Cheer

After finishing Last Chance U and needing something to restore my faith in the good old USA while I endure lockdown and witness presidents recommend the direct injection of bleach to cure what ails you, it was only natural that my next step on Netflix would be to enter the world of Cheer.  From the same producers of a documentary whose drama and story telling rocked my viewing experience, Cheer would offer me more of the same, I reasoned.  However, at a time we’re potentially looking to avoid drama (when there is so much happening out there in the world just now that’s all too similar to the opening scenes of a science fiction film), what was I doing launching myself into six episodes of the most compounding drama and tension?  I was this close to requiring an emergency service to cope with it.  Given that our public service heroes are kind of stretched just now (and so many are busy clapping them in some misjudged gesture that really only makes the clapper feel less guilty) I’m wondering if Netflix could part-fund their own – something for people whose real lives are now so strange, that the effects of their programming’s drama are causing enhanced trauma and, er, excessive entertainment.

While the rhythm of drama in Last Chance U reflects an episodic cycle, with a game per match delivering each climactic beat to the storyline, the world of cheerleading Cheer is built around ladders up to one singular moment.  The pressure and the tension, therefore, ramp up episode by episode.  There are no real peaks and troughs, no post-gearshift respite before accelerating again.  We build and build and build until it all comes down (like a dropped top girl) to the final cheerleading routine of precisely two minutes and 15 seconds.  This isn’t just atmospheric pressure from above.  The team we follow in Cheer, from Navarro College in Corsicana, Texas, have pressure coming at them from every direction.

Firstly, they’ve won the National Cheerleading Championship many times before.  Umpteen times, to be precise, regularly topping the podium since the start of the 21^st century.  Each year, they enter the championships under a crushing weight of expectation, from their formidable head coach, Monica Aldama, from their passive-aggressive assistant coaches, from squad alumni, their own families and, to a lesser extent, the wider Corsicana community, who are somewhat oblivious to the breath-taking achievements in stunting, basketing and, well, cheering, going on in their local area.

As a Brit, I now feel the need to pause for some exposition.  Mostly because cheerleading is a very un-British thing.  It’s about being supportive, cheerful and optimistic.  Our sporting events are characterised by rainy downpours, with hooliganism for the commoner sports, and exclusive elitism for the more expensive ones.  But cheerleading has long been an American solution to their need to prevent women getting crushed underfoot in violent sports.  Girls can’t play the game, but they can console themselves by cheering along the boys from the side lines and helping to point out to the spectators that they ought to do this too.  I know this sounds cynical, but we must expect nothing less of me than to point out the farcical.  That said, cheerleading is still a key theme in my most beloved types of TV shows, mainly because it features heavily in one of my top tropes: dramas set in high school or equivalent higher education locations (and rarely in post-apocalyptic dystopian futures ideally including zombies).  I can’t quote Bring It On as accurately as I can Mean Girls, but a recent re-watching after Sky-Plussing it off Comedy Central saw me easily able to identify what scenes had been tampered with to suit its daytime schedule outing.

So, by way of exposition, this is real-life Bring It On.  As there is no professional career league for cheerleading careers as such (or should this be ca-cheers?), Cheer further accentuates the importance of these final championships.  For many, it’s their last cheer.  It’s certainly not going to get them a scholarship, we are told.  But, like Last Chance U, the time is taken to get to know the most compelling characters from the Navarro squad.  As always, the challenges in their background are teased through in ways that relate to their current actions.  The importance of cheerleading to them, as an escape, as a survival instinct, as a route to self-confidence, is abundantly clear.  And you’ll have no time for British scoffing at pom-pom-waving and bra-loads of pep.  This cheerleading is a discipline that is part floor gymnastics, part airborne gymnastics, laser-accurate choreography and a bucketload of incredible toughness.  As rehearsals ramp up, the physio tape is used up in bulk stitching back together the various significant injuries sustained by our athletes.  Whereas our football players would skip out games to recover, the cheerleaders run straight back onto the mats, ready to be tossed aloft or to perform dozens of somersaults in one of many full-out practices where the same energy is used as on competition day.  These kids really bring it.  Oh, it has already been broughten.

