Baby Reindeer. The Edinburgh Fringe smashes it on Netflix. All Hail Summerhall!

Baby Reindeer has been receiving some great reviews, and I am going to add to that body of opinion.

It was written by, and stars, Richard Gadd but with a supreme supporting performance by Jessica Gunning as Gadd’s stalker Martha. In the stage shows, which provided the inspiration for this 7 part Netflix series, Gadd makes it crystal clear that it is an autobiographical story, in the TV adaptation this is less apparent. But it is all true

We saw the Edinburgh Festival Fringe productions of Monkey See Monkey Do in 2017, at Summerhall, and Baby Reindeer in 2019, also at Summerhall but in the Roundabout.

My wife is not always the most likely to join a standing ovation at a theatre show but at Monkey SeeMonkey do she was the first on their feet. I gave both productions five stars and this nearly gets the same, apart from the fact that Gadd as a stage performer, telling his life story, is arguably better than Gadd as an actor playing a character, based on him, but actually is him, Donny Dunn. This subtle change takes some of the edge off his performance and requires him to act rather than perform. They are different things. I’m niggling though.

A big difference is that the stage shows were both one man monologues, albeit with AV back up, whereas he is graced with a supporting cast here, not least the miraculous performance by his stalker Martha who inhabits this sweet-as-sugar character with a dangerous she-devil interior that only raises its head when she’s not getting her way, and her way would be to own and ravish Gadd.

Gadd’s second nemesis is the theatre impresario Darrien played impeccably by Tom Goodman-Hill who subjects Gadd to massive trauma and was the main antagonist in Monkey See Monkey Do.

The combination of Darrien and Martha, and their collective trauma, create a stultifying inability for Gadd to do anything about his situation. His pathetic attempts at stand up comedy make any positive interest, from anyone, yes anyone, appealing at a subconscious level to Gadd and that may be why he rolls with the punches for so long against enemies that seem, to the viewer, so obviously easy to unlock himself from – but this is the way poor mental health and low self esteem can manifest themselves.

Whilst most of us could easily disassociate ourselves with these two monsters Gadd simply cannot and finds himself descending into blacker and blacker territory.

His only escape is through the fourth key character, the Mexican trans-actress Nava Mau, who plays Gadd’s sort of girlfriend, although it’s not easy. Gadd’s sexuality is so confused that he simply doesn’t know what he’s looking for and it makes for a pretty challenging relationship.

It’s billed as a black comedy and there are comedic moments, and yes, Gadd, is a professional comedian. But don’t come to this looking for laughs. It’s a profound, original and true exploration of the stultifying impacts of poor mental health and it’s performed with sensitivity and great skill.

Surely the year will end up with this on all the top ten lists, in much the same way that “I May Destroy You” did.

It’s quite simply brilliant.

The Zone of Interest: Movie Review

Four movies into his very slowly expanding movie CV (Sexy Beast, Birth and Under The Skin) Jonathan Glazer once again lands a punch that no-one could see coming. I mean, how could they?

It’s been ten years since the sublime and shocking Under The Skin (from a source novel by one of my favourite authors, Michel Faber) now he’s done it again with a novelistic source from Martin Amis. Having read a little about this it would seem that the movie and the book are barely related. Same theme and location, yes, but story-wise very different.

For a start it would be a push to say the movie’s narrative led. There is a slight thread holding it together but this is really an exercise in stylistic horror like you’ve never seen before.

The psychology of the holocaust has long fascinated me. How could an entire country apparently sign up to a dictator’s whims when his charisma, to me, seems so indecipherable. But worse, how could so many of his followers carry out such atrocities seemingly without question?

But this movie goes a step further still. How could the families of these monsters knowingly reap the benefits of this accursed man’s activities?

Sandra Hüller (who might win best actress at the Oscars for the incredible Anatomy of a Fall) stars as that very woman (Hedwig Höss). Living a life of privilege in an unattractive house with a cultivated, but not exactly stunning, garden in the lee of Auschwitz. Her husband, the camp Kommandant, played by Christian Friedel, is a snidely little creep who sleeps in a separate bed (his work done having sired five children to his despicable wife). At night he takes his pleasure with the Jewish housemaid, who’s always one dropped crumb away from the gas chambers that brood ominously just across the garden wall. Höss’s more than happy to remind her of that.

Höss takes her pick of fur coats, new blouses, diamonds concealed in toothpaste tubes as the apparent spoils of genocide filter regularly into their home. They party, they feed sumptuously, they swim in the river, they cough up the ashes of dead Jews – only a small blot on an idyllic lifestyle

Höss’s mother arrives, but soon leaves in disgust at this heinous way of living.

A young girl sneaks out at night to hide apples for the Jewish labourers – a death defying act that is momentously captured on night vision film. This stunning technique turns her into a lurid white spectre against what looks like a nuclear background, to the sound of an outrageous soundtrack by Mica Levy. Underscoring the score the Kommandant reads Hansel & Gretel to his younger children (it’s no coincidence that the evil witch is burned in the oven – although the story “cooks” her to soften the blow). Who this mysterious figure is is not revealed, but perhaps it’s the Kommandant’s oldest daughter. The one with a conscience. The only one. The Kindly one. 

It’s truly remarkable moviemaking.

