Buffy The Vampire Slayer

If you look at a 12-year-old these days (just in an observational way, not in an Operation Yewtree way), they always seem so together.  Stylish clothes, loves a camera lens, down to the last ten in The X Factor, full of confidence and dreams.  When I was this age, I was an awkward mess of a human being.  I used to refuse to brush my hair and parade around in a fleece and a retainer.  I was so keen at school that I often illustrated my school exercise books with lovingly shaded crayon sketches, such was my addiction to House Points.  So, the sudden appearance of Buffy The Vampire Slayer in my life could not have been more timely.

At first, I thought it was a stupid name.  Buffy.  Everyone I knew was called Laura or Sarah or Robert.  There were four Matthews in my class.  But, then again, nobody would have paid attention to Gemma The Vampire Slayer.  And pay attention we did.  We’re talking 1997 here, way before our slavery to TV scheduling was anywhere near an end.  That 6.45pm slot on BBC2 every Thursday was convenient to nobody (I’ve already explained about my Dad pretending to know how to work the VCR) so we all had to spend the fourth day of the week at school buzzing to rush home and get ready to wait a few hours for the show to come on.  Thursday was already an epic day as it was supermarket (Sainsbury’s) shop day in our household (and to this day I can still only have food from Sainsbury’s).  Life goals were a Goodfellas pizza followed by our choice from the patisserie counter AND a treat yoghurt that was more chocolate than dairy product.

As I got older, I’d make plans with friends to pile round one of our houses and watch the show together.  This felt like the right thing to do, as we were desperate to have others engage in our enthusiasm, but it was always immediately regrettable.  Our excitement would translate into not being able to keep quiet and concentrate during each episode, constantly shushing each other and then forgetting and making our own comments out loud.  We’d miss crucial dialogue and plot points and rue the decision to share the viewing experience.  In some ways, it was a precursor of the Whatsapp group chat that you try to participate in while chunking through a boxset, ending up stuck in a limbo between ever getting fully to grips with either.  Yes, you’re a terrible person.

But what did I love about it?  Firstly, I always loved something set in a high school.  Secondly, another favourite theme of mine is the supernatural.  Thirdly, the perfect combination of points one and two leaves us with something that really was a bit of me.  It’s probably what’s led me, even in recent times, to my embarrassing viewership of Teen Wolf.  Buffy was a teenager, and I was becoming one myself.  I didn’t have to slay vampires, but I did have to survive a British comprehensive school.  Buffy and her friends also spoke only in ironic witticisms, cleverly playing with words and engaging in what would later become known as banter.  A bit like Friends, people hadn’t spoken like this before, though it didn’t translate that well into my Surrey playground experience.  I tried to ask someone what their “childhood trauma” was and got sent out the classroom.  Sorry, sir.

There are seven series out there.  Buffy and her friends evolve, grow and develop into young adults.  They have the angst of killing demons compounded by the angst of having to go off to university.  Controversially, I’m not sure their adventures stand up to re-watching.  I keep spotting the show in the EPG plastered across the SyFy channel, but it looks like each episode was filmed through a pinhole camera, as the aspect leaves acres of blank space on the screen, which does nothing to make you want to watch a randomly selected instalment halfway through, especially when Netflix is offering you the eyeball-caressing supernatural effects of Stranger Things.  What’s worse, their clever dialogue now seems unoriginal and dated.

But, Buffy still has a very firm place in my heart.  It taught me how great and significant TV could be.  I tingled every time the theme tune came on.  When Blondie released Maria and Capital FM played it 200 times a day, 1999 became a very tingly year, as the opening chords of that song sounded exactly like Buffy’s theme tune.  I even used to read my episode guide (entitled the Watcher’s Guide, obviously) while a poster of Buffy looked down on me from my bedroom wall.  I totally could have been a Watcher as I am very English, still quite awkward, and enjoy being in libraries.

The Buffyverse’s vampires look exactly like humans until faced with blood or aggression.  Instantly, their fangs emerge and their foreheads crease into a much angrier and more monstrous expression.  Oddly, this is exactly what happens to me every time I get hungry at work, so the programme really is extremely easy to identify with.  But as much as the vampires and demons brought the edge and the action, it was Buffy’s pals, the Scooby Gang, that held the story arcs together (even though I inexplicably hated that term for their group).  Here, I shall go right through some of them while wilfully leaving out others:

Xander

I’ve slowly realised that I only ever found his wiseguy rapid speech quite irritating.  He was either pining with unrequited love or balls deep in a relationship, and that’s fair enough really.  I was never jealous of his hair, which is a key factor for me in male TV characters.