From the girls, we hear about familiar insecurities, such as online trolling, fitting in with groups and escaping parents who left you out in a trailer (really).  The bruised ribs, high altitude drops onto heads and dislocated elbows are the easy part.  Comic relief comes in the form of Gabi Butler’s parents playing themselves as the deliciously unaware pushy parents momaging their protégée.  The boys’ stories, balanced out so males don’t dominate the whole narrative, address head on their truths in being part of a sport traditionally considered to be for girls.  They don’t get airborne, but many have had to emerge from communities with unsupportive views on minority sexualities, only to land in a part of Texas where it’s clear folk don’t take too well to their kind round these here parts.  Progress is a bit slower in some corners of the world, but you can be buoyed by Monica Aldama’s response to anyone who comes for her boys.

Over our journey, we bond with the team just as they do with each other.  From Whatsapp group exclusions at the start, to insider handshakes, communal hair-volumising and excessively large bow-application by the end.  Such is their self-assurance with each other that we are shown scenes of athletes addressing their teammates with unprompted (and unwanted) feedback whenever it suits them.  Way to be direct, guys!  It goes without saying, then (so I’m not sure why I’ve laboured the point so heavily – let’s call it lazy writing), that the drama climaxes at the championships in the most heart-stopping, mouth-with-vomit-filling way, but it’s the friendships and the athletes’ journeys along the way that make everything about Cheer so compelling.  For example, after a good full-out run through, the team celebrate by breaking out into re-enactments of their favourite show, Bad Girls Club, faux-beating each other with handbags and tearing out pretend weaves.  As Monica finally joins in hesitantly, you feel the urge yourself to run onto the mat and act like you’re teaching a bitch a damn lesson, such is the strength of the sense of belonging.  Go team!

Last Chance U

After 83 weeks of lockdown, I’ve been finding myself on a roller coaster of emotions.  This hasn’t been due to any real pandemic-related stressors.  I’m grateful to be able to say that my new isolation life is only mildly irritating in the following ways: I miss the gym, I need a haircut, queuing for the supermarket is time-consuming but I always have a good podcast, I have the third biggest spot of my life at a time when I constantly have to look at my own face on endless Microsoft Teams calls.  It could always be worse – I’m lucky to be able to work from home.  Let’s be honest, I wouldn’t mind seeing friends and family, or being able to plan a trip in the future, but for now I’ll take the small comforts.  And one of those comforts is finding something to watch that gives you boundless entertainment and diversion.  This week, I will be talking about Last Chance U for this very reason.  But I will warn you now, the show combines enough of the world of documentary storytelling and the world of competitive sport to break your heart at the same time as making it race uncontrollably with dramatic tension.  If you can handle that emotional roller coaster, all while staying in, then this is one for you.

It's about American football

I’ve never seen a full match of American football, yet I find drama based around this sport incredibly compelling.  My earlier post on Friday Night Lights touched on this, but Last Chance U takes that drama and multiplies it by an emotional factor of 20 billion.  As a Brit, everything in the US is a bit more showbiz to me, and sport is no exception.  The structure of the game, with swaps between defence and offence, the battle to cover yards en route to your opponent’s end, the snaps that lead to touchdowns, lends itself almost too well to cinematic climaxes.  I still don’t think I know the rules, but I’ve gleaned the majority of it.  Each episode of Last Chance U ends in a crucial game for the team in question.  You care about each character individually (more on this later) so you’re truly invested in the game.  Your job, with each point, is to remember who’s in what uniform, keep an eye on the ball and, before long, you’re basically a sports fan spectating American Football (albeit matches that took place years ago and whose results you can look up online).  Live in the moment, act like it’s real and you could find yourself in the same position as me: leaping out of your sofa in excitement at a dreamlike touchdown or a heart-stopping fumble.

It's about junior college

So that’s the end of each episode covered.  We can now look at the rest, which follows the stories of staff and students at two different junior colleges.  The first two parts follow East Mississippi Community College and the second two focus on Independence Community College in Kansas.  If you thought American football rules were confusing, you won’t welcome a compounding of that with the addition of the structure of US higher education.  What we call university, they call college, or, in fact, school.  Either way, this is the U bit of Last Chance U.  Most universities offer four-year degrees, but a system of junior colleges handle two-year courses, with the option of transferring up to a big school at the end.  Junior colleges tend to have Community College in their names, which is a further complication still, a bit like British public schools being private schools (where private means fee-paying).  Another difference is that, while British uni students do degrees in singular subjects, the American version is to carry on taking an array of classes.  It also seems that your performance is constantly graded so you know exactly what you are passing and failing, as opposed to my educational experience of some exam results every couple of years.