The star of this colossal piece of work though is Johnny Burn, the sound designer, who brings Auschwitz to life without ever really seeing it. other than its rooftops.

On a side note. I’ve been to Auschwitz (which is actually three death camps not one) and the one that features in the movie, Auschwitz III is now a museum. These days it’s impeccably manicured and the buildings are entirely surprising, two or three story high red brick constructions that could be schoolhouses if we didn’t know better. It’s very disarming. The muddy, filthy wooden huts we all remember from the movies and the newsreels are in Auschwitz I, a short drive away. So this clean, Teutonic death factory is disarming and Glazer captures that strange orderliness of the setting as we often see the well-kept rooflines of the houses beyond. (Albeit with smoking chimneys and glowing fires)

What Burn does though is pull the rug away. The air of semi-respectability that we are seeing is subsumed by endless industrial groans suggesting boilers (certainly machinery we don’t want to think about too much) working at full blast. Gunshots echo out, but subtly in the distance, muffled shrieks, distant dogs barking, at one point a cold blooded murder. The steam train arriving with fresh cargo. 

It all adds up to make Auschwitz a looming threat, playing out a murderous background soundscape, like a satanic orchestra, whilst in the foreground we see a sort of Utopia at play.

The movie is shot as a series of beautiful tableaux, often reminiscent of classical paintings, but interspersed with empty screens, red or black, and the mind-boggling night vision work. (it’s searingly black and white, not green, as you’ve come to expect). This creates a sense of tranquillity and opulence, and yet it’s backgrounded by the worst atrocities ever committed in Europe.

Jonathan Glazer has created his masterpiece. Few would imagine he could top his first three movies and yet this comes from a place that only he can truly understand. It’s not clear why he’s made this movie. It’s not actually telling us anything new and yet it feels like the most original take on a familiar tale we will ever come across.

Prophet Song by Paul Lynch: Book Review

This won the Booker Prize a few months ago and in quality terms sits alongside Colson Whitehead’s deadly duo of The Underground Railroad and Nickel Boys that won him the Pulitzer back to back. None of the three of them are what you would call easy reading, but each shares a love of humanity that shines through human anguish and strife like glorious beacons. In Lynch’s book, set in Ireland, a totalitarian government has rapidly insinuated the culture of the nation, turning its citizens into either patriots or rebels. Eilish, our central protagonist is a middle class mother of four married to the leader of the Irish teacher’s Union. The book opens with the Gardai at her door seeking the whereabouts of her spouse. Only a few pages later he is incarcerated, we know not where for, presumably, crimes against the state. And so begins a nightmare that threatens the whole substance and meaning of her life. Eilish, certainly not a patriot, finds herself shunned by her community. Slowly but surely the book ramps up Ireland’s descent into mayhem and the implications it has on all of Eilish’s family, including her newborn Ben who reaches toddler stage by the time of its heartbreaking denouement. The story is really about familial love in the midst of war torn chaos. It is directly inspired by the Syrian conflict that was the catalyst for the English Channel’s boat crossings but this is only one conflict in a constant global shifting sands of outrageous political, and religious, fervour. How a state as solid and secure as Ireland can implode quite is rapidly as it does is not really the point, but it’s shocking. The point is that poisonous aspects of nationhood and tribalism can spring up anywhere, any time. There are echos of the Wehrmacht that fully kicked off on Kristallnacht; it’s subtly portrayed in a horrifying passage half way through where it’s car windscreens, rather than Jewish shop windows, that take a battering. But the analogy is clear. Lynch’s prose is beautifully poetic and this conflict’s place in time is regularly referenced when he spells out that although we are reading a story set in Eilish’s present, it is rooted in both the past and will well-up again in the future, such is the certainty of the human condition. Lynch uses no para-breaks (see what I am doing here) nor quotation marks which renders the story breathless, echoing the turmoil and lack of headspace Eilish finds herself in, unable to make clear decisions because events constantly pile on top of each other. What’s more, her father is suffering from Alzheimer’s and is crumbling. Like many older people he is doggedly independent and in denial of his condition. And living on the other side of Dublin, across various frontlines, visiting him is a treacherous, verging on suicidal, undertaking. There is absolutely no let off in the accelerating heartbreak and injury that befalls Eilish and her brood as she seeks safety in some form or other. But ultimately that safety comes at a great price. It’s heart wrenching redolent of The Road but with less time for contemplation or consideration. It deserves to join the highest echelon of Irish novels, indeed any novels. I was broken-hearted that it had to end.

Pearl: Movie Review

I’ve now seen all three of Mia Goth’s extraordinary A24 movies this year. In each one she has singlehandedly carried the movie to ridiculous heights of greatness.

All three are billed as horror (X as a slasher, Infinity Pool as an unhinged psychopath study and Pearl as another psychopath gestational study).

All three deepen A24’s reputation as the distributor of the year/decade, the greatest signifier of quality in moviemaking right now.

All three mark out Goth as the leading horror female actor in history if not, increasingly, one of the great female actors of her generation full stop.

It’s Pearl that that confirms this most potently as her performance is jaw dropping throughout.

It’s the origin piece for X, but the two movies could hardly be less similar, even though the central character is the same person (60 years apart) and shot on the same farm location in Kansas.