Willow

As I reflect, I again wonder if her cutesy act was a bit annoying.  It wasn’t at the time, but I’m much more impatient these days.  And, of course, I can only ever hear phrases combining brass instruments with female sexual organs whenever I see Alyson Hannigan.

Cordelia

100% sass and a great foil to Buffy, so it was a shame she was in so few series.

Faith

Not really a full member, as she was a sort of rival slayer that sprung up due to an admin error at slayer head office.  Somehow, she was more bad-ass than Buffy.  Whatever happened to Eliza Dushku?  I wish I could be bothered to Google.  Most importantly, she went on to star in Bring It On, a film I promise I have never seen and from which I cannot recite lines of script extensively.

Giles

The best librarian ever.  As with all British actors in American shows, he sounded like an American doing a bad accent, but I believe he has been knighted for his services to tweed blazers.

Spike

Now this really was an awful English accent.  I felt like he got more attention in later series simply by hanging around and waiting for his time to shine.

Buffy

What a lead.  Everyone could find a way to connect with Buffy.  Her whole life was a big “why me?” moment.  But then Sarah Michelle Gellar tried to shake off her teen image in Cruel Intentions, and as that saliva strand was drawn out between her lips and Selma Blair’s, a little piece of my childhood died.  A childhood that involved tingling at the thought of a show where teenagers shoved stakes in the hearts of their classmates.

By writing this, I’ve added nothing to the existing reams of fan discussion about Buffy The Vampire Slayer.  I’ve probably angered some core fans, which isn’t my intention.  What this proves, if anything, is that, twenty years later, the awkward 12-year-old is now an awkward 32-year-old.  Whereas, twenty years later, Buffy is still a show remembered so fondly and whose legacy still has such enormous influence, that I am merely a failed nostalgic who is holding classic TV answerable to modern standards.  And you’re reading it…

Survival Of The Fittest

Winter Love Island, they said.  It will fill the gap between series of your favourite Balearic-based flesh-fest, they promised.  And so, ITV2 unveiled Survival Of The Fittest, from the same people that brought you reality TV’s breakout formula.  This blog was going to be a highbrow guide to the quality boxsets that vie for your attention on Netflix and Amazon, causing you the inertia I referenced here.  Instead, I’ve been unable to hide my addiction to trashy formats, especially if those feature attractive young people in beachwear.  I’m saving Love Island for this coming summer, and Bromans has already been covered, but I’m very happy to say that Survival Of The Fittest falls in the same vein.

It could not be better timed.  Something about 2018 so far means it’s not only been cold and wet, but it’s been consistently the coldest and wettest year since records began (and by that I mean since I last paid attention, which might be linked to the fact that I got used to 35 degrees during my South Africa trip).  It therefore follows that an hour of telly each night that’s set in a place so hot the contestants visibly glisten in front of the cameras is the broadcast equivalent of vitamin D.  Coincidentally, the show is actually filmed in the shadow of Table Mountain, so it’s serving a dual purpose of reminding me about how much I enjoyed my fantastic holiday (did I mention I went to South Africa?) and reminding me that hot weather exists.  The African theme is impossible to avoid.  The only prize on offer to the contestants seems to be safaris, but that’s not a prize to be sniffed at.  And indeed, the African heat somehow makes Love Island’s Majorca setting look like a rainy caravan park in Blighty.  It’s clearly as hot as old balls.

So what on earth is this show?  Its prime purpose, aside from filling a gap in ITV2’s schedule, is to answer the age-old question: which is the better gender, males or females?  This is a battle between the sexes to find out who comes out on top.  The fact that the fighting typically involves timed assault courses with puzzles at the end gives you some understanding of the academic and scientific rigour on hand in the formula.  We have six boys and six girls, with each team desperate to prove theirs is the sex that is better at assault courses and puzzles.  Whichever team loses a challenge is then vulnerable to the opposite gender selecting one of their ranks to be sent home from the free African holiday.  Don’t worry though, as a replacement (in beachwear) is brought in the next day to even the numbers back out.

But what about the shagging?  Well yes, you can’t have nearly naked beautiful people in extreme heat without some shenanigans twitching the duvet covers while we watch through an infra-red camera.  The whole twist of the show comes from the expectation (which is quickly proven correct) that relationships will spring up between the genders and cause team loyalties to be questioned.  So be warned, it’s more complicated than Love Island’s premise of get in a couple or get out.  It’s a case of fight for your gender but also see if you can diddle someone of the opposite sex so they don’t vote you off in case you are slower at assault courses and puzzles.