It’s about last chances

And herein lies the jeopardy of the show.  High school American football stars get scholarships to study at universities.  They must maintain grades to be eligible to play.  On graduation, they can be drafted into the NFL for professional careers (picking teams on a national level), having played for free till this point as student athletes.  Imagine if Premier League footballers could only join a team and get paid after they got themselves a BA Hons in Business Management from Loughborough.  It might make for more articulate speech in post-match analysis interviews, but the boy wonders dreaming of making it professional would really need to knuckle down to their studies in order to continue playing at the highest levels.  Unthinkable to us, but it’s very much the structure in the US.

However, the stars of Last Chance U are the athletes who, for whatever reason, lose their spots on their teams and need another go to get scholarships to play football again.  This is where the heartbreak starts to set in: these young men have often had the most harrowing childhoods.  From mothers in prison and spells in the care system, to murdered relatives and drug-addicted fathers, we are filled in on the backgrounds that go some way to explaining the subsequent struggles to adjust to athletic and academic pressure.  For the most part, we are dealing with the poorest Americans here.  There almost seems to be an inverse proportion between the disadvantages of their origins and their potential on the football field.  Yet, their character shines through.  If, like me, you’re a white man from Surrey, you’ll need the subtitles to decipher some of the turns of phrases, with southern drawls compounded by African-American coinages.  My language learning as I worked through the episodes progressed to such an extent that I found myself unable to understand German anymore when friends in Europe FaceTimed me on my birthday.

Indeed, race looms heavily in all episodes.  Netflix helpfully flags the content’s potential to offend due to discrimination.  American football has long been one of the few ways for black men to improve their circumstances in the States’ poorest communities.  The alternative shown to us is a life of crime.  But, savagely, only a very small percentage ever go professional in the NFL, so we see a lot of time being spent convincing the boys to have back up plans when many see the only other options to football being death or prison.  Furthermore, the very real risk of debilitating injury underlines the precariousness of anyone’s chances of making their millions on the field.  Last Chance U even leaves you speculating that American football has almost become a form of gladiatorial combat that black men must pursue for the public’s viewing pleasure.

I want to flag, though, the academic support staff of the two junior colleges who must cajole and persuade on-field hotshots to maintain their grades, show up punctually to classes and consider their insurance options.  Brittany Wagner proves herself the goddess of EMCC in the first two parts, with Latonya Pinkard taking the baton, among others, in our ICC seasons, her passion for raising up these black men palpable in its emotional intensity.  The contrast with the coaching staff, the majority of whom are spectacularly overweight and potty-mouthed, is stark.  Head coaches seem prone to the pettiest egotism on the side lines, potentially taking their cue from certain world leaders, and the question of the example they set to their teams is artfully played out across the episodes.

When the teams win, your heart will soar.  When they are annihilated, you’ll be devastated.  When the young athletes (of whom there are too many star characters to name) get offers, you’re made up.  When their future plans don’t pan out, you are crushed.  Each series ends with a round up of what happens next, plus I recommend digging out the two where-are-they-now specials for completion, which brings with it the terrifying confrontation of dreams versus reality.

It’s taken me too long to start watching Last Chance U, but it’s highly recommended Netflix fare that guarantees gripping and thought-provoking entertainment at a time when we’re stuck home with our screens.  There’s modern ultra-Americana for those that love the cheerleading, padding-clad, budget-busting expense of the American approach to sport.  There’s tense drama in each match.  There’s emotional investment in its characters.  There’s even the chance for cynical Brits to scoff at the unrivalled value place on blind faith in Christianity.  The storytelling is artful and credible, and your feelings won’t be the same afterwards.  If there are more instalments in this roller coaster, I’ll be getting straight on.

It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia

I’d never realised how uplifting a musical accompaniment of strings can be.  It has the power to elevate moods.  Whether it’s me reading young adult fiction on my balcony in the sunshine while on lockdown with Spotify shuffling through classical classics in my AirPods because, let’s face it, it’s only a matter of time before a neighbour decides that a rare warm day is best responded to by playing Ed Sheeran at full subwoofer-shattering volume with the windows open, or it’s the opening sequences of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia (pre-credits set up, reveal of episode title, credits, start of episode itself), it’s a good time I have too often overlooked.  Indeed, It’s Always Sunny itself is something else I hadn’t really registered.  My Netflix algorithm constantly served me this suggestion, but the 14 seasons seemed like an insurmountable challenge.  Going since 2005, it clearly had longevity though.  A work colleague urged me to get into it, and yet I continued to find something about it off-putting.