This tells the tale of young married Pearl with her husband labouring in the European trenches of WWII, her father a wheelchair stricken quadriplegic – a victim of the Spanish Flu which is a clever reference as it was written by Goth and Director Ti West during lockdown – and her raging mother, a German immigrant trapped by her crippled husband in rural America and resentful to the back teeth because of it.

Goth (Pearl) wants to escape this and become a dancer but is thwarted at auditions for not being blonde enough. This triggers her inner psychopath and whilst we don’t get a rampage on the scale of X we do see her nascent evil emerge.

It’s Goth’s startling performance and Ti West’s dazzling direction that marks this out as a horror of sheer class, although in truth it’s not really a horror at all: not a single jump scare and very little in the way of butchery.

Two scenes stand out, both featuring Goth, a long monologue to her friend and the closing credits which are reminiscent of Sinead Connor’s classic pop video.

This is movie making at its finest and a must see in my opinion.

The Young Team by Graeme Armstrong: Book Review

In the pantheon of great Scottish vernacular writers Graeme Armstrong has joined the podium. He stands alongside James Kelman, Irvine Welsh, Ely Percy and Anne Donovan.

Maybe he is the gold medalist, but let’s see what novel #2 brings.

My only criticism of this amazing book is it could have been edited a little more tightly.

That critique aside, in the meantime we have a belter in The Young Team which is an auto-fictional story of life in brutal, and I mean really brutal, gang culture in Airdrie and the surrounds (Coatbridge, Wishaw, Motherwell, Hamilton).

Whatever, they’re awe shite.

The Young team tells of Azzie’s life as a wannabe gang leader through the ranks, to…well, you’ll have to read it

The grit in this story is that Azzie has a brain. Trouble is he uses it infrequently as his gang-inspired rage too often rules his heart over his head.

At times you grit your teeth so hard you can barely breathe as this horrific story unfolds. It’s not quite Glasgow’s Jimmy Boyle-esque razor gangs, but it’s not far short.

Life in North Lanarkshire’s schemes is awful, although interestingly Armstrong rarely suggests that, it’s just life.

Aggro, violence, wine (Buckfast) drugs and motherly love are the soothing embraces that make this land home. No matter what.

The drugs (or is it the violence – there’s plenty of that) centre the book. Azzie is close to being a junkie, but he’s also close to being a murderer (OK, manslaughterer).

He’s smart, but he’s also mental.

I wouldn’t want to meet him (although I would love to meet Graeme Armstrong). We read of his life from wannabe gang master to sensible 22 year old retiree. But the needle still skips.

It’s, to be honest, terrifying. But it’s written with the mind of a philosopher.

Azzie can escape, unlike most.

This makes it sound like a cliche but it’s anything but. Ignore comparisons to Trainspotting. That’s lazy and predictable. This is a far more serious, and more important, book.

“It’s shite being Scottish”, yes it is – in this den of iniquity.

The stories of rave culture add a bit of levity (but even these are horrifying in places). I wasn’t one of them (thankfully reading this) but levity is not a tonal reference of this book.

Many say it is funny like Irvine Welsh. (It isn’t). OK, it has funny moments. But it isn’t a comedy book by any stretch of the imagination. It’s much more Alan Warner than Irving Welsh in this respect.

So, don’t buy this for a laugh.

Buy it to , I dunno, I’m so middle class that I don’t want to say/admit it – feel better about your life?

Actually, naw, just revel in Graeme Armstrong’s writing skills.

It’s a belter. And it’s coming to a TV near you soon so get it read first.

Edinburgh Festival and Fringe Reviews: Day 19

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better…

If Carlsberg did cultural festivals.

Two Fringe Firsts, a Five Star EIF Alvin Ailey part two, a performance art piece at the Talbot Rice art gallery, an hour’s talk and a signed book from Jesse Armstrong (Showrunner of Succession) and a preview of first works (x4) by young writers at Summerhall.

Let’s start with The Summerhall Surgeries, the last of four such one hour sessions funded jointly by Summerhall and the Edinburgh Festival Fringe Society in which four writers previewed 10 minute work in progress pieces to a small audience. A simply brilliant initiative and a peek behind the curtain of the writing process. My thoughts are captured below as all audience members were invited to do.

Next up I nabbed a return for Fringe First winning Ben Target (or Ben Target – with an acute to some – but WordPress won’t let me type an acute) and his show Lorenzo at Summerhall.

It’s a retelling of his inadvertent spell as a carer for his uncle (not uncle) Lorenzo Fong – there’s a clue somewhere in their respective surnames – during lockdown. His (not) uncle is nevertheless his most beloved extended family member since his childhood, which Target explores through the use of a shadow puppetry house (much better than Jesse Cave‘s incidentally).

Target is a stand up and repeatedly reminds us of his fall from a small height as winner of most promising comedian at the Fringe in 2012. And although this show is hilariously funny at times it’s really a sad story of death and palliative care administered in a truly DIY way, that gets close to euthanasia by Target and Fong, the Odd Couple of Death Row.

It’s entirely engrossing, spellbinding in fact, and Target should hopefully see a resurrection of his crumbling career as a result of this truly 5 star masterpiece.

I took a break at the University Courtyard and visited Jesse Jones‘ performance art piece called The Tower at The Talbot Rice. It’s rather lovely. The other show on just now isn’t.

