A One Night Stand With Russell Brand - My Review of The Messiah Complex

The messiah complex, in its clinical demeanour, is one’s belief that he or she is God. Not just in the Judeo-Christian sense of the word, but in the more generic, all-encompassing sense, of that of a saviour or messiah. The Messiah Complex, Russell Brand’s riotous rampage across the globe and its myriad cultures, is pretty much the same thing.

Let me take you through my night. It started out with the typical jovial and anticipatory innocence that often embraces large crowds at Hammersmith Apollo, except with this particular audience there was the unspoken knowledge that we would (inevitably) leave the venue soiled and debauched. But in spite of our wonderfully British indignity, we all knew that's exactly why we were there. So too did we expect a toothy grapple with the fundamentals of faith and religion, given the iconological buffet that was the poster. Suffice to say that before I had even reached my seat I felt as though Russell had been shouting important things at me for hours (for those who haven’t seen it, the poster sports more signs and symbols than an Egyptian sarcophagus. I imagine that if Dan brown threw up, this poster might have been the result).

Somewhat refreshingly though, the show actually began with Mr Gee, Brand’s tame yet witty warm-up who opened the show with a string of insightful quips and thoughtful urban poetry. With such an unexpected opener, it took some time for the audience to warm up and get onside, and was a slow beginning for what you might expect of a Brand show redolent with media-baked controversy. There also seemed to be a wave of apprehension spreading through the crowd as seats were still filling, much as if Mr Gee had walked onto the wrong stage. However, his presence and relevance became quickly apparent. Short though his set was, the contemporary artist/poet struck the perfect balance between the everyday and the intellectual that would set the tone for the rest of the show. From the threads of anti-capitalist sentiment to his articulate yet relatable delivery, his sharp wit was reminiscent of Brand’s own style and material – if a little lighter on the word “vagina”. It was a beautiful, teasing kind of foreplay that would lead neatly into the raucous and rampant fornications of Brand’s set.

Then the cocksure messiah himself came strutting, part Jagger part peacock, onto the stage amidst an array of illustrious figures of our past, and wasted no time in acquainting himself with the fawning females in the front row. It was all very exciting, I’m sure, for those in the stalls, but for us in the rafters it was a tedious wait for him to stop canoodling and return to the stage and get on with being droll. But, though it was an irreverent kind of arrogance, it was Brand’s astute examination of his own iconography that gave his otherwise shameless self-indulgence a rather witty spin. “I am aware of some hypocrisy here,” might well have made the tagline of the show, and actually there is genius in that. It’s the difference between overt egotism – which is always an easy laugh – and a sly and savvy prod at the real buttons beneath our skins (I imagine it’s this skill that keeps his bed filled). But, few have the balls to pull it off (Ricky Gervais is another of those rarities) without reverting to unnecessary controversy for the sake of controversy, which seems to saturate today’s comedy repertoire. And where Ricky will often pull it off in a dry braggy sort of way, sarcasm in one hand and microscope in the other, Russell achieves it instead by cunningly undressing us all with his decadent narration until it’s impossible not to feel naked before him. Moreover, we didn’t even get an interval to re-clothe ourselves. Clever Russell.

When he did decide to return from basking in his own celebrity, one of the many modern phenomena that he gave such ironic criticism, he embarked on numerous misadventures that would eventually lead to his purpose: To show (brag, boast, declare, lecture, teach – choose your verb, he did them all!) how he was in fact a little bit like each of his cast of icons… even Jesus. It was a simple but strangely addictive structure that leant itself to his outrageous anecdotes, as if even the very framework of the show was alive with his sexual appetite. It was build, climax, build, climax, build, climax, and nobody had the chance to say ‘No’. I want to say it was exhausting, but actually it proved to be a continuous replenishment to his act which was, in conclusion, as insightful as it was funny.

