Already a subscriber? Log in
Second most gruesome moment was the 100th anniversary edition of Desperate Housewives (Channel 4, Wednesday). This was a television programme as made by the Franklin Mint: a lovingly hand-crafted piece of commemorative tat. You felt it should have come in a slip case made from luxurious skivertex. It was a one-off, set before the series began, in which Beau Bridges played a loveable handyman who changed people’s lives, before changing his own by dying on someone’s roof. We were supposed to be deeply affected by this good man, and how his wisdom had made others better and happier people. I’m afraid I needed a stiff drink.
But there were also some terrific programmes. I heartily recommend Yellowstone (BBC2, Sunday). There are two more. The depiction of life at 40 degrees below zero — the point at which Fahrenheit meets Celsius — was hynoptic. The fox that could dive through six feet of snow and catch mice was a natural television performer, and so was the guy whose job is pushing the snow off the park’s gift shop so the roof doesn’t collapse. It takes him several days after each snowfall.
These days no nature series is complete without a ‘how it was filmed’ segment at the end. These are often as interesting as the material in the can, and seem to be getting longer. Soon they will take over, and we will follow the human drama and privations, followed by a few quick shots of animals.
Two intriguing programmes about communists and communism. The Lost World of Communism (BBC2, Saturday) was wonderfully evocative. You almost wanted to live in the place. In fact, we will soon be living somewhere remarkably like it, in that we will be (a) poor, (b) trying to have fun in spite of the horrors, and (c) obsessively spied upon by the state. (Even the guitarist with a popular punk band spied for the Stasi.) On the other hand, our cars will be more likely to start on cold mornings, and we won’t be sent to Siberia for drawing lipstick on a portrait of Stalin.
Tom Driberg and Me, presented by a past employee of the gay MP, who was possibly a Soviet or double-agent, was full of jaw-dropping moments, all almost thrown away. The loving god-daughter who gave him a stack of porn mags for his 70th birthday. And Bernard Donoghue saying that he had always been told Tom was a spy — ‘but so were a lot of people who went on to become Labour ministers’. Oh.
The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (BBC1, Sunday) was much better than the pilot last year. Anthony Minghella tried to turn it into a version of The English Patient, all sweeping African vistas. But the stories are small, intimate, cosy — as much comedy as crime. The new series has caught that.
Also in Arts Reviews
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in