Material Girl: Episode One

BBC One
15.01.10




As a girl who can't tell her a-lines from her empires, this was a drama I'd hoped had been designed to educate. But the business of fashion is an innately silly one, so of course my anticipations flew out the window -- it's much easier to succumb to its shallowness instead. Er, darling.

Our Principled Young Heroine (played with usual charm by Leonara Crichlow) is an up-and-coming fashion designer. She's wonderful, passionate, smart; a goddess who glitters 100% silk. But -- and we know there's a but. Her evil (or is she?!?!) boss wants to pierce her innocent soul with those evilevilevil flashing black eyes, and our Principled Young Heroine is in possession of a non-existent love-life. Times are tough for underdogs, but at least London's looking nice.

Production-wise, it's British slick -- on the same kind of scale as Hotel Babylon, even complete with a similar synth-voice soundtrack, but nowhere near as glossy as any big-budget American counterpart. Not that it should be: charm lies in the rough and weakens from over-polish. Yet its determination to compare with the likes of Ugly Betty detracts from the quaintly British alternative that it could have been. It doesn't have the campness of Hotel Babylon, the freshness of Secret Diary of a Call Girl, or even the fashion smarts of Ugly Betty. It's just successful people whining.

Lightening the glossy gloom are lots of snazzy, brightly coloured shots of stiletto heels and whizzy London streets, trench coats and ugly dresses. But it's all nail varnish: I want to see the nail underneath, not the transparent coating. And it is transparent. The good characters are angelic while the bad are charred embers spat from hellfire -- there's no middle-ground, no development.

As a result, I learned precisely nothing of value from the opener. Apart from a few wise words bestowed by a sympathetic fashion templar: "You can't heal everything with fashion." In the case of Material Girl, this is quite true: at the heart of it is a typical relationshippy, underdoggy drama playing dress-up in the fashion world.

However. To be supportive, it's a new drama, and, you never know, it might radically improve. So yay! I mean, mwah, darling. Mwah; xoxo.

Doctor Who: The End of Time - Part II

BBC 1
01.01.09




It's the same with most Doctor Who episodes written by Russell T. Davies: a first-half brimming with jargon and chaos. It's a kind of science-y gloss, cheerfully maintaining the sci-fi quota, as if to distract from the fact that Davies is more at home with himself when engaging with the micro -- the small subtleties of everyday interaction. He captures humanity brilliantly, and this -- his final episode in a show about aliens -- is suffused with the stuff. It's like he wants us to sob manically into our cushions, the git.

We were left hanging at the last part, though freefalling grandly from its sheer theatricality. Scarlet cloaks, golden headgear, a resonant voice, and chess metaphors -- what could it all mean? Aside from "the end of time itself", which is an extremely vague and contradictory answer, for time is clocks and clocks are only ticking mechanisms; so is time real, and what is time, does it exist in this world, and if so when. Clock-smashing is not so great a threat, unless you're Captain Hook.

The Master had populated Earth with copies of himself pasted onto six billion people, thus allowing the pun "the Master race" to be used in a fully justified context -- much groaning was had by all, including Aryans. The forcedly familiar face of the Master was rather like David Tennant's omnipresence throughout the Christmas schedules, so it was nice to have such quality method acting to relate to from this hard-working crusader. Ah, I jest -- there are no doubt many folk gleefully screen-capping every millisecond of Tennant's prolific output. LiveJournal, you are a funny place, you are.

Fast-forward past feisty cactuses and the Doctor's dubious anti-gun policy ("No. Never. What's that? He's alive? [snatches gun]") -- in fact, whizz past all the action, until the piece finds its emotional heart. The delayed ending. From the silent aftermath of the departed Time Lords to the four penetrating knocks on the glass door. A build-up of the most beautiful tension; and the Doctor's release, the bubbling rage at the unfairness of death, and his clinging stubborn stranglehold on life. A man condemned, and Tennant played it perfectly.

And thus began the sentimental build-up: with each wordless visit made by the Doctor to an old character, another weeping brick was piled onto the Jenga tower of misery, a tower with a pointed stick stabbing at passing tear-ducts and chanting, "Cry, cry, cry, you cold-hearted tart." Oh, Davies. You bully us into feeling affection. You cruel, cruel wordsmith.

The Lottery ticket from the future was a nice touch, and -- I like to imagine -- a wry little nod to Derren Brown. If anyone deserves a waterfall of gold from a triple-rollover, it's Donna. No, not small deprived people from small deprived towns, but a magnificent flame-haired woman who travelled to the stars and was forced to forget it all. Ocean Finance wouldn't have been half as effective as the Doctor's compensation policy.

In all this hoopla, I feel quite sorry for Chris Ecclestone: there was none of this extravagant adieu-ing for him, which may have been a blessing. The end of Confidential was nearly as cry-worthy as the actual show, though more manufactured through its Best-Bits montage sequence. It should be law that everyone gets a Best-Bits montage set to some heart-wrenching music with a soaring modulation in the middle-eight. That's what they should offer in the afterlife: lots of merry footage of cool-looking sunglasses-wearing Radio One-listening twerps beaming at you, unsubtly edited with Take That on top. Hell yes -- and I may mean that as my requested destination.

More importantly, Matt Smith is not too shabby. Karen Gillan even less.

Allons-y, geronimo!