Sometimes Russell Brand can be too much and it's easy to feel a bit force fed at times, but Christmas wouldn’t be the same without too much Christmas dinner, and watching Brand live wouldn’t be the same without coming away needing a lie-down. But the Messiah Complex strikes a nicer balance too, despite his overt allusions to the fact that he is some sort of modern deity. For every euphemism there is a laugh, for every joke there is an insight, for every gaudy proclamation there is a humbler learning. And of course, for every woman there is always hope.

If you didn’t see it live, get the DVD. Just make sure you’ve got coffee. Watching a god at work is a tiring ordeal.

7 /10

TV Review: The Day of The Doctor (50th Anniversary)

Peter Capaldi’s Eyes!

It was all worth it just for that wasn’t it? As if the moment that all the doctors of past and present came together to save Galifrey wasn’t quite epic enough, as if seeing Matt Smith and David Tennant comparing screwdrivers wasn’t tantalising enough, as if seeing John Hurt brooding on a backdrop of fire and flames as Britain’s favourite time traveller was just not cutting it for the golden anniversary… Moffat allowed us a glimpse of the doctor-to-be to sate our hunger. Oh, and then Tom Baker turned up for those of us who hadn’t yet gone into cardiac arrest. And FYI… this review may contain spoilers.

For an episode that dedicated itself to fifty years of television, opening with the original credits was a cute but necessary touch. If not for the older fans, for the younger ones, as a reminder of the legacy that preceded the global phenomena that the show has become, and a nod to those who paved the way for Tennants and Smiths alike. But, as we have come to expect from Moffat, there were some intrusive questions from the off-set. How did they get out of the time stream? When did Clara become a teacher? To name a few. Though I don’t usually tend to get all huffy about the unexplained threads and fragments that Moffat so loves to leave adrift, the disconnection from the final episode of series seven proved a bit of a distraction early on.

 

But continuity aside, the episode proved quickly to be brilliantly fluid, more-so than any of the late season seven episodes. It was obvious that this story was going to be a slow burner (quite the opposite of what the grandiose posters might have suggested), which in turn meant we had time to absorb all the smaller delights: The interplay between the three doctors, their ingenious banter and exquisite dialogue, even John Hurt’s unrelenting attention to detail of the War Doctor. And let's not forget Eleven brushing up on his quantum mechanics. Priceless! Of course the Zygon plot was pretty much irrelevant, but lets face it, it’s not why we were there.

Forgetting the qualms I have had with some of the more recent scripts, this episode showcased real calibre when it came to the pen and paper. Writing three versions of one character might be easy if you’re writing a straight up comedy, but when you get to the nitty gritty of personality, with all the flaws and emotions and introspection that comes with the package, it takes more than the prowess of three decent actors to pull off such a dynamic. From the references to Ten’s sandshoes to Eleven’s incessant  arm-flapping, the back and fourth of wits was the perfect mask for the pathos that was built between the one who regrets, the one who forgets, and the burdened warrior. The tenderness was woven into the smaller moments too, like Ten wanting to know where he was going, and Clara’s exchange with the War Doc. Even the fact that he could not call himself the doctor was immensely touching.

 

 

It was all a strange sort of rollercoaster though, if annoyingly addictive. One minute I was stoked about a fez turning up, the next I was neck deep in the Time War, marvelling at Galifrey. By the third fez I was exhausted, wondering if the plot and I would still be in one piece by the end – I’ve had similar journeys with Addison Lee. But beneath it all I was committed, because the playoff of the poignant and the light-hearted actually mirrored our three squabbling doctors rather nicely.

I would have liked to see more of Galifrey, probably more because I had anticipated it more than I felt the episode needed it. The build-up had me aching for a Time War that would leave me starry-eyed on the sofa post credits, but instead the most we got of the Time War was a desert and a shed. It was disappointing. And I’m all for understating for the most part, as saying less often says a lot more, and I was already totally sold on the fact that we were getting character centred story, but for me the Time War just didn’t stand up to hype. “That wasn’t the point,” I hear you cry, and I agree. But let’s not forget that these events have been referenced since the reboot, and though I do often enjoy the way Moffat likes to turn our expectations on their heads, sometimes as a writer you have to deliver what your audience want, and I wanted a Time War!