Next to Zoo Playground (Blimey Zoo has had a great Festival) to see the third of their Fringe First winning shows. These included The Insider and Funeral, both reviewed earlier in the Fringe, But today’s winner was Beasts (Why Girls Shouldn’t Fear the Dark) a one woman play by Zimbabwean Londoner, Mandi Chivasa.

It’s a towering performance that charts the story of a young black London girl who is being followed through her neighbourhood by a man (although she describes him as a creature) at Twilight.

It’s told in rhyming poetry, although it’s kind of like a soft rap, that never stops the naturalism of the performance and often lifts it to glorious heights.

Appropriately in Edinburgh it almost feels like a riff on Jekyll and Hyde as our heroine Ruva changes role from victim (ignored by the police when she reports her uncomfortable experience) to victor as she assumes the persona of a lion-like ‘Beast’ and exacts revenge on the Creature. clearly a repeat offender in his stalking of young women.

It feels mythological, it’s somewhat fantastical but most importantly it’s riveting and Chivasa is a highly accomplished actor. Sadly only half full, despite its Fringe First, I’d highly recommend it.

The fourth event of the day truly was an EVENT.

Jesse Armstrong was in town for the TV Festival, but somehow the Portobello Bookshop had persuaded him to come to Port Town Hall to talk to 1,000 of us and sign his newly published scripts to Succession Season 4. To say he was entrancing was an understatement. The hour’s talk zipped by in an instant. My female companions were salivating.

Thank you Jesse. Like an audience with the Pope (as I told him while he signed my book).

And finally Alvin Ailey Programme 1. A step up from Programme 2 with Revelations again and pieces by Twyla Tharp (A jazzy Roy’s Joys) and another by Kyle Abraham (a funky hip hoppy Are You in Your Feelings?). Both were considerably better than the support pieces to Revelations the night before and rounded off an extraordinary day of culture.

But, man, am I bushed.

Johnson at Ten: The Inside Story by Anthony Seldon and Raymond Newell: Book Review

This is a journalistic review of The Johnson years as Prime Minister. The man I should just laugh at and write off as a fool and egotist beyond compare, but whom I actually despise with all my being.

In its lengthy account of a short period of power he is spared little in the way of criticism but not lampooned. Yet, the authors who have previous in this space are clearly holding back, although we are under no illusion that this man was entirely unfit for this, or any, office of state and that not only had he no moral compass but he actually had no compass at all.

So clueless was he in the job that the real Prime Ministers of this sad, pathetic ruin of a country (largely his fault) was not him but Dominic Cummings and his smart but desperately unlikeable wife, Carrie Simmonds.

The Cabinet had virtually no say in ANYTHING. But, you know, look at who that bunch of wankers were.

Johnson’s tenure is simply a series of flip flopping popularity policies, so desperate was he to recreate his popularity as Mayor of London where he had few “Big decisions” to make and the opportunity to make grandiose investments in infrastructure that made him look the great visionary he so strived to be.

He fucked up Brexit, then fucked up Covid, aided and abetted by so many muppets that he almost gets excused for some of the paucity of vision and insight. But the behaviour of number 10 during this period of national abstention was part of what brought him down, and of course, the lies.

It should be a big old schadenfreude read but the truth is it’s all a bit disappointing. It’s very badly written, and I mean awfully so. Many paragraphs are so badly constructed that you have to read them two or three times to get the point. (It was a rush job I think.)

And there’s a lot of f***ing redacting of swearing which drove me nuts.

So Daily Mail.

So, the experience of reading what should be a good old character assassination (and in a veiled way it is) is diluted by its lack of commitment and an attempt at fairness (constantly Johnson is complimented on his dealings with the Ukraine – he hardly won any medals of honour in his ill fated term at the Foreign Office though, did he.)

It’s not great. And wasn’t worth the time out of my life.

It could have been a lot shorter.

Let me have a go.

Chapter One

Boris Johnson got elected. He was a total cunt. He got binned by his inept cronies.

The End

Edinburgh Festival Reviews : Day 17

My 16th day on the Festival and my 50th production this year, but only my first Film Festival show. 

It intrigued me because the movie is filmed wholly in Edinburgh, but particularly in the absolutely glorious Leith Theatre. 

Nepotism alert! I’m on the board, but that can’t stop me marvelling at its beauty and versatility and it takes on a starring role, albeit in the background.

Anyway, it’s a new (but noir looking) monochrome version of The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde, (the 124th film adaptation of the story) although in this manifestation it’s very much seen from the POV of Jekyll’s lawyer Mr. Utterson.

No gurgling laboratories in this version. No cliched transformation scenes. Although there is a weirdly inappropriate (and wrongly set in time) story about plans to construct “the disgrace of Edinburgh” which was built in the 1820’s, although the movie is set in the 1880’s.

What’s of particular interest is it’s actually a theatrical production by the National Theatre of Scotland that was captured on film over three performances in the aforementioned grand dame of Leith. The director describes it as a hybrid version of the story to reflect the unusual technique.

It’s theatrical in style as a consequence and that has some drawbacks – very wordy and very actorly, but the performances are great and director Hope Dickson Leach imbues it with real style, aided and abetted by a fantastic score by Hudson Mohawk and superb cinematography. 

