Horrocks first caught my eye as the foxy Nirvanah Crane, seducing Rimmer in an episode of Red Dwarf... but that same year (1992) she also made her debut as Bubble in Absolutely Fabulous. I always enjoy it when a “ditzy” character crosses the line into surreality, and Bubble skipped merrily across that line time and time again, somehow managing to make Edina seem relatively sane and sensible by comparison. She also wore some super-cute outfits (costumes?) around the office, setting the bar far higher than Ugly Betty has ever attempted with Amanda’s attire. Sadly Horrocks eventually tired of playing the fool, and was reincarnated as Katy Grin, a soullessly whitebread shark of a TV presenter. I’m not sure how many actresses could pull off a gearshift like that, but then if there’s one thing Horrocks is known for, it’s versatility.
In fact, her ability to mimic various old-timey singers even inspired a play, The Rise and Fall of Little Voice, later to be adapted into a critically acclaimed film, co-starring Ewan McGregor, Brenda Blethyn and Michael Caine. The film spawned two spin-off albums, and also earned her nominations for a Golden Globe, BAFTA and Screen Actors Guild Award. Her chameleon skills were also tested in a 1996 sketch-show special called Never Mind the Horrocks, which contained two classic skits guaranteed to haunt me for the rest of my life... and thanks to the blessed YouTube, they can haunt you too! The first (warning: contains swears) features a shrill children’s presenter, from back in the black & white days, talking down to her audience, encouraging them to torment their servants, and then singing possibly the most irritating marching “song” you’ll ever hear. Her commitment to the bit is a joy, even if the sound emanating from her mouth is a pain! The second sees her springing up in a classy costume drama, with Martin Clunes as the astounded suitor attempting to woo a wealthy father’s unruly (rabid?) youngest daughter. That Philippa, she’ll steal your heart, along with your trousers!
Most recently (just t’other night, in fact) she appeared as the wartime singer/comedienne Gracie Fields, in a BBC4 docudrama written by her husband. Biopics aren’t my usual cup of tea, but Horrocks and her co-star Tom Hollander kept it all fizzing along nicely, with their amusing and engaging performances. There was also a common plot element with last week’s look at the author Enid Blyton, played by Helena Bonham-Carter... namely the eponymous heroines getting screwed over by the British press. In Blyton’s case it was a scurrilous rumour that she had a team of ghost-writers knocking out her novels for her (ironically, the way she was depicted treating her poor children and first husband rather made such allegations pale in comparison), while in Fields’ case it was seemingly manufactured outrage over her decision to “flee” to North America, to escape the Blitz with her Italian husband, who they insinuated was an associate of Al Capone! Granted, her main motivation for the move seemed to be sparing her loved one from being interned as a POW, but she was still touring as a singer and unofficial cultural ambassador, trying to keep spirits up and raise funds for the war effort. She wasn’t sat by a swimming pool, rolling chocolate cigarettes out of silk stockings, so the “traitor” slurs and pillory treatment seems a bit harsh in retrospect. Apparently one of the trade-offs in having a “free press” back then was that they were free to make up any garbage they liked to grab an audience, regardless of the damage it might do to an innocent individual’s reputation. Tch! Thank goodness we’ve all evolved past that sort of trial-by-tabloid hysteria now... ho ho...
As winter approaches, a young man’s fancy inevitably turns to thoughts of Nigella. Or at least, this man’s fancy does. She’s such a charming, well-spoken woman, I could quite happily sit and watch her read the telephone directory... so long as she made a few amusing asides every now and again. It’s fun watching her flirt with the camera as she cooks away, but she was equally engaging company on the pop-genealogy programme Who Do You Think You Are?, tracing her European Jewish ancestry. Rather shocking to learn that her great-great-great grandfather actually fled to this country to escape a criminal conviction! If I said that the Dutch legal system’s loss was our culture’s gain, would I sound like some sort of pesky liberal? God forbid!
The only problem with watching Lawson’s cheffing shows, which for some bizarre reason are only available on DVD in Australia (no wonder they call it “the lucky country”!), is that it so often leads to hunger... and disappointment, when I remember that I’m on a diet and can’t cook. I know that many comedians have mocked her for using rarefied ingredients, but really they’re missing the point. Her shows are “comfort food” for the brain... like reading a PG Wodehouse book, or similarly cosy middle-class fare. It’s aspirational and idyllic... I just sit back and let it wash over me, then fantasise about punting past “dreaming spires”, and being able to understand the menu in fancy-schmancy cafes. The last time I visited Oxford, for a very happy stroll around the Museum of Modern Art, I ended up slouching off to Burger King for lunch, like the oik I truly am. Sigh... if only I could be one of the fake friends Nigella pretends to have dinner parties with on TV!