 

Clara was fabulous. Utterly awesome. Every time I see her she is more the doctor’s companion than she ever was before. What was nice about the anniversary episode is that her role was perfectly understated (see I love that shiz, really). It showed her worth to the doctor, and her importance to the current storyline, which was often lost in her earlier episodes. Her understanding of the War Doctor gave her relevance above everybody else in the story and, in classic who style, made the current companion the most important person in the whoniverse at that moment in time. The story gave her the chance to take ownership of the character, and she took it by the proverbials. Without her, it was sure to be a “Galifrey goes boom” finale.

Lets talk Rose though, or the consciousness of Rose to be more accurate. I am still in a state of cognitive dissonance. It was a feeling akin to the one you have after an epic dream, sort of satisfied and melancholy at the same time. When Piper and Tennant were announced, we all knew they could never be as they were, but in some part of us, locked away in the niches of our memory, it was what we wanted. But thought she couldn't interact with Ten she made a suitably quirky one-time companion to the War Doc, and this was neatly written in. It not only allowed her to be Rose in essence, it gave her a real significance in the major events of the standalone story, about which I cannot complain. Had Rose and Ten hooked up again, you can bet your bottom dollar I would have been complaining (despite secretly squealing like an excited schoolgirl on the inside).

 

And where the blazes was River?

 

 

So I mentioned that this episode was a slow burner, but the slower the burn the bigger the bang right? All twelve (no, thirteen!) doctors returned to saved Galifrey. No fan, old or new, could spurn such a charged scene. It was hair-raising, TV-screaming, sofa-bouncing elation, topped off with a nod to the future with Peter Capaldi swooping in for his first day-saving adventure on screen. But it was the meaning at the very heart of the scene that made it monumental: The fact that just like that, Doctor Who entered a new era in it’s screen life. No longer is The Doctor a man running away, but a man going home. Come on, Even Ten’s regeneration was not as game-changing.

Yet of all that splendour, that was not what made the episode for most of us was it. It was Tom Baker’s endearing, eccentric and utterly electric appearance as the curator (and future retired doctor) of the archives. And the beauty was that it was not about the plot or the character, it wasn’t about the effects or the quips, it was about good old fashioned nostalgia. Being proud of our heritage and revering our past is something we Brits do from the cliffs of Cornwall to the highlands of Inverness, and The Day of the Doctor was no exception. And with all the tea, the eccentricity, the tower of London, the frolicking queens and the comparing of screwdrivers... wasn’t it all just oh so very British?

And you know, I don’t want to go.

8/10

Glastonbury 2013 – And some life lessons

 So it has taken me some time to even think about writing up Glastonbury, but not for want of time or motivation. For of the myriad stories, warnings and advice that I was showered with in the build up to ticking the renowned festival off my life checklist, nobody mentioned the post-glasto adjustment period that would leave me lost and confused, occasionally looking for a battered halloumi van amidst sorry efforts to recreate one of those sublime toasties. More than just a five day hangover, more than just sleep deprivation, more than just a begrudging return to work, this two week period is an eclectic concoction of highs and lows that can be as much a rollercoaster as the festival itself. It feels a little like jet lag, only without the jet and foreign sweets. Even now, finding myself without a beer in hand by 11am seems almost as bad as pineapple on pizza; it’s just not right. But now the turmoil has subsided enough for me to reflect, I realise that I have learnt much and more from my time at Worthy Farm. Allow me to share some lessons.