Edinburgh Fringe: Day 2

(Above image from Lucy McCormick’s Triple Threat)

A quite incredible day at the Fringe today. I spend months planning, choosing, scheduling and getting anticipatory. It can , of course, go horribly wrong but not today.

I opened at Roundabout at Summerhall with Daniel Kitson, a Work in Progress show. For years I’ve wanted to see him but never been organised. Of course, as per usual, his entire run is already sold out. This show is entirely Meta because it’s a show about writing a show, the wormholes back to his previous performances are endless, but the construct is interesting (a little like Every Brilliant Thing that also played at Roundabout and is available on Netflix) in that he has written a script and printed 125 copies of it (he will renew it as the Fringe goes on – it’s Work In Progress you see).

The scripts are individually numbered as “parts” and the audience play those parts. One of them is the show’s antagonist, Keith, and has about 200 lines, the rest have merely one, two three , maybe five. Of course I happened to be Keith and revelled in the spotlight. At the end I was applauded roundly and Daniel proclaimed me “fucking brilliant”. It was an honour.

It’s a great show, very, very funny.

Next up, a contender for show of the Festival already and a slam dunk 5 stars. Have you seen Netflix’s Criminal? It’s a bit like that. In Summerhall’s Old Lab it’s called An Interrogation written by Jamie Armitage (of Six fame) and starring Jamie Ballard and Bethan Cullinane, both West End luminaries, their performances are dazzling and they script scintillating. I shall tell you no more other than to see it. It must surely win a Fringe First. I was transfixed from the opening seconds. Truly great theatre. Not just Fringe Theatre. John MacNeill has a smaller, but no less important role and he is fantastic too. Simply breathtaking. I shall go again.

My third choice was the weird and, in my view, wonderful Party Ghosts at Assembly Checkpoint. It’s frankly mad. A physical theatre, acrobatics, clowning, slapstick, juggling and visual effect triumph. Laugh out loud funny antics about ghosts and death with a banging soundtrack and brilliant references to The Shining and Psycho, not to mention Adele. It was the winner of Overall Best Circus and Physical Theatre, Adelaide Fringe 2023. I loved it but Jeana and Lesley were a bit less sold on it.

Next we had the frankly jaw dropping Lucy And Friends by Lucy McCormick. Her highly sexualised and deliberately provocative comedy sketch theatre has shocked and delighted audiences for years and this, like Kitson a first for me, did not disappoint. It comes, rightly, with an 18+ certificate but it is a full frontal barrage of humour, mental health mayhem, and actual mayhem. It’s difficult to describe in too much detail but there were things going on with hairbrushes, vibrators and microphones that the Women’s Institute would have CONSIDERABLE problems with. There’s angle grinding, and just plain grinding to celebrate. It’s hilarious in parts and deeply disturbing in others. I thought it was a five star piece of experimental theatre and performance art that had us talking for ages afterwards. Not for the faint hearted or the prudish. But if you’re woman enough go for it. Extraordinary (and I use the word advisedly).

Last up was the huge, black, gay, perspiring American singer and comedian Larry Owens (known in the USA for A Strange Loop). He performed a mix of comedy and music. Man can this man sing. And he has comedy chops too, but quite American so I missed some of the nuance of his routine. That said, very good.

For me, two 5 stars, two fours and a three. you can work it out from the above.

Succession: the Greatest ever TV programme?

Breaking Bad has its advocates, The Sopranos, The Wire, Friends, The Simpsons and West Wing.

All are contenders and, like Succession, all are American.

Of course we have Emmerdale and The Dick Emery Show to fight our corner but it’s clear that America rules the waves when it comes to TV greatness.

Having come to a satisfactory and clean cut ending on Monday (they “stuck the landing”) Jesse Armstrong’s outrageous creation can now take its place in this Pantheon of greatness.

Everything about Succession, all 40 hours of it, is close to perfection. At its heart it’s a sitcom Shakespearean tragedy with so many subplots to keep the drama purring along that there’s never any down time.

Let’s consider the cast:

It’s led by the childhood-abused rugged self made Scotsman from Dundee, Logan Roy, who nearly died on the Atlantic crossing. He’s played by Brian Cox in a career defining role. He’s evil incarnate and yet there’s something about him that magnetises viewers. Allegedly NOT Rupert Murdoch, instead he’s an amalgam of Murdoch and Maxwell with maybe a few despots thrown in for good measure. Used sparingly throughout, every moment of on screen time with Cox is gold.

Kendall Roy, the eldest son of Logan’s second marriage to a highfalutin’ English damsel called Caroline (a grotesque caricature of English privilege and monstrous parenting skills), and killer of a waiter in the early episodes – he carries this guilt with him. He may be the natural successor, but Logan mercilessly plays with his lack of confidence and makes him a nervous wreck. Mark Strong allegedly played this character as method and never misses a beat.

Roman Roy, The crown prince jester, also sexually abused as a child hence the reason he has this outrageous older woman fetish and desire for C Suite big noise Gerri Kelman who he fires/unfires on a whim. It’s a mess but Roman , like the devil, has all the best lines. A recent favourite being when his sister declares herself pregnant he blurts “Am I the father?”. Keiran Culkin is a God, to be able to play that part with such aplomb, in my view.

