What We Do In The Shadows

My regular readers and fact fans will notice that this is Just One More Episode’s fourth foray into the world of vampires.  Like any normal adult man, I’ve talked about my enjoyment of The Vampire Diaries, graduating to the more sexually explicit world of True Blood, while my writing on seeing things from the opposite perspective (Buffy The Vampire Slayer) remains one of my most read instalments (though it still trails Love Island and, er, Naked Attraction).  Following on from a pal’s successful recommendation to open myself up to the life-enhancing entertainment quality of Succession I’ve taken the lad up on his ongoing insistence I would really enjoy What We Do In The Shadows.  And I did.

It’s a mockumentary sitcom, but make it vampire.  Spun off from a film I’ll never get around to seeing, the show’s genesis can be credited to Flight Of The Conchords’ Jemaine Clement who, along with Taika Waititi, asked himself that age-old question: wouldn’t it be LOLs if a load of vampires had to live together as housemates?  Wouldn’t it be even funnier if they were centuries old and therefore constantly at odds with modern life?  What if they had been sent to conquer North America from the old country but had only got as far as Staten Island?  Well, I can tell you now: it would be a right old chuckle.  So, let’s meet our line-up of co-tenants:

Nandor The Relentless

Head of the household thanks to his seniority in age, Nandor has moved on from pillaging and marauding on behalf of the Ottoman Empire (you never hear much about them these days, do you?) and now cultivates a more sensitive soul, calling house meetings to recap on hygiene standards.  His accent is everything, with Kayvan Novak elasticating his vowels beyond all recognition.

Laszlo Cravensworth

Matt Berry serves up a hearty portion of delicious Matt Berry as this lascivious, yet limited, Laszlo.  Toast Of London intonation is channelled throughout, so I always raise an eyebrow whenever he shouts bat as he transforms into a bat.  For a brief spell, he is Jackie Daytona, and it is wonderful.

Nadja

Billed third because the world still hates women, Nadja is actually the funniest vampire in our coven.  Her eurotrash accent elevates her every outburst to a new level of farcical indignation, thanks to Natasia Demetriou’s vocal dexterity (which also makes her one of the top guests of all time on The Adam Buxton Podcast).  Every time she slags something off with English that is ever so fractionally non-idiomatic, the linguist in me thrills at her silliness.

Guillermo

The vampires’ human familiar, this poor lad acts as a household slave while waiting (ten years and counting) for his chance to fulfil a lifetime ambition (prompted by Antonio Banderas) of joining the clan of Nosferatu.  Contrasting with how little his masters appreciate him is a growing realisation that his calling may be complicated by his genetic heritage (and I don’t mean his Hispanic roots) which leads to some hilariously clever slapstick action.

Colin Robinson

A different strain of vampire that can walk in the daylight, Colin is a pure bore because he feeds on human energy rather than blood.  He’s the office creep stealing your time with tedious chatter, draining you of your life force in the process.  As a comic creation he is genius and his workplace scenes are my favourite, especially when he encounters a worthy adversary in the form of an emotional vampire.  I love how much he annoys the other housemates, even from his dreary basement bedroom.  When he learns to online troll as a form of remote energy drainage you start to question how fictional he really is.  In fact, I think we’ve all worked with a few Colins.

A platter of comedic big names crop up across the two series, but Beanie Feldstein deserves a special mention as an outrageously naïve college student who gets caught up in Nadja’s manipulations.  Throughout, the classic tropes of the genre are mined for comedy, from staying out of the sun to wooden stakes, via garlic, silver and countless occasions of hissing like cats at each other.  Luckily, there seems to be US dosh behind the special effects, with no expense spared on CGI shenanigans.  That said, I’m always most transfixed by the backstories whenever these are expanded upon, as the supporting illustrations that scroll by look like genuine historical artefacts, reminding us all that medieval religious art is whack.  My only slight frown, as a vampire purist, is that I’m not sure how I feel about the genre’s lore being played for laughs when it normally takes itself very seriously.  But, as always, silliness wins out, making What We Do In The Shadows a rollicking gothic romp of a contribution to the fangs-on-fangs canon.

Flight Of The Conchords

If you’re anything like me, you might have asked yourself on multiple occasions why can’t all TV be musical.  Following on from last week’s post on Netflix’s Soundtrack (still a masterpiece) and a previous unpopular rant from me about what Glee did wrong (it’s here and needs more reads), we’re going back in time to look at one of the few boxsets that managed to be musical and cool at the same time.  I had nearly forgotten all about Flight Of The Conchords.  But, back in January, I was lucky enough to fill a spot with friends in a French ski chalet and found myself bombing around Tignes with some very advanced practitioners of winter sports.  So adept were they at swooshing down black runs, treating their inordinate speed with nothing but nonchalance, they had earned the right to annoy less stable alpinists by carrying speakers in their rucksacks and playing music out loud.  Older gentlemen do this a lot in lockdown London, cycling through crowded parks with loud beats emanating from their bicycles.  I’m not proud to say that we were equally anti-social, especially when it came to forcing others to endure prolonged exposure to us on various ski lifts and in their various queues.  As six adults in their thirties (four doctors, one commercial airline pilot, and me, someone who tits about in media partnerships) you may find our music choices challenging.  After exhausting the soundtracks of various Disney films, from Moana to Frozen, and reliving our youths with Tenacious D, our next source of musical accompaniment was Flight Of The Conchords.

