule to hold Hugh’s hand on his deathbed. He wanted to know if he had another chance with her. She is still wracked with guilt over the last time, so declined and he literally had nothing left to live for. Poor guy, he’d already been subjected to a whole load of leeches, she could at least have lied to him.
A new candidate had to be found to contest George The Nasty, who will only be happy once all the rabble have been silenced. I’m surprised the production team haven’t made his face orange and given him a blonde quiff to be honest. Ross is chosen, naturally, and wins by the slightest of margins, despite George having greased enough pockets to fry a whole vat of potatoes.
‘I have been treated with contempt because my ancestry is inferior to his,’ he humpfs before doing his customary flounce out. George, you’ve been treated with contempt because you’re a massive thundering turd, but you’ll never see it. So Ross is off to London, leaving Demelza unguarded. Might be a risky move. Hugh may be gone, but there’s bound to be others in his wake. Or even at his wake….
Oscar season once more. There’s been much hubbub about it being the Year of The Woman, what with all the #metoo and #timesup and all that jazz. Films featuring STRONG women, such as Ladybird, I, Tonya and Three Billboards. It seems unlikely we’ll get a repeat of last year’s erroneous Best Film announcement, or indeed anything as syrupy as Blah Blah Land patting itself on the back. I haven’t seen it. I’ll wait until it’s on the terrestrial telly box and watch it sneeringly.
The other day I watched The Artist, which needed a truck to take home all the gongs it won in 2011. To be honest, I was a bit puzzled why. Yes, it was startlingly different and Hollywood likes to think it’s au fait with that, nay, even the champion of that, but I found it a tad dull, excepting the far too few bursts of speech. The plot would have fitted into a matchbox quite honestly. It purported that the central actor was somehow lost in a silent world, incapable of speech, but never really explored this exciting Kafkaesque idea. And the predicament of the beautiful actress who went above and beyond the call of duty to help the insufferable, washed up ham just made me cross.
I saw Ladybird last night (I parted with my dollar for that) and thought it excellent. Thought-provoking, funny, intelligent with intriguing, rounded characters. Hadley Freeman wrote that it deserved the Best Film gong but almost certainly wouldn’t get it. I’m in complete agreement. It’s not showy enough. And Hollywood actually prefers its women to be dangerously unhinged, ill - preferably dying, a victim of some sort or an out-there kook to consider bestowing a statuette. They don’t really like warts-and-all women taking centre stage and getting on with their lives independent of the men. Incidentally, the men in the film were also very sympathetically portrayed, excepting Kyle, the arrogant boyfriend. Who was a complete arse who deserved no better.
The absolutely captivating Saoirse Ronan has the most exceptional face. Beguiling and unconventional. I noticed in the wash of trailers before the film that both Lily James and Amanda Seyfried have not one, but two new films coming out this year. Misfortune AND carelessness on the part of Tinseltown. The depressing fact is that Hollywood likes its starlets to look exquisite and thoroughly groomed. It’s ok for Frances McDormand or Sally Hawkins to look quirky, for they are not young any more. Occasionally a young woman who doesn’t fit the mould will win, but she’ll probably belong to the category of ‘unhinged-ill-dying-victim-extreme-kook.’ Maybe the equally excellent Laurie Metcalf will win Best Supporting, so at least it'll get one gong.