Shiv Roy played by the latterly pregnant (in real life AND on screen) Australian actress Sarah Snook has an outwardly pleasant demeanour but is, in fact, a total horror and arguably even more ambitious than her two horrendous brother. She will stop at no point to overcome their male entitlement and her rocky marriage to Tom Wambsgams is both a potential ticket to glory and a millstone around her neck. Her micro acting skills are off the scale.

Tom Wambsgans is married to Shiv. He’s a nervous wreck, a creep, a bully and implicated in a scandal that killed a bunch of people on a cruise liner owned by The Roys. He is the eager beaver that has only one outlet for his frustration, the weasel like wannabe Cousin Greg. Together they are “the disgusting brothers’ and play a beautiful pantomime sideshow act that never fails to entertain.

Cousin Greg is a loser and an idiot (although apparently the show’s break out sex symbol). He’s like a corporate Bambi, but underneath that gormless facade he’s actually quite smart and scheming. As the show comes to an end Cousin Greg is given his season in the sun.

Conor Roy, the eldest son and wannabe US President (FFS) is from an earlier marriage and is not connected to the business at all. He’s the butt of many jokes and is the least hateful family member. Nevertheless he is a dufus and deserves no place in civilised company. He has a majestically hideous young trophy bride, Willa, played coldly by Justine Lupe.

The Greek chorus, but all key players in their own right, and all complicit in Logan’s disgusting greed and ambition, is the “C-Suite” of Frank (the Chair), Gerri (the CEO), Karolina (PR/Comms) Hugo (also comms), and Karl (FD) – they’re great alone or together.

Then there’s takeover targets like Stewie and Mattson (one of the stand out characters of series 3/4 played by Alexander Skarsgaad – a genuine movie star).

Put all these A listers together, with the great show runner in Jesse Armstrong, and a writer’s room (many British writers as it happens) to die for, and you end up with a TV programme that is funnier than anything else on TV and more dramatic than any other show on TV. It’s a unique combination and, for me at least, the greatest TV show of all time.

Thanks Jesse, it was delicious.

Evil Dead Rise: Movie review

I’ve been to see all four of the proper Evil Dead movies and also loved Raimi’s Drag Me To Hell, but, of course franchises have a habit of going pear shaped so I approached this with caution.

It starts, as all the others do, in a cabin in the woods but quickly transfers to a creaking 13 story townhouse block in LA, approaching demolition, in which a single mum and her three kids are joined by her pregnant sister.

The 14 year old son discovers the dreaded “Book of the Dead” in an old vault in the basement after an earthquake strikes.

Of course that’s the invitation for all hell to break loose.

The plot, from now on is kind of irrelevant, because we all know it’s simply a battle for survival.

What the movie does with great pleasure is takes the Mum out first and turns her into the manifestation of evil which allows the splendid direction, SFX and script teams licence to play with family values as it becomes mum v the kids.

It’s magnificently and outrageously cleverly gruesome with a few decent jump scares, but Evil Dead is really about veiled humour and this does not let us down.

One final point to make is the volume of fake blood needed to make this movie must have broken all production records. It truly is a blood bath and all the better for it.

Fantastic fun. And definitely not pear shaped.

Infinity Pool. Movie Review.

There is so much to like about this movie.

(But only if you have an open mind.)

For a start there’s the fact that Brandon Cronenberg is falling in his illustrious father’s footsteps as a body horror director of considerable note.

Then there’s the fact that it stars Mia Goth. I’ve only recently discovered her but I want to see her back catalogue. She was incredible in X and she is a stunning screen presence in this.

As horror’s leading lady she is approaching modern day Karlofian proportions. If you don’t know her and you have an appetite for non-mainstream interesting performers, she’s the one for you.

Alexander Sarsgard is fantastic too, as the put upon, abused, confused writer who’s one terrible novel is the hook by which Goth’s character reels him into a cauldron of horror that becomes more and more Kafkaesque as each reel unwinds.

The movie’s a druggy, hippy blast. A sort of R rated The White Lotus. Although even the White Lotus doesn’t pull its punches.

In Infinity Pool consider no punches pulled. It’s full on and brave. Really brave.

It’s also folk horror so sits alongside Midsommer and The Wicker Man. Like them? You’ll love this.

A bit long, I’ll admit.

My other reference point in this, and a good one I think, is Austrian Director, Michael Haneke’s, Funny Games. An unsettling horror that oozes class.

That’s what this is and I highly recommend it.

Ignore the 1/10ers who don’t know what they are talking about.

Gaslight: Podcast Review BBC Sounds

Gaslight is a decent retelling of the play by Patrick Hamilton, that was released as a week long radio play on BBC Radio Four, but has been upgraded with bonus scenes for BBC Sounds that give further insight into the story.

It’s actually the source of the term ‘Gaslighting’ that is so in vogue these days and makes what I’ve always found a difficult concept easy to understand.

It stems from this play in which an abused wife is gradually driven to distraction by her odious husband who turns the gaslight down in their living room (there’s a flimsy reason there’s still gaslight in a home in the 21st century but let’s not fret over it too much) when only the wife is present and ridicules her as she tries to explain it to him.

Essentially he is undermining her confidence whilst driving the process of her descent into near madness.

He’s gaslighting her.

