Young Nuns

BBC One

25.10.11

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I failed to complete the second-hand embarrassment of Up For Hire due to being, rather ironically, hired. (Is that ironic? Perhaps only to Alanis Morissette.) But unemployment beckons once again, and so I will proceed with Richard Bacon's nuggetty employment wisdomosity – but not today! For today, this day of all days, I will discuss with you, dear reader, Young Nuns.

I think I have decided on the direction of this blog, little reader. It will natter about programmes not nattered elsewhere; I will review the unloved and unseen; the necessary, schedule-propping underdogs of TV. The go-to review-zones can squeeze the life from shiny generic splodges in heavily promoted 9pm slots, but I will embrace all manner of dying quirk suffering from a dearth of viewers. Basically, BBC4 should be happy. And if a programme is preceded by a hashtag, it can kindly switch itself off. I don't do hashtags.

But back to Young Nuns, who must be ageing after all this talk. Graduate Clara and student Catherine have always dreamt of becoming nuns – and with siblings named Benedict and Frances, it's not too hard to see why. But despite a strong Catholic upbringing, the girls' families and friends still seem amazed that this is the path they have chosen to traverse. The documentary follows the girls as they gear up to leave their everyday lives behind.

This was a surprising and unexpected programme – surprising because it was not a BBC3 gawp-fest, and unexpected because Christianity was at the forefront. With probably only Songs of Praise shouldering the BBC's entire religious remit nowadays, this documentary was a brave and really rather clever move.

A matter-of-fact tone and a clear focus on the (relateable, likeable) girls went a long way to portraying nuns as an appealing bunch. Whether bouncing a shuttlecock between them as they played badminton in habits or casually chatting about Facebook, nuns really started to seem quite with it. But the more magical and wonderful the nuns were portrayed, the more fraught the idea of becoming one felt for the girls; in time, the notion of devoting oneself entirely to God became too daunting and neither continued nunning. (...Nunning?)

As a documentary, it quietly observed the ways of our predominantly secular culture through a non-judgemental camera. Some things just are, like the tiny schoolgirl aghast at the idea of a life without make-up ("But make-up is the item of the girl!" she cried, as a thousand feminists wept. "You need it to feel better about yourself!"). Such bittersweet naivety resulted in a wry smile, and life as a nun started to sound strangely ideal.

I would love to know if Clara ever returned to the order, and whether Catherine was allowed to formally enter. Their enthusiasm for what must be the most alternative of contemporary lifestyles was really quite inspirational, and the two of them made this documentary as fascinating as it was.

Unfortunately I do not know any nuns, but after watching this documentary I really would like to. And heck, I might even change my religion and become one – well, at least for Hallowe'en.

Up For Hire: Episode Two

BBC Three18.10.11

A contemplative jobseeker is fired from his chair by Bacon
Tonight's episode starts with a barrage of X Factor-imported catcalls and cheers. YES! It's the guy who created Innocent Smoothies! Woop-woop! Bizarrely, he is placed beside Andi Osho and Katie Hopkins. It seems to be the guest set-up for this series: a comedian, an entrepreneur, and a former reality TV star. All three overlap so much that it is difficult to say which is which.
Richard Bacon overstates the importance of Up For Hire by claiming the Internet "exploded" after last night's episode. At most, there were a few hundred tweets – comparable with any other programme, apart from maybe the overwhelmingly popular Zumba Party Fitness on QVC. Nevertheless, he says it direct to camera, so chillingly overlord that it is necessary to believe him. "Is your degree worthless?" he demands. Yes, sir, it is. And that is the theme of tonight's episode: not is your degree worthless, but your degree is worthless.
Young people from the audience are interviewed in the BBC television studios, the majority of whom claim their media-related degrees have got them nowhere; media degrees are mocked in front of abashed graduates; and Mickey Mouse's name is cried with as much hysteria as someone confronted by one of the skittering non-cartoon beasties. Never does anyone champion the actual purpose of university: to learn. Nor does anyone suggest that perhaps a degree in video production might actually be quite useful when pursuing a career in, well, video production. Obviously the only real way to get a job with a degree would be if society started churning out production-lines of doctors. But then who would produce videos of it?
Presenting knowledge itself, in whatever form it may take – red-brick or Russell – as an unimportant asset in this garish BBC3-pink bubble is more than slightly dispiriting.
Unexpectedly, the only moderately sane voice is Katie Hopkins: cutting through her knee-jerk assumptions about red-brick universities (specifically the deplorable "blow yourself up" line), she launches into a proper scathing attack on the government and how it is them who have messed up so horribly, horribly wrong. Not the young people, as this show keeps insinuating, but the government. How refreshing! She was quickly silenced – which was sad, because her impassioned speech took her halfway across the studio floor and Bacon seemed confused as to how she'd got there. A bit like her tenure on The Apprentice, to be fair.
So far, Up For Hire is a well-intentioned but vapid series. I may be biased, however, because their tie-in BBC Lab employability test rather pessimistically scored my self-efficacy as present-fatalistic. But then, I knew they'd say that, so what is the point?

