Having spent most of my life denying in plummy tones that I am in any way upper-middle class (“Middle-middle, it makes all the difference”), I think I can deny it no longer. For you see, ladies and gentlemen, I have started watching – and hugely enjoying – The Great British Bake-Off. I know nothing about baking. Every cake I have ever made (bar one rather nice chocolate effort in Food Tech at school) has failed to rise more than a few inches. On the rare occasion that I do attempt a Victorian Sponge, I automatically make three so that at least I can sandwich them together in layers that will vaguely resemble something tall enough as not be risible. I don't actually even like cakes that much – my love for carbohydrates tend to manifest in noodles, chips and bread.
So it is with some surprise that I find myself an avid watcher of a programme that takes middle class judges, middle class presenters and middle class contestants and asks them to perform a (these days) middle class pursuit that I have little interest in. As far as I can tell, the appeal lies in the human ability to find drama in anything, even how light a touch someone has for pastry. There is also something brilliant in watching twelve-odd people going “BAKING IS SERIOUS BUSINESS, YO” every week. Most of us have baked at home or at school and knocking out a batch of fairy cakes every now and then is still pretty par for the course in most kitchens, so to see people who have made home-baking into a real art form, who understand what it is they're doing as opposed to just going “oh so now we add more sugar” is something of a delight. Then again, it's always intriguing to watch someone do something mysterious and skilful and baking, with its weird mixture of science and artistry, is one of the most mysterious of all.
Of course, much of its success depends on the people involved, starting with the judges who don't quite manage to pull off the Masterchef trick of Little but Terrifying teamed with Friendly but Tough. Instead we have Mary Berry, author of much baking literature, who comes across as a kind of uber WI leader and quite as proficient in conveying crushing disappointment as any mother (or, in my case, Food Tech teacher) and professional baker Paul Hollywood, filling the Simon Cowell role and occasionally being tutted at by Mary. Then there are the presenters, the always delightful Sue Perkins, dragging along comedy partner Mel Giedroyc in her gurning wake. Sue is quite as funny, intelligent and informed as she is on Supersizers and every other BBC programme (at one point asking a contestant if she can perform an interpretive dance for her to help calm her nerves), while Mel is essentially a much less good version and everything she says makes me hope the poor baker being twittered at turns around at punches her in the head. But, of course, it would be nothing without a good selection of contestants and the ones we are faced with are anvil-thumpingly diverse in the range of ages, races, genders and sexualities on offer. But they're also great.
There's camp Ian (favourite line so far: “Pastry is a cruel mistress”) who spends most of his time smiling shyly and flustering self-consciously at the camera, but has been cruelly outed because of his overly-doughy bread. There's Jason, a black 19-year-old Croydon rude boy who is a delightfully arrogant foil to all the middle-class modesty going on (catch phrase: “I'm sure they'll like it”) and produced a truly excellent-looking salmon and pak choi quiche in the second week with little more than a shrug and a self-satisfied grin. There's lovely Holly, awarded the title of Star Baker in the first week, who is clearly just extremely talented and an early favourite to win, and seems genuinely wry and unassuming about the whole process. And then, of course, there's Rob, an extremely good-looking photographer and my latest pretend telly boyfriend. Rob is clearly not the best baker in this competition. Or rather, he probably could be but doesn't seem to be that bothered about anything other than looking appealingly at judges, presenters and the camera with his big green eyes. In the first week, he dropped his gooey chocolate cake on the floor with a resounding splatter and the nation leapt to their feet with a collective cry of heartbreak as he looked on, slightly bewildered that such a thing could have happened to someone with such thick, glossy hair. Rob schleps around the kitchen sort of haplessly, smiling naively while Mel pretends she's hugging him to comfort him after his latest disaster. He probably shouldn't last more than another few rounds but I'm clearly not the only one who wants him in the final just so they can keep looking at him. Rob and Jason in the final, Holly to win.