As if I needed any other reason to admire the woman, she also has access to Tracey Emin’s notorious installation, My Bed (1999)... a work which I’ll continue to defend to my death, dammit. I remember reading somewhere that Emin had visited Lawson to replace the condoms which form part of the piece. Not sure if that was a joke, but it’s an image I think we should all meditate on.
While doing my usual Big S picture-trawl, I came across this interesting article in Jezebel, about the absence of female writers on the staff of big TV shows and movies. Now, as noted further down the article, when they claim that The Sarah Silverman Program has "zero" female writers, they're obviously overlooking the fact that the series co-creator, head writer and executive producer is a woman (Sarah herself, obviously). Still it's a bit of a surprise to learn that there aren't any other women on the team. Apparently Laura makes up quite a few of her own jokes on set, but does that count? Not officially, no.
The part that really snagged my eye, was a quote from an academic study which suggested that "the greater the participation of women, the more thought-provoking but the less violent and fear-inducing is the resulting cinematic product." As a fan of non-violence and provocative thought, I'd go along with that conclusion to some extent... certainly where my favourite Brit-based writer, Annie Griffin, is concerned... but a female duo were responsible for the recent Anna Faris flick House Bunny, which prompted very little intellectual discussion beyond the usual critical musing on why such an obviously talented comic-actress keeps taking such crappy, crappy roles.
As a wannabe writer it also intrigues me, because my own work tends to fall on the so-called "feminine" side of the line, with compassion and philosophising (spirituality?) where the mindless sex and violence should be... mostly because that's the sort of comedy that I enjoy, and want to see more of. So, for purely selfish reasons, I'm hoping there's some sort of genderquake in the industry at some point over the next few months, so my screenplays don't land on stony ground. Thalia, we beseech thee!!!
That is, St Trinian's 2: The Legend of Fritton's Gold, Very Important Questions...
Q) What is the point of a St Trinian's sequel?
A) The first one made a shedload of money... thus, a sequel was inevitable. No matter how awful it was, or how much the killjoy critics complained about it pooping on the original series.
Q) What is the point of a St Trinian's sequel without Amara Karan?
A) None whatsoever, as far as I'm concerned... but then I'm not the target audience. I'd be curious to know whether she was offered a role though, and turned it down. I hesitate to even bring up the subject of diversity, now that their cast is even whiter and blonder than before...
Q) What the hell happened to Amara Karan's career?
A) Don't ask me! She clearly has the talent, beauty and charm to be a big star, but in two years she's gone from a lead role in Darjeeling to... er... short student film obscurity? Are we living in a counter-clock universe?
Q) Showbiz is constantly swallowing up and spitting out young actresses. Fame, like Life itself, is fleeting and illusory... so, why get het up about such things?
A) I don't know. Sorry.
Recently Hedwig and the Angry Inch was inducted into the AV Club’s “New Cult Canon”, prompting me to revisit it. I first “discovered” the film on a video tape I picked up on impulse from a charity shop, a couple of years ago. I vaguely remembered the film getting good reviews when it came out, and seeing a big glossy book about it when I was in SF one summer, but other than that all I had to go on was the blurb on the back of the box. The film kicks straight in with a punky little number called “Tear Me Down”, sung by what appears to be a drag queen dressed as the Berlin Wall, in the cosy setting of a family-friendly chain restaurant. Needless to say, it was a bit of a “WTF!?” moment, and I was hooked immediately. I couldn’t help wishing that all rock bands had the wit and visual flair of the fictional band rocking out on the screen in front of me, and that all lead singers could share even a tenth of Hedwig’s showmanship.
Still, there was something about the back-up singer with the beard and bandana that was troubling me... I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something slightly odd about him. As the film wound on, it became more obvious... he wasn’t a “he” at all, but a woman in drag... a woman named Miriam Shor, in fact. Apparently she’s been a part of Hedwig since it was a way-off-Broadway theatre piece, which explains why the three leads had such a tight act worked out. It’s just a joy to watch the performance scenes... scattered as they are through a tragicomic story that follows the rise of a young “girly boy” named Hedwig from the stark poverty of Communist East Germany to dime-store decadence and gossip-rag infamy in America. Serving as writer, director and lead actor, John Cameron Mitchell presents us with a profoundly sympathetic protagonist, especially for those on the margins of the mainstream, but it’s hard to stomach the way he bullies the benign, heartsick Yitzhak. I’m glad I upgraded from my old VHS copy to the DVD, because (among many other fascinating and illuminating extras) it features a deleted scene depicting the first meeting between their characters, and how within seconds of being introduced, Hedwig had humbled and housebroken his biggest fan. Shame, shame, shame.