Some other things you should know, handily arranged in bullet points to speed up your decision-making process about whether these three weeks of titillating telly are required in your life:

• The Flack role is covered by Laura Whitmore, who copes well with the wobbly bridge that leads to the savannah lodge the contestants inhabit, though she does seem to view the boys and girls themselves with irritation
• There is an irreverent voiceover, but it’s not with a Scottish or regional accent, so is around 35% less funny.  This means it’s still quite funny
• Sometimes, little monkeys raid the kitchen, reminding you that this is Africa, just in case you had forgotten among all the shots of hippos and giraffes
• As with Bromans, the bodies on display are banging, and you’ll be torn between arousal, and self-hate that you should be in the gym and not shoving your face with Crunchy Nut Cornflakes on the sofa while watching kids half your age have the time of their lives
• Danny Dyer’s daughter was in the first line up and was just embarking on her own “don’t tell anyone, but I was in Blazin Squad” moment before she smashed her shoulder in on one of the, er, assault courses
• There’s an app.  You know, for your smartphone.  So you can be a millennial while you watch

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This is all capped off by a bewildering sponsorship by Beauty Bay, though their best idents do feature Alex and Olivia from, you guessed it, Love Island.  I assume Beauty Bay is some sort of online make up jumble sale, but I refuse to give them any more attention here.

To conclude, we must ask ourselves, is this Winter Love Island?  And the answer is a resounding: sort of.  It’s set somewhere else, so it’s more like Winter Love Island In Africa.  Plus, it’s a battle of the sexes, rather than a battle to have sex.  So it’s actually Winter Love Island Gender Battle In Africa.  And finally, there are assault courses and puzzles, so the most accurate name is Winter Love Island Gender Battle In Africa With Assault Courses And Puzzles.  But that’s a ridiculous name, so they gave it the lame name of Survival Of The Fittest.  But I’ll finish on these three words: feast your eyes.

Making A Murderer

If you’re looking for something to watch while waiting at home until it’s time to go to Heathrow for your evening flight to Cape Town, nervous about your first trip to Africa, apprehensive about the eleven and a half hours in economy, worried about having to wait around Cape Town airport for your next two-hour flight to Pietermaritzburg and suddenly regretting your decision to go alone, don’t watch Making A Murderer.  Going through an airport is tense enough.  What have you forgotten?  Did you accidentally pack an incendiary device in your hand luggage?  Where is your passport?  What if the Tube train gets stuck and you miss the flight?  While Netflix bingeing can provide a welcome escape from these tedious stressors in life, Making A Murderer will only amplify them as it turns the screw episode by irresistible episode until you’re terrified ever to leave the house again.

But yes, it’s a documentary and we’ve not really covered one of them before.  This means it’s all true and about real things and doesn’t contain any attractive acting talent.  The story begins way back in the eighties and takes us right up to 2015 when the show first appeared on Netflix.  Steven Avery is at the heart of goings on, and these goings on revolve around a number of crimes he is accused of and whether he actually did them.  I can’t say more without giving away too much of the storyline’s tension – episode one draws you straight in so go and click play immediately and that will save me the time of regurgitating what happens.

Our setting is Wisconsin, so we’re talking Fargo country here.  We have the accents, which charm throughout, and we also have lots of wistful shots of various buildings relating to law enforcement covered in snow.  But there’s nothing sexy about this. In fact, the name of the county most of this took place in, Manitowoc, is perhaps one of the sexiest things in the whole series.  It’s a fun word to say and conjures up all sorts of imagery of the American wilderness.  Now let’s compare this to the name of the equivalent local government I grew up in here in the UK: Mole Valley.  Even the unsexy parts of the USA are sexier than England.

Anyway, the key point here is that this documentary will reel you in quickly and then not let you go until there’s none left.  Is it entertainment?  In a sick way, yes.  But it’s also deeply interesting and your reaction will be strong – each episode compounds the galling effect of the previous one.  Later episodes show highlights from hundreds of hours’ worth of real courtroom action, and the editing gives it such pacing that you may doubt this isn’t a very realistic drama.  Nevertheless, it’s not quite a romp to the finish, as the trials’ endlessness is hard to avoid, but luckily I have watched enough of How To Get Away With Murder to know exactly what’s going on.

Criticism has been levelled that the programme only shows one side of the story, and you won’t be able to escape wondering if you really have been given the whole picture.  Prosecution lawyer, Ken Kratz, doesn’t seem to be the type of man (or to have the type of haircut) that anyone can trust, let alone twelve people on a jury, but it is gratifying to know he was accused of sexting female clients later on.  Indeed, Kratz as a physical specimen is at the very heart of the show’s unsexiness.