1 – Glastonbury is more than a festival. Aside from the explosions of artistic expression that took to the numerous stages, the festival fills the gaps with a lifestyle that you can’t help but pine when you’re buying your morning coffee from Starbucks. I enjoyed a celebration of electronic beats in the apocalyptic Block 9. I saw a woman in red dress juggling atop a ladder in the Circus Fields. I felt the beats of hard house passing through my body like electricity in the Avalon dome while the very next  wandering through the Healing Fields seeking a higher form of peace. I watched acrobats dance amidst jets of flame as ravers flocked to the mechanical spider that was Arcadia and I walked the line between heaven and hell in the lands of Shangri La. I experienced music and nature becoming one in The Glade before joining a campfire around a the Stone Circle to drink up the lights and illuminations that spread along the vibrant horizon in the company witches, nudists and would-be anarchists. I spoke to more people that I didn’t know than did and I danced ‘til it was light in the tent of Guilty Pleasures, singing every word The Bangles, Bon Jovi and Belinda Carlisle until my throat was raw. And though I filled my days from dusk ‘til dawn, these were nothing compared to the things I could have done.

2 – Give your feet more Credit. Not only can your car be a fifty minute walk away, but the site itself is gargantuan, and with visitor numbers in the region of 180,000 (the highest ever), it’s no wonder that it can take an hour to get from one zone to another. Back in the heaving metropolis, the thought of walking a mile elicits the sweats before I begin. I have to plan my stops, schedule food breaks, fill my water bottle, make sure my battery is charged, inform my parents in case of an emergency, that sort of thing. But at Glasto you can walk and walk and wander and walk… and you won’t even know you’ve moved. What’s more, you could spend the whole weekend trekking across the reported thousand acres of festival, and you still will not see the whole show. But have faith, only when you get back to the tent at night will your feet finally say, “No, just no.”

 
3 – The media are just jealous. If you put your faith in mainstream media, you’d never go to the festival if you weren't already a veteran, believing that the place is full of hippies, drug-using music fiends and tree huggers. Though these demographics were present, the majority of the Glasto goers want nothing more than to lose themselves in the music, the art and the experience. “Night of the living dead” was the tagline used for the Rolling Stones, having the world believe Jagger was busting his moves around a zimmer frame while Keith Richards was wheeled out in his coffin, kept alive only by the volts surging through his amp. But if you want the cold hard truth of it, their set was nothing less than two hours of perpetual euphoria. In hindsight, perhaps it’s quite fitting for the press to reference a film that pioneered its genre and is still recognised as a cult classic, after all, the Rolling Stones are arguably the musical equivalent.

4 – A Tesco value 2 person tent… is not a 2 person tent. Nor does it seem to accommodate any kind of weather. I know, “What did I expect from a Tesco Value tent?” Well, at the very least I expected it to be a tent. In fact, it was more a taught carrier bag masquerading as camping equipment, such that even corner to corner I was too long a human, and such that the rain seemed to have no trouble finding its way in. But regardless of it’s failure at all things camping, in the end it my became my little home away from.

5 – Some bands you will never like… Until you’ve seen them at Glastonbury. For me there were only a few bands that I was anticipating as eagerly as I am the next instalment of Game of Thrones. These included the Smashing Pumpkins, who delivered a hypnotic and powerful set, Noah and the Whale, who seemed to embody the sun that blanketed Worthy Farm and mark the true beginning of an insouciant summer, and Vampire Weekend who were nothing but electric from start to finish. But the jewels of the festival were the ones I had least interest in, and above artists like Tom Odell, The 1975 and Elvis Costello who amazed me with their live talent and all-round awesomeness, it was Mumford and Sons who stole the weekend with their phenomenal show that had me praying to all gods of festivity that it would never end. All I can say is that, for a band who never before managed to get my inner music junkie going and have even gone so far as to annoy me at times, I have not ceased listening to both their albums since returning home. Incredible.

6 – Flares are the coolest thing since flashing yo-yos, but only at Glastonbury. With my particular flock designating Thursday as the 70’s / 80’s themed fancy dress day, I was ushered into Oxfam with no means of escape until I had acquired a certain pair of flowing flowery flares that I’m sure started life as stately wallpaper. Finished off with a bandana and some Lennon-esque shades, it was Liberaci meets David Bowie and amidst the timeless wonder that is Glastonbury, I’ll admit that I did feel like the bees knees. But now as they lay folded in my bottom drawer, I am not quite sure why they ever existed. My plan is to donate them back to Oxfam… only to buy them again next year for another dose of cool.  
 

