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