Cue lockdown and, having got through all of The Office US, I needed another show with short episodes to serve as my background viewing while I made food and performed other banal acts in my longed-for new-build flat-cum-isolation prison.  Banished from the office, all food is made and consumed within my apartment, meaning I could devour two episodes with each meal, with further instalments knocked down during more extensive sessions of cooking (my response to the pandemic has been to follow a lot of Mary Berry soup recipes).  Thus I completed It’s Always Sunny in just a few weeks.

But let me warn you, for those beginning at series one, you’ve got a harrowing experience ahead of you.  This fast-paced sitcom tells the tale of four friends running an Irish pub in Philadelphia.  They don’t have dialogue, so much as scream at each other in a high pitch (a bit like the pitch that is boxset-specific to Archer).  My first impression was that the characters were all losers.  Keen on drinking, they existed in that half-drunk, half-hungover frame of mind where anything you do is done badly and unwisely.  This propelled the plots but made me want to shower afterwards.  What’s more, at fifteen years old, the footage looks like it’s been filmed on a pair of glasses.  I don’t mind my comedy on the cheap, but this, combined with some humour that’s now outdated as our sensitivities evolve, I was slightly conflicted about being required to press on for 13 further seasons.

It’s funny when you realise that what was missing all along was Danny DeVito.  He shows up in the second season and everything clicks into place.  Four young adults failing to recognise their responsibilities suddenly takes on another dimension when complemented by a much older divorcé who wants to relive his bacchanalian youth while funding it with the wealth he has had a lifetime to acquire.  As Frank Reynolds, DeVito is at the heart of the humour, whether just looking short, confused and ridiculous, or role-modelling lascivious behaviour while craving pork products.  He completes the gang and suddenly I love the gang, both individually and together.  I want to hang out with them.  I wonder where I will fit in.  And, unable to see anyone during lockdown, they become ersatz-friends who make me laugh out loud every day.

Sure, like any bunch of real friends, the gang has constant conflict (screamed at high pitches).  Frank ditches the others at one point and latches on to some other young bar owners.  But this new clique have no interest in schemes and plans; they’re not impressed when he’s dressed as a cheetah for no reason (even though this still makes me laugh just to think about it).  They cannot forgive him the wrongs he does them.  And that’s the beauty of our Paddy’s Pub gang – they’re terrible people yet they always come back together, no matter what they have done to each other.  Probably because they can’t be arsed to hold grudges.  You can’t help but like them.  With each episode and series, their charm shines through, and awfulness gets mixed up in likeability.

Each is awful in their own way.  Dennis, the occasional leader, has matinee idol looks with sexual predator sensibilities.  His warped view of consent is unacceptable, but it does attract him all the trouble he deserves.  His sister, Dee, is the scapegoat of the group, who like to bond over nothing more than calling her a bird.  A failing-to-failed actress, her delusions of stand-up talent lead her to experiment with racially insensitive character creations, often as part of one of the gang’s schemes.  Mac, played by Rob McElhenney (the show’s creator), displays some of the greatest development across the seasons’ arc – and not just from a character point of view.  While slim at first, he fluctuates between athletic and average before piling on pounds to become truly fat.  Then, by season 13, he is the very picture of 0% body fat ripped-to-shreds physique aesthetic achievement.  It’s like the reverse trajectory of my own body’s quarantine response, which is now limited to a daily burst of rolling on the carpet with resistance bands in an unsuccessful attempt to minimise the damage.  And, finally, there’s Charlie.  He’s the janitor and has the most questionable hygiene habits, mostly ingesting his janitorial equipment for personal pleasure.

Each episode, the five come together in an ambitious set up, often outlining a pastiche of a societal issue, though just as often they pursue slapstick silliness.  Sitcom structure fans will note the alternating pairings into teams for plot and subplot interplay, before it all comes together in the comedic climax.  Swirling around this, a cast of Philadelphia’s supporting characters reoccur like there’s no tomorrow, especially as the gang normally ruin their lives.  Poor old Cricket has me chuckle with every appearance, while Waitress never even gets named.  I think Artemis is my favourite as the amateur actor with an inflated sense of craft, but each one is a triumph.