I defy anyone not to appreciate the wanky Brit-abroadness of zipping down a sheer ice face in a busy French ski resort while singing along to Foux Du Fafa.

So let’s unpack the enduring appeal of these minstrels.  Firstly, Flight Of The Conchords, as themselves, are a New Zealand comedy music duo who’ve been active since 1998.  This blogpost is about the two series of their HBO New York-based sitcom that ran from 2007 to 2009.  I’m not sure if it was ever broadcast properly in the UK and, like my friends when it comes to sorting out our first meal in a restaurant since the start of lockdown, I’m not prepared to log onto the internet to do the appropriate research that would benefit everyone.  It was one of my many Belsize Park flatmates who must have brought home the DVDs probably around 2008, drunk on the swagger of unearthing early-adopted content to show to his co-renters.  Let’s not take this accolade away from him, as he remains a dear friend, going on to have two daughters with the wife he met in that very apartment, giving my life some value by virtue of me being the one who chose his future spouse off Gumtree.  It turns out, we only had the first season, but we would watch it over and over, and then listen to the CD soundtrack, also over and over.  The second series was something I only came across in 2020 on my Sky Q box, as it seems Sky Comedy have the rights.  I therefore peppered this into my regular viewing: new Rick & Morty, a fourth season of F Is For Family, lockdown-induced reruns of old Big Brothers and, er, Cruising With Jane McDonald.

Everybody, there is so much to love about Flight Of The Conchords.  Let’s start with our heroes, Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie.  Unlucky in love, they’re a kind of kiwi Peep Show pair, their strong accents only adding to the silliness as almost all of their vowel sounds get swapped around for the wrong ones.  The cheap appearance of the first season brings to life perfectly the absolute shitness of the Chinatown neighbourhood they inhabit on their shoestring budget.  Gainful employment comes in the form of a posting as the in-house band of New Zealand’s consulate, an organisation occupying the most depressing-looking office block in all of the five boroughs.  This premise sets up the perfect contrivance: as a band, they of course burst into song.

Only, they don’t really burst.  They slip.  They shimmy.  They irreverently and knowingly look down the camera lens, in on the joke that codifies their song: we’ve met a woman of average attractiveness (The Most Beautiful Girl (In The Room)), we’re laughing about the banality of long-term relationship sex (Business Time), we think we’re better than we are in reality at social gatherings (Prince Of Parties).  Their lyrics are often juxtaposed with reality, the whole thing packaged up with a heavily themed video, whether taking inspiration from Bowie or 90s rap.  In short, nothing takes itself seriously.  Why then, indeed, wouldn’t you have a Gallic number composed entirely of stock GCSE French expressions?  Cue titters as we all laugh about asking “Où est la piscine?” or saying “splish splosh” in a Parisian accent.  These silly songs are silliest when it comes to their catchiness.  Forgive me for only focusing on our first series here – it’s a familiar place for me, whereas the cameo-heavy second season, which seems on first watch to match its predecessor on song quality, has yet to get its claws into my short-term earworm faculties.

Alongside their failures with the ladies, Bret and Jemaine also fail to get anywhere with their music career.  This is often down to their manager, Murray (Rhys Darby), whose focus is the attendance register and agenda of band meetings at the expense of having a clue about anything else.  Nevertheless, their one and only (super) fan is on hand throughout: we have wide-eyed Mel played by Bob’s Burgers’ wonderful Kristen Schaal sporting an anorak and being, frankly, a pervert.  Fans of the anglophone world will also enjoy the long-running rivalry with their counterparts from the Australian Embassy, made all the more insulting by most Americans assuming our lads in the band are actual Australians.

For me, the only thing that has aged is the portrayal of New Zealand.  The country and its consulate are positioned as a running joke, with the Prime Minster himself acting the fool throughout his official visit and the ill-fated establishment of Newzealandtown (squashed between Chinatown and Little Italy).  In reality, New Zealand is fast earning international respect as one of the best countries.  Instead of being run by round blonde racist toddlers like the US and the UK, NZ has gone for a goddess who pursues welfare over growth, all while keeping a pandemic at bay.  Please may Jacinda Ardern take over Britain?  You may ask where I got that preposterous hypothesis.  Did Steve tell me that, perchance?  Mmmph, Steve.

Seriously, though.