But lo, we are shown the press conferences that took place after each part of the trial.  Among the journalists, there is a surprise handsome individual.  We began to refer to him as sexy journalist.  To his left and right are buck teeth, bad hair, double chins and doughy complexions.  Never have matinée idol looks seemed so out of placed.  While Ken Kratz oozes slime, this guy gives you appearance goals like you’ve never expected: silver fox hair and a jawline carved from granite.  It’s like a bit of Hollywood has been dropped into Manitowoc accidentally.

So when should you watch something so harrowing?  Save it for when you get back from the most amazing trip to South Africa, for when you need to decompress yourself from the sunshine and relaxation so that you can again reacclimatise to the cold, the wet, and the awful people getting in your way on public transport because they can’t tear their eyes away from their smartphones.  After all, at least you’re not in prison.

The Wire

There was a time when people would refuse to speak to you if you weren’t watching The Wire.  It was a remarkable achievement, as it wasn’t exactly readily available in a primetime terrestrial slot.  Between 2002 and 2008, when its five seasons first aired, the viewing population was just getting their minds around the fact that you didn’t have to wait for a channel to schedule your shows, checking the TV guide magazine and asking your dad if he could set the VCR, even though he never revealed throughout your whole childhood that he didn’t actually know how to do this and you mindlessly accepted his apologies for failing to record anything properly.  Or was that just me?

It just showed that quality will find an audience, though this quality didn’t find me till around 2014.  Living in a Brixton boys’ house share, I needed to avoid the evening’s football viewing, as the sound of fans chanting throughout a match makes me feel both seasick and afraid of being lynched at the same time.  As the account controller of our Sky box, I was able to fire up Sky Go on the laptop.  The service was unreliable, but my scrolling brought me to The Wire.  I’d told friends for years I would eventually get around to it.  Now it was time to follow up.

My first response was to be appalled at how dated the show looked.  2002 was a long time before 2014.  Around twelve years for any maths fans out there.  The aspect ratio was tiny.  It wasn’t HD.  They had dated clothing.  How dare they?  I was expecting sexy police drama with nerve-touching social commentary.  There wasn’t even a conventionally attractive cast member.  What kind of TV show was this?

Then I remembered a former dear housemate had tried to sit down and watch episode one of series one with me many years before.  I had been instantly put off by the claim that “everyone says it’s really good.”  Everyone is normally wrong.  I sat through the episode but couldn’t find anything special.  Yet, somehow, in 2014, I managed to re-watch, and then carried on.  And on.  And on.

The point, therefore, is that the characters and plot transcend how much technology has dated the production of that first series.  And pretty quickly, I rolled through from season to season, where the resolution picked up and my modern expectations were met with a more tolerable picture.  I mean, it was hardly a historical artefact.

Each series cycles through a different element of life, crime and punishment in the city of Baltimore, with the show’s name coming from the first series’ drug-busting focus, with a group of misfit cops trying to tap dealers’ phones in order to gather evidence.  Subsequent series deal with the city’s port, schools, politics and the media, with the police there throughout.  As such, the transition between series is particularly satisfying, as you are starting a whole new and fairly separate chapter.

The main conclusion you draw is that Baltimore is terrifying.  But you’ll also want to visit.  The only person I know who’s been is the very former housemate who tried to watch the first episode with me.  He used to have anxiety each winter from not feeling Christmassy enough in the run up to the big day, prescribing himself festive jumpers and excessive flat decorations in order to address the situation.  If he can survive the mean streets of Omar Little and Stringer Bell, then anyone can.  Sorry to shatter the illusion, though I don’t think he dealt any crack.

What else?  Half the cast seems to be British.  In fact, you’ll constantly be recognising people from other shows, particularly in roles that are incongruous with their Wire characters.  I kept expecting Michael Lee (played by Tristan Wilds) in series four suddenly to give the Dixon Wilson chuckle synonymous with his 90210 character.  Too much of the show was taken up by bars full of cops singing Irish funeral shanties.  Bunk Moreland remains one of my favourites, if only for his response of “shiiii-iiiit” to situations.

But mock as I may, The Wire shines a light on unfair systems and societies that still exist.  This alone makes it important viewing.  Add in the great writing, performances and plot, alongside the breakout roles for Idris Elba (from those Sky adverts – how funny) and Dominic West, and you can’t help but conclude that you really should listen to everyone that tells you to watch something.