While the characters’ life plans aren’t ambitious, though, It’s Always Sunny truly is.  I can’t say how accurate it is in its portrayal of the city, as I have only been through Philadelphia on a train once (and it looked a bit like The Wire), but, once it’s established the tropes of its own universe, there is nothing the gang won’t try.  Of particular interest to me is their musicality.  They rehearse Motownphilly for a Boyz II Men concert, they perform in their own production of The Nightman, they ruin a wedding with dancing to George Michael (which is epic nowhere but in their own imagination) and there is even a musical episode (yes!).  We watch Mac interpretative dance.  The experimentation goes beyond music, challenging philosophy, perspective, gender, sexuality, religion, science and morality, but all while making horrible comments to each other, abusing each other and calling Dee a bird.  I’ve gorged on 14 series and now I’ve got that sickening feeling that I want to do all it again in case I’ve missed anything.  Otherwise, I’m going to have to find five depraved, narcissistic friends somewhere else with whom I can see out the rest of lockdown laughing my head off.

Glee

Well it’s taken 141 posts to reach Glee.  Not bad going really, considering my tempestuous relationship with this show.  Don’t worry, we’ll soon be onto a painstaking account of how it entered my life, but since that moment I have veered between love and hate for the show choir members of William McKinley High in Lima, Ohio.  Oh look, we’re already at the moment I first came across Glee.  It was in the early days of my career in a media agency.  I still couldn’t believe my job involved needing to know what was on TV (easy).  Everyone was nice, everyone was fun, and I had a genuine interest in the work.  Compared to my previous role in the world of financial headhunting, it was like I had died and gone to heaven.  In fact, I’ve recently had an anxiety dream where, 12 years later, I have to return to that old position for some reason, and I just cannot go through the door.  But no, as a media grad, my evenings were spent at free drinks events, and my days were spent meeting with the channels about what shows they had coming up.  Enter Channel 4, with our rep dropping by for a schedule update.  All I now remember about this meeting is that we were played the trailer to Glee’s first series.  It was a pivotal moment.  Whether or not this content was relevant to my clients was irrelevant, here was a show that ticked more of my boxes than anything ever had before.

High school setting?  Yes.  Fast-paced, wit-laden dialogue?  Yes.  Silliness?  Yes.  And finally, people breaking out into song and dance as if real life really were a musical?  Heck, yes.  I counted down the months, weeks and days till its broadcast on e4, gathering my four housemates round our 2009 TV to drink in its magic.  There was so much to love.  What songs would they do next?  How would they change them for each performance?  What outrageous lines would be uttered?  But also, more music and singing and dancing please.  This was before the days of streaming or live TV recording, so each episode was an unmissable appointment to view, and each second of its broadcast was a transient moment that was gone as quickly as it had come.  And so commenced the torture.  While episode one, season one is a masterpiece, there then began the inconsistency which routinely frayed my nerves and disappointed my unreasonably high expectations.  The plot would deviate from the main thrust about the characters in the glee club, with unnecessary guest actors hogging the limelight.  Or they would choose songs I had never heard before, tarnishing each performance with a big cup of FOMO while I failed to see the relevance or experience the joy of recognition.  Worse still, an instalment would contain hardly any songs and omit to finish with a choral climax.  Sure, making 22 episodes of a show whose basic premise requires rights-clearing, rearranging, recording and choreographing of countless musical performances, with the added pressure of keeping things fresh each time, is a gargantuan undertaking.  But I didn’t care.  I’d had one sweet taste of how good it could be, and I deserved more.

Despite some close calls, after six seasons, Glee never again reaches the beauty of its first episode.  This is acceptable, as it’s still a better watch than many things out there, but it’s also naturally disappointing.  High expectations are a restrictive creative criterion, so I’m not here to troll proceedings on that basis, but my theory is proven by the penultimate episode of season six, which returns to that climactic moment of the pilot (Don’t Stop Believing – belted out many times since both totally off key, and also once getting 100% on a Korean karaoke machine, despite being told in Year 9 that I couldn’t sing in tune (I still can’t)), investigating the other angles and backstories behind its origins before finishing with a straight-out repeat of that iconic performance.  This wobbliness made re-watching all six seasons of Glee a slightly tiresome undertaking, but you can be safe in the knowledge my preparation for this post spans a period of over six months.  After first moving into my new flat, with little by way of evening entertainment beyond a camping chair and my work laptop, I spotted Glee nestled among the choices on Netflix.  Over those early weekday nights as a homeowner, I relived my youth diving back into Glee’s first jaunts to sectionals, regionals and nationals.  But series to series, my enthusiasm waned, and it’s only been during the current lockdown that I’ve finally reached the end of the New Directions’ story.