7 – A festival is not a festival without Dizzy Rascal. He reminds me of the half sane uncle who never misses a gathering to showcase his old jokes and Jackson moves… but you know darn well you’d miss him if he ever no-showed. All I can say about Dizzy is that I hope he’s still cracking out Bonkers when he’s 70, and having seen Jagger move back and fourth on stage like crab on amphetamines, I whole heartedly believe that this is possible.

8 – You don’t have to play a festival to be a highlight. Daft Punk were the talk of the whole weekend… and they didn’t even play! First they were rumoured to fill one of the TBC slots, then it was whispered that they had played Arcadia, with nobody around to give a first hand a account of this, then they were set to take to the Pyramid Stage after Mumford and Sons, and so it went on. I was even informed on one evening that Lady Gaga was set to join the Stones… but alas this was no more than a little monster’s dream.

I will not say that the toilets smelt of lavender, nor will I claim that the it doesn’t burn the pockets a little, but what I will say is that Glastonbury is less a festival, and more its own world, and a world that should be visited at least once in every lifetime. My only gripe: Five days is not nearly long enough, but then again nothing that enjoyable ever is. 

I will be striving to secure a ticket for next year. Do join me.

Photoshoot - Lost in Transit

Recently, I had the pleasure of helping a friend of mine on his musical journey by photographing the shots for the release of his first album. Below you can find some of the many photos taken and a link to his page where you can sample his music. His name is Edd Coates and the album is entitled 'Lost in Transit." He is an extremely talented musician, his album is definitely worth a listen. http://www.eddcoates.com

Photoshoot: Dinan, Where Inspiration Found Me

Inspiration. A writer (or more generally, an artist) can scarcely discuss his or her craft without using the word. It’s what brought us to what we do, it’s the reason we continue to do it and it’s what we need behind us to move forward. But what does it mean? How do we define it? In a way it’s like an actor, able to don the costume of everything and anything that we can see, hear, smell touch or taste, and sometimes we know exactly where to look for it whereas sometimes it will surface in the most unexpected guise at the most unexpected time. In fact, it appears to be far better at finding us than we are of finding it. Well, it found me in France last year, in one of the most beautiful cities that I have ever had the pleasure of visiting; Dinan.

A sinuous river, that’s had a thousand lifetimes to carve a colossal valley through an elevated expanse, meandered through the rugged landscape flaunting power that only nature could know. It found me then. The slopes of the valley were carpeted in verdant woodland, the river was flanked by quaint fishing villages that were connected by bridges straight out of a Rembrandt landscape and the waters were alive with boats and ripples of lush green, ash grey and mud brown. It Found me then too.

Flocks of starlings (I am told they were starlings but for all I know they could have been bats, flying penguins or pterodactyls) dominated this part of the sky and soared overhead, careening through the glen as if it were their own airborne highway. Perhaps I should call it a flyway? Anyway, it found me again.

Then, over the river stretched a grand viaduct, so high that it could only have been built by French mountain giants that must have since died out (probably due to over-indulging in baguettes, pastries and pate). It found me yet again. On its back was the road which emerged from the green, levelled over the looming arches and then climbed into a walled city built on the highest hilltop. It was a city that housed a network of cobbled streets, crooked inns and sturdy keeps whislt thrusting ancient towers and church spires into the skyscape. The city was a bubble, seemingly out of a tome on medieval history. It found me again.

Even though tourists were in their plenty, they did not dilute the air of authenticity. There were always scents of fresh fish or burning wood or baking bread, drifting amongst the rabble. It found me more and more, and continued to find me until I eventually left for home.