Up For Hire: Episode One

BBC Three
17.10.11


Will someone give poor Alice a hug?

With more urgent questions than a personal claims advert, BBC3's twitter feed cries: "Have you ever been told off by a boss at work? Do you feel you've been unfairly criticised? Or should bosses be tough? Discuss #upforhire". It only just misses out on, "Call Claims Direct today for your free no-obligation quote!" The message of this tweet is strangely allegorical, if you like to shoehorn things into allegories and write blog entries about them.

Imagine, if you will, your boss: a robotic man with a tendency to snap at the slightest provocation in order to look halfway professional. An example of poor micro-management, his every movement is controlled via an earpiece telling him precisely what to do, where and when. Defying the voices is so terrifying a prospect that he quakes in his tiny boots and nervously charges through all scheduled topics, shrieking at juniors on his way to the blissful finishing line and cheque. To please the voices in his ear, he will counter an audience member's contribution at inxplicable moments, verbally collaring them to bark "Why?" in their faces in an attempt to make them sweat and produce the golden egg of "good TV". It's Richard Bacon, of course. He is, for allegorical purposes, the boss of BBC3's Up For Hire.

When he's not snacking on beer and pizza with celebrities who all share the same agent, Bacon seems determined to promote himself as a knightly advocate of young people's justice. His presenting stints on this and Question Tiemz (Young Voter's Question Time, for we are not worthy of the grown-up version on the big channel) are evidence that he might help his noble crusade if only he could stop Paxmaning them.

But that doesn't stop him, and this programme, from attacking the very people they're trying to help. Four young jobseekers with no tangible desire to work in a theme park are, for a reason some TV exec considered good, whisked off to work in a theme park:

Graduate: I studied journalism. I want to be a journalist.
Manager: Be a clown.
Graduate: I don't want to work for Paul Dacre.
Manager: Why are you eating ice cream?
Graduate: I've been working 16 hours straight with a 3-minute break every 10 hours. I'm hungry!
Manager: I don't care. Dance for the children.
Graduate: *sad dance*
Everyone in the studio: LOL AT YOUR EXPECTATIONS IN LIFE.

The wannabe journalist insists she has contributed to her fair share of unpaid work experience and menial labour, but, as this show is unnecessarily live, her argument isn't a carefully nuanced slap-down of the complex issues underlying the current graduate jobs sector. Instead, she is greeted with a Monty Python-like one-upmanship of tragic former jobs by a random selection of well-known faces:

Businesswoman: I am a businesswoman. When I was your age, I was 20.
Comedian with stupid hair: I am the comedian du jour. When I was your age, I was a Rich Tea Biscuit, and I never once complained about getting dunked in boiling hot water and digested.
Former X Factor contestant: I am the face of discounted Iceland produce. When I was your age, I used to sing quite well.

The graduate is thereby humiliated on TV for being something of an idealist and rejecting this notion that one should shovel pony excrement after shelling out ~£15k for a degree. The message, for all that there is, seems to be "put up and shut up". Yes, graduates: you were missold a dream of big jobs after extra years of further study, but that's okay because Richard Bacon once flipped burgers in the 90s and is now a big-name TV star.

There is something quite crucial missing from the contributors' insights into their former pre-celebrity lives, and that is the significance of era. The jobs market when Michelle Mone left school is not the same beast that it is nowadays – even in terms of method, with the rise of online applications and recruitment services – so to compare her it-never-did-me-any-harm experiences with a current jobseeker is without point.