You may now be wondering what the hell I am talking about.  Glee is a musical comedy drama about a high school show choir team.  We don’t have show choir in the UK; we have smoking round the back of the bike sheds.  It’s singing, in a group, with movement.  What makes this glee club special is that it survives in the face of adversity.  Firstly, its own members are constantly at odds with each other, succumbing to jealousy over solos, or lacking talent.  Secondly, rival schools’ glee clubs are often better.  And, thirdly, there is a cheerleading coach whose life’s mission is to annihilate the glee club.  Most series arc around our bunch of diversity-embracing misfits competing in various stages of national competitions, all while coming to terms with modern life and society’s reactions to them.  They burst into song constantly (though not as much as I would apparently like) and that’s pretty much it.  Glee is gloriously ambitious, but far from perfect.  Below are my top reasons why it didn’t reach its potential (as defined by my personal tastes).

Glee’s deadly sins:

Favouring the wrong characters

This is by far my biggest problem with the whole thing.  Just as subsequent seasons can’t get over that first episode, the casting can’t get over its opening line up, specifically Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel.  While both these characters define the Glee experience, with their talent and team helping them survive constant unwarranted high school abuse, they run their natural course and graduate.  But we never get rid of them.  In season four, we’ve moved to New York with them.  And in season six, they’re back in Lima and back at the centre of attention.  While their friendships with other members and each other occasionally enlighten them to their own flaws, they never really learn or change, with Rachel’s self-obsession only ever escalating and Kurt’s development always fully forgotten by the next episode.  I also don’t like the fact that his teeth disappear while he sings.  They alternate wisdom: dispensing sage advice one episode and ignoring it in the next.  Other New Directioners are so much more interesting, yet don’t get as much attention: Tina, especially Santana, and even Mike Chang.  Peripheral members come and go without explanation.  What’s more, the new generation of glee club members (Jake, Marley, Ryder, Unique and Kitty) while being slightly altered copies of their predecessors, effortlessly establish themselves as a more likeable bunch, only to be written out suddenly for no apparent reason in season five.  Come season six, a new glee club is being built from likeable-enough new members (with at least Kitty returning) but why rebuild twice and discard, all while keeping Rachel and Kurt and their tedious lives at the heart?  Had Glee been up to me, I would have cycled old members out into oblivion, and constantly rejuvenated the talent with new freshmen members, thereby keeping things going forever.

The stupid contrivances

Linked to the above point is the fact that it’s dramatic tension enough to see how the gang fare in each year’s show choir competitions.  But the powers that glee wanted more jeopardy and so Sue Sylvester was born.  She said outrageous words and did outrageous things, all while clad in an adidas tracksuit and barking into a megaphone.  Jane Lynch nails her performance and rightfully earned household-name recognition from it, but keeping her character opposed to the arts required more storyline flipflopping than anyone could be arsed to keep up with.  Rather than rendering things whimsical, it gave everything an air of pointlessness.  Full episodes and arcs would pivot on the slightest uncharacteristic prejudice.  Sylvester is a champion of the disabled and a supporter of Kurt and Blaine’s relationship, but she’s also the nastiest piece of work whenever it suits.  And this is just one character.  Maybe you can’t have singing and dancing and consistent characterisation, or maybe you should just take things a bit more seriously.

The awful choreography and even worse editing

Everything is better with dancing, and, occasionally, the sight of twenty or so performers perfectly synchronised is the most exhilarating part of Glee.  Vocal Adrenaline and the Warblers (the New Directions’ local, and better, rivals) are proper dancers.  But that doesn’t matter, because you never really see any of it properly, as the editing betrays a severe lack of attention span so that you never see anything (apart from that one fat Warbler’s smug face constantly distracting your vision).  Worse still, where there is the chance to take things in, it’s the New Direction’s own terrible steps we’re forced to witness, more often than not going up and down the different levels of steps that ascend at the back of the stage.  If people aren’t great dancers or lack rhythm, it’s easy to pick steps that make everyone look as decent as possible.  Unless you’re Glee.  They constantly run about into different positions until all you can see is them almost bumping into each other.