I wrote a huge amount in the weeks following and didn’t really stop to think, savour or consider exactly what it was that ‘inspired’ me. By its nature, the city lent itself to my genre, but it was more than that. I thought that perhaps it was the inescapable feeling that I was living in a different time, being forced to see the world through a renewed perspective. Maybe it was being immersed in a creative hub, or merely the general feeling of freedom that holidays seem to conjure. Whatever it was, I intend ro revisit this year with pen and paper at the ready and more time to investigate.

What kind of things inspire you? It could be places, people, experiences, memories, sounds, smells etc. More importantly though, why do they inspire you? A place is just a place, after all.

Film Review: Snow White and the Hunstman

I have no vendetta against stories retold or the number of remakes a particular story has seen in years previous. My only concern is that the few hours I give away are rewarded. The tale of Snow White is known to most of us and has been retold extensively throughout the last few centuries proving its enduring universality as a story. Rupert Sanders’ ‘Snow White and The Huntsman’ seizes this opportunity, returning to the medieval roots of the Brothers Grimm tale whilst reimagining the world in which it’s set and scope with which it’s told.

I imagine there will be few who would disagree me here, the visuals were resplendent. From the queen’s delectable garbs to the huntsman’s rugged leathers, the costumes excelled. The foreboding castles and run down towns were authentically designed and the verdant woodland and dark forest were teeming with some truly imaginitive artistry that wove the world together. Then within that world, the phantom army, the mirror and the queens gruesome magic were constructed with such rare innovation that it pains me to say that, in the end, all of this was sadly wasted. In everything else, this film was a let down.

 

 

 

As the film developed following a reasonable start, what I thought were just minor hiccups in the dialogue turned out to be consequences of an ill-conceived screenplay that had no grasp on the characters or a solid through line. I can only assume there had been a three-way dispute over the plot that had never been resolved, and as a result we, the audience, were given a all three at once. As well as the numerous duologues that came off as forced and unnatural, the script seemed to be suffering from schizophrenia; changing it’s perception of the characters with each passing scene. Our huntsman Hemsworth for example was worthy enough for a title mention but seemed to be kept at arms length from any plot lines as though the writers were worried that he might actually become three-dimensional. Don’t get me wrong, Hemsworth’s performance was by no means a bad one (even if a little ‘Thor’), it was that he had the impossible task of portraying a faulted protagonist without being given a clear purpose with which to grapple. If you want Sir Elton to write a song for you, you’d make damn sure he had a piano and a pen first.

Opposite him was Kristin Stewart, who I was praying would have escaped the snare Edward Cullen’s tranquilising charms – honestly I was. However, her meek and vulnerable “help me” demeanour only had me expecting R.Pats to turn up out of fog (there was a lot of fog) because Eric the huntsman sure as hell wasn’t going to step up to the challenge. To her credit though, she began with promise as the hard skinned prisoner from the dungeons who would rise against the queen, but in the end she just wasn’t granted enough opportunity to see it through.

 

The arrival of the dwarves were a welcome relief and a refreshing twist on the ‘seven dwarves’ stereotype. Their crass language and humorous discourse made for some enjoyable scenes that were executed brilliantly by the eclectic mix of acting greats that had been brought together to form the posse. The truth is that that amidst the disaster that is the rest of the film it would have taken very little to appease me, but that doesn’t detract from the fact that these scenes were enjoyable and welcome, wherever they were supposed to fit into the yarn-ball of plots.

Was there supposed to be a love interest? I must have missed that.

Queen Ravenna was evil… then she was sympathetic…then she was evil. Despite her believable performance and resounding presence on screen, these scenes were infuriating and I couldn’t tell whether I was supposed to sympathise or hate. Classic fairy tale characters are by nature black and white, so giving them fifty shades is a wonderful idea. But if you want an emotional response, give me at least the hint of a reason. Ravenna’s tender scenes were so overt in their plea for sympathy that I was worried I’d missed a crucial flashback where perhaps it was revealed that her pony had gotten a cold once, but alas no. No matter how hard I searched, I could find no motive to warrant sympathy, regardless of being force-fed it by the cinematography.