It confused me a little to read the AV Club’s critic define Yitzhak’s ambition to join a cruise-ship production of Rent as a desire to escape into "comforting mediocrity". I’m not quite as avid a fan of Rent as I once was, but it’s hardly the toothless Disney cartoon that their writer makes it out to be. “Sodomy, it’s between God and me!” is not a line you’re likely to hear in the next Hannah Montana movie, is it? Or perhaps I’m just too easily shocked/impressed? No doubt if I’d been born and raised in a city with its own drag clubs and avant-garde art-punk scene, I’d be a little more jaded about such things. And I admit, if forced to choose between the two, I’d probably plump for Hedwig, because the grinding tragedy of Rent is a lot harder to take seriously post-Team America... but this small-town hick will still remember it as an exceptionally powerful piece of musical theatre. And you can take my signed programme when you pry it out of my cold, dead hand!
Huzzah! Even though Griffin's latest pilot, New Town, wasn't given a full series by the BBC, it did pick up a brace of nominations for the BAFTA Scotland awards, and last night took two of the shiny mask thingies home! One for "Best TV Drama", and one for "Best Female TV Actor" (Daniela Nardini)... apparently one of its younger cast members, Rose Leslie, also picked up a New Talent Award for her role, earlier this year. So... yay!!! Note: Awards only matter when they go to the right people. :)
Another one from the vaults... I first saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show in the early years of adolescence, when it was first broadcast on TV, and it’s been a favourite of mine ever since. I’m not going to pretend that I understood all of the jokes and references... in fact, I’m not sure I understand them all now either, even after multiple viewings... but that was always part of its appeal. Growing up in a small grey town, it was an all-singing, all-dancing window into an alien world... a more colourful, more passionate, more fantastical world. As a drama student and wannabe writer, I ate it up with a spoon. In later years, at university, I would share a classroom with students who insisted that all fiction should be “naturalistic”, and consist of abusive alcoholics shouting at each other in dingy squats... which just strikes me as a waste of good celluloid/video. I’ve always preferred directors who toyed with reality, or ignored it altogether in favour of their own nightmares and dreamscapes. Leave the kitchen-sink stuff to TV, and embrace the phantasmagoria, dammit!
RHPS has its flaws, of course, no doubt about that... giving Dr Scott a wacky German accent actually undermines a pretty good scripted gag, for instance... but plenty good jokes survive, and ultimately the songs take the curse off any draggy plot elements (no pun intended). Richard O’Brien’s wordplay is always a joy, no matter how the original arrangements age. I strongly recommend checking out his contributions to The Return of Captain Invincible... if only to witness Christopher Lee’s evil mastermind, Dr Midnight, tempting Alan Arkin’s recovering-alcoholic superhero with a wet-bar, via the medium of music! “If you don’t name your poison, I’ll have to get the boys in, and you’ll never see another tequila sunrise...” Genius. The songs in RHPS remain rock solid, no matter how many punks take a swipe at them, and how many other languages they’re translated into. It’s a crying shame that O’Brien was so naive about selling the film rights to his stage-show, and ended up earning bugger all from the midnight screenings that confirmed its cult status, and the mountain of merchandising that continues to pile up on our shelves.
Speaking of which, the only piece of merchandising I own, aside from the published screenplay, is a figurine of Columbia, modelled after Little Nell. Obviously there are a number of very attractive women in RHPS, and Susan Sarandon was arguably the star... but for me, Little Nell was always the focal point. Frankly its hard to miss her in the gold sequin top-hat and jacket, tippety-tapping her way across the ballroom, but she’s also the most fun and exuberant character, besides having a voice that can cut through your ears like cheese-wire. And I mean that as compliment. I was delighted to discover that her solo singles were included in the boxset of CDs, but was sad to see how little material she actually recorded. If only she’d released a full album, at the very least! I could listen to her sing all day, and never get bored... someday I hope a mad scientist will create a machine that allows me to apply her striking strine to any song I choose.
RHPS was followed by a semi-sequel called Shock Treatment. Hampered by industrial action, the results are “uneven”, to put it kindly. The ratio of jokes to expositional blah is a lot lower, and the plot is far less coherent... but there are some fun performances, and thanks to the DVD player’s skip button, it’s possible to enjoy the musical set-pieces on their own merits... and there’s plenty there to enjoy. Nell gets less exposure (in every sense of the word) as a supporting character called Nurse Ansalong, but she does score a couple of good lines here and there, and another cheeky outfit to dance around in. Incidentally, Jessica Harper, who takes the lead role of Janet, would also be on my shortlist of Singers Who Should Have Sung More Songs. While the threat of a RHPS remake fills me with, well, horror, I wouldn’t mind someone taking another swing at ST. It had such a neat (not to mention prescient) premise, inviting us into a smug, all-American town which had been converted into a TV studio, with the citizens being drawn into life-altering “reality shows” at the whim of a shadowy sponsor. It could have been The Truman Show of its day... but funner!
Ah well, time for bye-byes...