The only thing lacking in the competitor stakes so far is someone who desperately wants to win, so much so that they'll be lying in wait with an electric whisk as their fellow bakers make their way back to their Ford Fiestas at the end of each week. My money's on Ben who, has produced some very good efforts but also has a tendency to go white-lipped and sniffy at any hint of a criticism. This isn't to say I don't like him though – after a tense moment with some pastry that wouldn't emerge from its case, Mel remarks blithely, “That was tense!” “Especially with you standing there,” he replies darkly.
Anyway. Tonight is biscuits, and who doesn't love a biccy? I'll be watching, trying to ignore both my screaming class-conscious paranoia and my tummy rumbling. Om nom nom.
Oh mes enfants, it has been a while. I do apologise. But sure as autumn follows summer, sure as rain follows sun, the good Doctor is back on our screens and where he goes, the blog must follow. So, to kick things off again, a two-part review of the series opener 'Let's Kill Hitler' (Stephen Moffat) and this week's 'Night Terrors' (Mark Gatiss).
I was initially a little wary about reviewing them together; the task of trying to shoe-horn the revelations and plot-furthering of the main story arc of the former with the stand alone simplicity of the latter into one review was not an enticing one. In the event, I needn't have worried because what has emerged is something really rather interesting: Moffat, patron saint of the understated gothic-light urban-fairytale NuWho has produced an episode that put me very much in mind of an RTD finale and Gatiss, who has never quite managed to produce an episode of Who that wasn't an RTD-style shiny plastic toy, delivered what was, essentially, a Stephen Moffat episode. I also preferred it and I'm pretty certain me preferring a Gatiss episode to a Moffat episode is one of the signs of a forthcoming apocalypse, so next week I'll be writing the blog from an underground bunker surrounded by tinned food and blankets. Better to be prepared.
'Let's Kill Hitler' had all the ingredients of an episode I should have loved: River-centric, timey-wimey, snidey tongue-in-cheek about a famous dictator, great Rory lines, Matt Smith getting to be portentous and do Proper Acting, not too much Amy. But it just - well - gah. It just didn't work for me. Whereas the mid-series finale 'A Good Man Goes to War' was admittedly ridiculous, it was stylishly and entertainingly ridiculous, with its opening sequence of Rory's long overdue transformation into a badass, Victorian lesbian lizards and the Doctor's gleeful reveal from under the monk's hood, plus, of course, that preposterous piece of information about River Song's parentage. In contrast, I felt the pace of LKH smattered along somewhat awkwardly, lurching from banter to banter to heart-wringing death scenes all the while trying desperately to maintain the effortless cool of previous Moffat outings. Bute surely we can turn to that other staple of a grandiose Moffat episode, the resolution of a carefully plotted mystery?
Well, for an episode that was based around giving long-awaited answers, LKH seemed to be short on the actual revelations. I don't want to boast (well obviously I do) but either I'm getting smarter or the writers are getting lazy, because I saw every single twist in that episode coming from a mile off - I twigged that 'Mels' was River before she even opened her mouth because really, it's a series opener that's reunited Amy, Rory and the Doctor and a mysterious and exotic looking woman comes careering up in a fast car, plus we know River can regenerate. It's not exactly TARDIS rocket science. I guessed River would start trying to kill him. I guessed she would use up all her regenerations in saving him. I even guessed the lipstick was poisoned. (On a side note, I also totally guessed that Anton Lesser was the spy in The Hour.) Most likely is just that I've watched so much TV I can now smell clue-signposting a mile away. Or it could just be that there was nothing new in Let's Kill Hitler - it was simply a realisation of every piece of information that has been given away or hinted at so far. Let's review: at the end of last series we knew that Baby Melody had been stolen away to become programmed and trained as the incredibly strong six-year-old who busted out of the Astronaut suit in Day of the Moon and then promptly regenerated. We also knew that she would turn out to be ultimately good (and awesome) in the form of River Song. So - feel free to disagree - I feel a little cheated by an episode that does nothing more than say "Yes. That is correct. By the way, she was an annoying teenager for a bit in the middle as well." It was, I suppose, a necessary episode but I didn't think it was a particularly fun one.