My summary is quite simple. The film boasted some innovative visuals and showcased some wonderful artwork that succeeded in creating a fabulous three-dimensional fantasy world. Unfortunately, the script was mediocre and under-developed, the narrative lacked direction or clarity and the characters were vague and poorly imagined (with the exception of the dwarves). My only wish: To have those two hours back.

3/10

Photoshoot - Fields of Gold

You don't to look beyond your own world when crafting your fantasy playground, you need only take inspiration from it. The world is already limitless in its possibility and still manages to impress us after many millenia. Take a normal walk on crisp clear day...

Surrounded by comedy - Laugter is obviously the cure

If there was ever a time for a boom in comedy, it’s now! This Christmas I spent most of my groggy bailey’s hangovers sifting through mountains of stand of comedy in countless stores just to find those all important boxsets for mum and dad. Then I get home and they’re all over the TV on a plethora of panel shows that are all predominantly the same programme under a different name. Some of you might liken the feeling to the sudden surge of HBO drama’s that had us all bed bound on our days off ploughing towards finales that Rarely lived up to their name.

Now usually, this kind of overhaul would send me running back to a ‘Scrubs’ marathon or a ‘Lord of the Rings’ re-read in order to the storm. However, something feels different this time. Perhaps it’s the lure of their grinning faces smothered over shop windows or the inescapable laughter that you can hear seeping through the walls from next door that have caught my attention. But either way I have been inadvertently lead to a place I never though possible in such a ‘gloom and doom’ climate: contentment. I’ve become addicted to the great library of laughter that stands readily awaiting to cheer us up, so much that the pressures of life seem to elude me and my own creative pursuits flourish in the wake. Laughter really is a cure!

Of course the comedic quality of these overnight stars can vary, but for the first time in a long while it feels there’s something for everyone. Whether you want controversial, dry, sarcastic or just good old fashioned observational stuff, its all their to be lapped up. And don’t think it’s just those you see in the shops and on the TV either, no-no. Live stand-up comedy is rifer than ever and pubs and clubs all over the country are showcasing comedy like never before. The scene is wonderfully alive and with so many still looking for work, it seems everyone is having a go! For every individual out there that calls themselves an artist, there is nothing more encouraging than seeing fellow creators and entertainers succeeding in a time where it just doesn’t feel possible.

Beneath it all however, there is a warm fuzzy feeling of togetherness that only stand-up comedy seems to be able to stir, proving that the UK needs nothing more than laughter to get them through hard times. So here’s my advice to arts enthusiasts who may have lost their appetite for creativity over the last painful year: get writing, get seeing and get performing. The stage has been set and is ready for the taking, imagination is flowing and there is an audience out there that’s hungrier than ever for entertainment. Even if comedy is not your game, get out there and see some of it. Get laughing, get content and above all get inspired!

TV Review: The Killing (Forbrydelsen) Series 3 (contains spoilers)

“Sarah what have you done?” says Mathias Borch, mimicking my own reaction on screen with a sensational display of love, desperation and fear. What a traumatising ending to the third instalment of ‘The Killing’ which I’m sure is going to haunt many of us for the rest of winter, but is that the last we’ve had of tense piano riffs and knitted jumpers?

From the series opener and the abduction of Emily Zeuthen, old wounds were torn open as Sarah Lund (Sophie Grabol) found herself on a case packed with the same sinister undertones and suspect political involvement that underpinned the Nana Birk Larsen case in series one. Given the overwhelming reception of the first series, for many viewers this was a welcome return to the show’s roots. However dark though, in series three our Nordic heroine’s attention remains elsewhere, with an opportunity of securing a desk job looming and her son settling down with his partner. In hindsight, one thing that the first two series’ struggled to achieve was empathy and leaving the viewer feeling torn between Lund’s commitment to the case and loyalty to her family. Of course, the detrimental effects inflicted on her personal life in the wake of her work were both touching and heartfelt, but always with a sense of “okay enough of that, now lets get back to the good stuff”. This was not the case for series three. With Lund starting out unbothered by the details of the case and feigning interest here and there, especially in the first two episodes, there was a feeling of detachment from it which was masterfully balanced by a strong sympathetic angle for Lund’s wrecked relationship with her son and a desire for her to set it right. This unprecedented move by the writers not only embellished these subtler layers beneath the main plot, but made for harrowing moments in which we see Lund balancing her two lives on a knife edge.