It’s a clever tale of murder and greed that flies by in an instant even with the additional bonus scenes.

There’s also a decent sound track and title song by Imelda May.

Cast in order of appearance:

Tippi Griffiths ….. Lacey Turner

Jack Manningham ….. James Purefoy

Bella Harding ….. Rebecca Night

Ishani Rawe / Izzy ….. Macadie Amoroso

DCI Nina Rawe ….. Cathy Tyson

DI Reynolds / Michael McLennon / Chris De Jeanne ….. Richard Lintern

Written by Jonathan Holloway, based on the original play by Patrick Hamilton

The Death of Bees by Lisa O’Donnell: Book Review

Three characters slug it out for superiority in the dark storytelling stakes.

A 12 year girl, Nelly, with an unusual line in Queen’s English.

Her 15 year old worldly wise genius sister, Marnie, who cannot hope to ever conform and is shagging a drug dealing ice cream van man in the back of his vehicle.

And an outed, ageing, gay (‘paedo’) recovering from the death of his long time lover.

The girls’ parents are both dead and rotting in the garden, where they buried them on Christmas Eve. They’re sort of living with the ‘paedo’ who has taken them into his care and turns out to be a lovely bloke.

The social services, an alcoholic, psychotic grandfather and a ripped-off drug dealer who the girls’ dad has £70k of cash from, are all closing in on them.

And it’s all set in a poor part of Glasgow against the backdrop of a series of amusing secondary characters; boyfriends, school friends, dogs and teachers.

It’s a black and hilarious comic conceit, spitting its venom in tiny short chapters each helmed by the girls and the old man, Lennie, in equal turns.

I laughed out loud a lot at this filmic tale, and although it has many flaws its originality and devil may care attitude to convention make me recommend it.

It’s filthy fun.

Macbeth (An Undoing) by Zinnie Harris at the Royal Lyceum Theatre: Theatre Review

I’ve enjoyed a great deal of Zinnie Harris’ feisty theatre, with one exception (The Wheel, which landed me in a bit of hot water for negatively reviewing a preview) but the remainder of her work has thrilled me, particularly The Lyceum’s Duchess (of Malfi) in which both blood and brackets were in conspicuous evidence. Likewise with her modern (not modern) take on Macbeth.

I respectfully suggest you will get more out of this wonderful production with a working knowledge of the source material by the bard. With an in-depth knowledge (not me) you’ll get heaps of bang for your buck because what Harris does is deconstruct the classic and then put it together agin all discombobulatedly.

It’s Macbeth, but not as you know it.

For a start the witches aren’t witches, or are they?

Lady Macbeth is Thane/King Macbeth some of the time, but not when she’s trying to scrub away that damned spot, and yet the spot appears on her personage again and again.

It’s a modern day staging, yet it hithers and thithers all over the shop. In, frankly, a delightfully mashed up sort of way.

It’s meta, but it’s not meta.

The set, a massive mirror suggests reflection. Reflection on the source material, reflection on guilt, reflection on the society that the Macbeths have created around them. Reflections on their sins (misdeeds). Reflection on the power of men. a

And reflection, in a literal sense, on the characters. Are they real?Are they living an imagined life? Is this whole construct reality? Am I sane?

The music and SFX encroach, but only just, on the material eerily but satisfyingly so. One minute dripping blood, one minute dissonant synthesiser chords, one minutes birds cawing. Ravens? Surely. For death abounds.

Gender flip flops like a Slinky on a cartwheel.

It’s in turns hilarious (and deeply rewarding when you spot Harris’ wordplays, plot twists, conundrums).

At other moments it’s horrific. I had a genuine sense of real dread more than once and found myself with my mouth open at times.

And there, at the beating heart of it is Nicole Cooper. Macbething away in expletive terms, who cares if it’s the word that should not be uttered in a theatre.

Her role is outrageously driven, angry, manic and yet, she (and Harris as director) saves us histrionics (Note. I didn’t stoop to saying hysterics). Her anger is calmly controlled, but pervasive, insidious, beguiling and it builds and builds.

The real Macbeth (or is it?) is Irishman Adam Best. A great hulk of a man compared to his diminutive wife. Together they make a compelling couple. partners in crime but miles apart.

It’s a compelling night’s theatre with a note perfect cast, stunning direction and design (set, sound, props, costume and lights all play their part) and a script to die for.

Literally.

Babylon: Movie Review

Damian Chazelle doesn’t make bad movies (Whiplash, La La Land, First Man) but much of what I’d heard about Babylon in advance of seeing (no experiencing) it for myself was less than complimentary.

Turgid, overlong, rambling, too strident and lacking a narrative.

Well, in my view, all of those criticisms are both unfounded and unfair, because Babylon is magnificent.

It’s an epic story spanning thirty years, beginning in the silent era when Hollywood was in its most outrageous Klondike era.

The talkies would pivot the narrative when Al Jolson’s Jazz Singer arrived, but for now anything went and that’s where the movie begins in a lavish set piece piece that starts with a scatalogical Elephant episode and culminates, some 25 minutes late, in a drug fuelled frenzy at the end of all parties.

Then up comes the title credit, fully 25 minutes in.

It’s jaw dropping and hilarious.