However, despite my misgivings, Moffat has a particularly irrepressible genius and his talent at writing funny, sexy, sparkling Who shone through on several occasions: the whole Doctor/River battle of wits was beautifully executed (all that practice writing Sherlock is paying off, I see), and Rory just ran away with the best lines ("Get in the cupboard, Hitler.") Plus, I'm really starting to appreciate Rory and Amy's dynamic now that they're being allowed to function as a unit - Amy-and-Rory is much more fun than Just Amy. And Just Rory, come to think of it. I'd love to see more of that, and less of that self-aggrandising 'THIS IS EPIC' stuff. Although let's address one thing: Moffat has certainly beaten his record on the sheer amount amount of genderfail he managed to cram into 45 minutes. Off the top of my head, there was Mels' "I'm concentrating on a dress size", River running off to weigh herself as soon as she regenerated, the "I'm going shopping", the "plus, she's a woman", not to mention making River's whole career all about the Doctor. Not cool, and so very 90s sitcom.
So, Moffat, I'll cut you a deal. Let's just wrap up this whole Dead Doctor thing with whatever timey-wimey alternate-time-stream-River, Flesh avatar, Silence-involved solution you have up your sleeve, we'll all pat you on the back and say how clever you are and the whole thing can be better best forgotten, left to gather dust in the vaults of Who-lore. Then you'll go back to producing a series of finely-crafted individual gems of episodes with an intriguing but not overly intrusive series arc, and we'll say no more about it. Sound good? Great.
Gatiss' 'Night Terrors' was an altogether different beast and, as previously stated, far more enjoyable. Seeing as I'm now seriously behind with my Who homework, I'll be brief. I loved the theme of children's nightmares, plus all the opportunities for tongue-in-cheek, breaking-the-fourth-wall humour about the scariest place in the universe being a child's bedroom. Or, y'know, behind the sofa. Maybe after watching something on TV, say. For example, the adventures of a 900-year-old alien and his travelling companions. But that's just silly now.
Fine, so it didn't go that meta, but it was enough to tick my meta-lovin' boxes. With a little more hindsight, I can say that perhaps the episode wasn't stellar, merely solid, but I still got more viewing pleasure out of it that Moffat's. Viewing pleasure is something that Gatiss understands, a man self-confessedly raised by television: as a writer he's an expert on combining the creepy and the funny to create something blackly, rather than bleakly, comic. I hugely enjoyed his 'Crooked House' series (three horror stories set in the same house through time with an over-arching narrative in the present day to tie it all together), League of Gentlemen is unparalleled in its niche, and his episode of Sherlock was just about the best of the three. But famously he's never really written a good episode of Doctor Who. Until now, I say. (Actually, way back in Series 1 and 2 of NuWho, I quite liked 'The Unquiet Dead' and 'The Idiot's Lantern' but shh, don't tell anyone.) 'Night Terrors' was a sweet little vignette in Who-lore and a welcome break in the ongoing tsunami of the whole Dead Doctor saga. It won't win any awards but it was funny, genuinely touching (I admit, I shed a little tear) and just creepy enough to keep it in the territory of the Who we know and love.
So yeah, it did sort of seem to be crafted out of the leftover bits from 'The Empty Child', 'Fear Her' and every RTD-era story set in yet another council block but hey, Moffat's been borrowing from his own story lines so much that the whole structural integrity of the show has been compromised, so I'll overlook this. And like I said, a good episode, not a great one but with enough real heart to it that I enjoyed it more than Moffat's showing off.
If it sounds like I've done a 180 degree turn on Moffat, I really haven't. I still think he's a fundamentally better writer than Russell T Davies and his ideas for the show are more exciting and genuinely ambitious. But he's also fallen prey to his own ego. There's a danger in being the kid that watched the show when he was seven and said "I'm going to run that when I grow up": on some level, he's still the child playing with his action figures in his bedroom. Sadly, action figures aren't believable, engaging characters and the convoluted sagas that seven year olds spin to amuse themselves are not gripping plots. It's not the end of the world for the show and it certainly isn't OMG RUINED FOREVER, but the skeptical reserve I expressed way back at the start of the series is still skeptical and reserved. I've got four more episodes to be impressed in and I really want to be.
In my opinion, then, the series resumes a little lost and a little misogynistic. My diagnosis: there's still light at the end of the time vortex.