As the series progressed and details of the past were exhumed with red herrings coming thick and fast (one of the shows most defining devices), Lund is forced to make further sacrifices and in turn the audience is forced to choose where they want Lund’s loyalties to lie. This clever shift sets this series apart from its predecessors and paves the way for a new layer in Lund’s private life: her relationship with Mathias Borch (Nikolaj Lie Kaas), a past love who finds himself assisting Sarah on her hunt. Unlike her aides of the past, Borch is the mirror and catalyst that Lund has needed to see herself and fix her life. Given that Borch joins her in a professional capacity, the audience are also given permission to experience Lund’s two lives overlapping for the first time.

 

 

As would be expected, Borch gives cause for suspicion midway through the series but when it comes to ‘The Killing’, unless you’re Sarah Lund, you’re going to be a suspect at some point. Borch’s arrival in this series also compliments the degradation of our seasoned alpha male, Lennart Brix (Morten Suurballe), whose authoritative presence and voice of reason have kept Lund on the straight and narrow for two seasons. Series three however, sees Brix under harsh scrutiny from powers above, forcing our once untouchable police boss into rocky territory from the second episode. This fall from grace allows Borch to walk straight into the show as our main man with whom we must place our faith.

Moving into the latter half of the series, it becomes clear that Borch has some baggage, in the form of a failing relationship and a very unhappy wife. Though I see the need to keep the audience on the edge with our two protagonists, the lack of commitment to this sub-story rendered it an ultimately pointless addition and actually proved to be a nuisance to an already established and solid through line. These moments where extremely infrequent though and were luckily quickly forgotten in the wake of some heated scenes that had us seeing a little more of our ice queen than maybe we wanted (or perhaps not enough).

As the series drew to a close and the identity of the kidnapper was revealed, the audience were still left hanging until the bitter end, yearning for answers regarding an immensely important older case. Now, though I thoroughly enjoyed this series and revelled in its suspense, the exceptionally weak connection between the political shenanigans and the Emily Zeuthen case was a disappointment. As the climax approached, it felt as though the two plots were going to come to a brilliant meeting point, but sadly this did not come to fruition leaving me a little miffed as to the importance of the second plot. Series one and two boasted some imaginative plot weaving and quite clever misdirection regarding political figures and the line of justice, whereas in series three, the politicians and their counterparts had no more necessity than boosting the number of possible suspects . This was a true shame given that the political plot began with mountains of potential and showcased some of the better performances we have seen in the whole saga.

 

On reaching the breathtaking finale however, everything that was once important in the show is left as redundant as Borch’s wife when Lund takes the law into her own hands by executing the known perpetrator. In a Hollywood movie, this climax would be overstated, tacky and I dare say expected. In ‘The Killing’ however, it is placed ingeniously, turning three seasons of a struggling detective on its head. In this moment we saw every ounce of injustice and memory of uncaught criminals explode on screen under the final judgement of our heroine who, in the end, became a symbol of moral justice. Beautiful

But what next? If I were to be asked how I feel about a series four, my sensible answer would be “don’t do it”. Despite various discrepancies, ‘The Killing’ has brought some powerful and refreshing stories to its genre and I would hate to see it diluted by overkill, which we have seen destroy too many great American dramas that have begun with a bang but ended with a whimper. However, I have never been sensible by nature and so it would be wrong to be sensible here. As such, my response to the possibility of a fourth series is “Hell Yes.” Sarah Lund on the Run with the help of her Nordic hunk? Bring it on!

7/10