However, the main issue with the programme is that no one is actually paying attention to the jobseekers. Whether it's Bacon cutting (slicing?) over everyone, or celebrities glorifying their own hardship, or the editor squashing everything into a squidge of a narrative and scapegoating the young people themselves, no one in a position of authority takes the time to listen to what is being told time and time again. Even the wall behind the co-presenter, outlining jobseekers' complaints, is only once glanced over. Many of them direct blame at external forces (where are the jobs?), causing the co-presenter to paraphrase the problem several times as "It's not our fault." This is never expanded upon, mostly because it's true... but also because it's more fun to attack the jobseekers instead and make an example of them, the lazy so-and-sos.

So far, unpaid internships have been championed rather than questioned; the government appears not to exist, nor does the entriely revlevant Labour policy of giving everyone in Britain a degree; and their montage of helpful advice managed to be more patronising than an actual careers service, where "dnt use txt spk" was considered a valid example of improving your chances of getting a job. If people have managed to successfully type their CVs nt lk dis yet still fail to secure employment, then something might just be amiss, and, y'know, that could be worth talking about?

Here's a summary for you: you've gotta have experience to get experience, and round and round we go on this stupid merry-go-round of want and need. That's not even mentioning the unspoken practise of nepotism and how it's easier for someone from a superior socio-economic background to bag a better job. But then, TV wouldn't want to talk about that...

I hope Up For Hire becomes more in-depth about this and does not try, as it has thus far, to disguise the fact that the job market is in the shit by instructing us all to lower our own expectations. But hey, this is BBC3, and Russell Kane probably has a new tour to promote or something.

So, with regards to BBC3's tweet, unfair criticism? Yes. Jobseekers just received it in spades. As this is only episode one, many downtrodden viewers who tuned in expecting the semblance of hope will wisely refuse to watch more. The condescending advice and propagandist pitchforks against those expecting a little more out of their degree will have alienated a majority of non-masochistic young people. I, however, am a fully fledged masochist. And I'm up for hire.

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.

Dear Diary

BBC 4
04.01.10




I love BBC4 programmes; they revel in the quiet, the introspective, and the sublime. It's a channel necessary to combat the excessive noise from every other station. In fact, by its scholarly nature and wilful determination not to pollute the world with more cheap schlock, it's arguably the most rebellious.

Dear Diary is typical BBC4 material: Richard E. Grant -- for it is he -- narrates this documentary about the art of diary-writing, and meets with folk connected to famous diarists. He examines works by Joe Orton and Kenneth Williams to find out what it means to put yourself into the most personal and personality-conflicting of literary forms.

Grant is a competent enough host, though he occasionally lets his feelings interfere with the documentary's partiality -- his brief interview with former prison-diarist Erwin James is nail-bitingly awkward. By bringing his careful disclaimer-like opinions to the fore, the interview suffers, and after watching Grant debate exactly how he should react to meeting a person he's never met, James' eventual presence on screen is enough to make passing goldfish hiss wildly. Not that the questions asked make way for particularly insightful answers, but a more balanced outlook would have made for a less frustrating watch.

Grant's video diaries are infinitely more entertaining, and in the comfort of solitude he muses on the small philosophies accompanying a diarist's life. He comes to the conclusion that diaries are written, or can be viewed, as a way to conceal part of one's soul -- which is all deliciously Harry Potter. But Grant's reflections make for a tidy ending: one where the unexpected tone of Williams' diary can be put down to the diary's ability to combine the dichotomy of public and private personae; where so-called "death diaries" can shed light on unknown experiences, at the ultimate sacrifice of personal seclusion; and where words can wield unimaginable power, enough to result in murder.

It plants the seeds of a rather Roland Barthes-esque line of questioning: how much can diaries be considered to be prose with the, sometimes literal, death of its author? After all, life runs deeper than words on a page, and one man's interpretation is another's codswallop; the writer's intended truth being the reader's diverging analysis. And how much does the adage that diaries are written to be read by others factor into the discussion? It will be interesting to see if this mini-series deals with these paradoxes. But, as a BBC4 doc, it's grand stuff, being properly cool over in the quiet corner.

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!