We then see the, also hilarious, growth of silent cinema where anyone with a mind, and a budget to do it, can do it. This is where Brad Pitt (a matinee idol in his final years) and Margot Robbie (a wannabe with talent and gumption) dominate proceedings with Robbie putting in a career high performance.

In the third act the story slows down considerably and assumes a narrative direction before all hell breaks loose in the penultimate chapter (it turns into a horror film, with a stand out cameo from Toby MaGuire, that morphs into a psychedelic episode that Kubrick would have loved, before reaching its Jazzy musical finale.

It’s three hours of endless ideas, superb styling, sets and costume design.

In using Singing In the Rain as a central plot device, and theme for the movie’s funniest sequence on an early sound stage, Chazelle treats us to his first real exploration of humour.

It’s an homage, as the whole movie is, to the greatest days of hollywood. It’s a comedy, a romance, a horror and a musical all rolled into one.

And the music. On my, fans of La La Land will enjoy the musical themes that run throughout and are a direct follow up to his first masterpiece.

I applauded the movie as the final curtain came down. It contains more ideas, more vitality, more chutzpah than anything I’ve seen for ages and I for one hope to see it rewarded at the Hollywood gongs night in the spring.

Bravo.

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez: Book Review

This is the second Argentinian book I have read recently and it seems the country has a rich seam of dark writing talent.

Enriquez’s book is a collection of short stories that stem from the macabre, but are tempered in her writing, such that it is suggestive rather than gratuitous in its pot pourri of horrors.

Ghosts, witches and disappearances are the staple diet for Enriquez with the disappearances, I assume, as a metaphor for the Junta that dictated Argentina for so long. Children and vulnerable adults often feature.

She has a languid style, even though the stories are short and she has a skill in capturing conversation and description that feels naturalistic (despite the fact that the book is a translation).

I very much enjoyed this slight but powerful collection and I suggest you do too.

Men: Movie Review (Amazon Prime)

This promised to be a winning combination. Jessie Buckley written and directed by Alex Garland with music by Geoff Barrow (Portishead).

It is.

It’s full on bonkers horror movie, folk horror I’d say where Wicker Man meets Friday the 13th, meets The Thing.

Bonkers really is the word.

Harper (Jessie Buckley) has retreated to a country manor to regroup after a nasty break up with her husband, very nasty it turns out, and meets the Fast Show-esque posho, red-trouser wearing owner of the manor, Geoffrey (Rory Kinnear), for a tour of the building before he departs. Played for laughs by Kinnear we start to relax until Harper’s exploration of the local area throw up the shades of Wicker Man local population (all played by Kinnear) that indeed would not be out of place in The Fast Show but maybe more at home in one of the more eccentric Inside Number 9’s.

Anyway, things escalate, Friday the 13th Kicks in for 15 minutes or so before the extraordinary finale in which men beget men.

Maybe Garland is saying that all men are the same (a strongly feminist outlook from a man) and he’s not referring to their better qualities by the way.

Either way, Buckley again shows her acting chops off well in what is ultimately a throwaway chapter in her wonderful, multifaceted career. She’s great and so is Kinnear.

As I said at the start it’s bonkers, but gloriously so.

Men eh? You can’t live with ’em, you can’t live with ’em.

The Things We Do To Our Friends: Book Review

I must be a feminist because this new novel is described as a seductive feminist thriller, because it places significant, albeit dubious, power into the hands of its largely female cast (and I say cast because it has movie rights written all over it) as they exact retribution on bad men, very bad men.

It’s also described as The Secret History-esque, which is actually why I bought it

It’s not.

All that said, it’s a gripping page turner set in Edinburgh and France and features a clique of super rich students who invite the rather less wealthy main protagonist, Clare, into their midst to help them in their untoward aspirations.

Clare has a dark secret that the author, Heather Darwent, in her accomplished debut, successfully hides for a large part of the novel.

What Darwent skilfully executes is a gruesome story that isn’t actually that gruesome, but features a strong storyline and an ever interesting bunch of protagonists that interact with each other in increasingly unpredictable ways. It is skilfully plotted, very fast paced, genuinely intriguing and a classic page turner. I finished it in three days which must be some sort of record for me in recent times.

Highly recommended, although hardly life changing and no, it’s not as good as The Secret History.

Little is.

Also, a very good cover, but don’t judge it on that.

X: Movie review

X is a superior horror movie. Clearly borrowing from the territory of Texas Chainsaw Massacre it manages to, nevertheless, be refreshingly original.

The premise is this. A (relatively) young young bunch of hipsters head out into the Texas countryside in 1979 having booked a cabin on a ranch in which to stay.

Their mission? To create a porno (or adult film as it was called in those days).

Upon arrival (and becoming apparent from a stopover at a petrol station that they are in Bible Belt and that sort of thing is not approved of) they are confronted by the owner of their accommodation. He’s very, very old and has an itchy trigger finger on his shotgun and appears to have forgotten the transaction (it was pre airbnb days).

His (hidden) wife is even older, but it transpires she seems to have a taste for a bit of jiggy jiggy and soon enters the fray in a quite unexpected way.

Much carnage (and a fair bit of nudity) follow but it’s funny in a way and it’s nice to see 90 + year old serial killers getting their moment in cinema.

It’s shot really well and Mia Goth is terrific in the lead.

Netflix. Recommended.