The outfits

Like Sex Education, Glee has its own style rules.  But, over time, the outfits grow to be as distracting as the choreography.  From Blaine’s bowties to Kurt’s hats, neckerchiefs and yet more hats, the onslaught of garish colours and impractical choir-gear takes its toll.

But I’ll stop now as I’m just getting nasty.  It must sound like I’m no fan at all when I would still claim this is one of my favourite shows, so I’ll balance things out with two key positives that easily outweigh all of the above:

1.      Glee didn’t just push for tolerance at a time (during the 2010s) when attitudes to minority groups were slowly improving.  Glee demands celebration.  Its message is that any form of difference needs more than simple acceptance, it should be front and centre.  Time and again, Glee pushes a welcome agenda of inclusivity.

2.      Glee has heart.  Because of the above, the show’s message is ultimately one of love.  The New Directions only ever triumph over their more talented, more rehearsed and more impressive rivals because their heart shines through.

Amen to these saving graces – a trail was blazed for greater visibility of so many maligned communities in our televisual viewing, and so too did this expand into real life, though you can’t see it as well at the moment as we are all quarantined inside.  But this has given me time to compile my unofficial, subject-to-change countdown of the top ten Glee performances from all six seasons:

10.         I Lived s6e13

This is the final song in the whole of Glee.  Cast members past and present, even characters that normally steer clear of singing, gather in the auditorium for the last time, coordinating their outfits and choreography to wish farewell to this whole chapter in our lives.  The episode is full of moments when you can tell the cast are genuinely crying about things coming to an end, and it wounds me still that the show is over.

9.            Blow Me (One Last Kiss) s4e5

Season four is a very rich territory for my favourite songs, rivalled only by the first, so we can consider these the two musical peaks in proceedings.  Sung with guts by Wade/Unique and Marley, it takes a song I didn’t mind that much before and gives it an aggression and punch that elevate it to anthemic status.

8.            Americano/Dance Again s4e1

Kate Hudson graces us on guest-star duties, stepping in as the NYADA teacher with a grudge against Rachel.  I instantly love her, and this sexy splurge of decent dancing, mashing together two songs to the benefit of each, sets the bar high for what Glee can achieve as a more adult series.

7.            Don’t Rain On My Parade s1e13

I know this is peak Rachel, but it shows off the undeniable fact that her voice is bloody brilliant.  I never really knew the song before, but her solo rendition helps save the New Directions.  I defy anyone not to listen to this song as they enter the office and then proceed to overdeliver throughout the day.

6.            Somebody To Love s1e5

Still in the early days of Glee, this episode climax refreshes a popular old song while playing to the strengths of the whole collective, while the dynamism between Finn and Rachel’s shared lead vocals create endless layers of drama.

5.            Longest Time s4e20

Another song whose origins elude me, this track shows off the potential of the next generation of glee club members in the peak of their season four flow.  Imagine if they hadn’t been cut off.

4.            One Less Bell To Answer/A House Is Not A Home s1e16

Another mash up, and featuring one of the best guest stars (Kristin Chenoweth, the other being Gwyneth Paltrow) this duet with Will Schuester almost never ends, showcasing powerful emotion with flawless vocals.

3.            Somewhere Only We Know s2e18

Teenage Dream is often the most popular Warblers choice, but this slightly unloved Keane song receives a new lease of life when Blaine and his blazered accomplices deliver a heartfelt performance.

2.            Safety Dance s1e19

Artie gets out of his wheelchair for a flashmob – I mean, come on!  Today, there are greater sensitivities about able-bodied actors playing disabled roles, but in this fantasy sequence, we instantly realise how frustrating it must be for talented dancer Kevin McHale to have to sit down throughout so many ensemble performances.  And yes, the choreography here is some of my favourite, and we’re given quite a good chance of seeing a fair amount of it.

1.            The Scientist s4e4

A lowkey Coldplay single becomes an operatic ensemble anthem.  Artfully placed at a time when various relationships are hitting the rocks within their own narratives, the lyrics are divided beautifully between Rachel and Finn, Blaine and Kurt, Santana and Brittany, Will and Emma.  Sure, Rachel overdoes the end, but it builds and builds and delivers genuine sadness that the path to true love never did run smooth.  It’s made all the more powerful by the performers staring blankly ahead, preventing them from slipping into the common habit of over-gurning to camera.

Let’s not mention the lowest common denominator moments when Glee tried to tap into YouTube viral hits or one-hit-wonder trends, nor the cringeably enjoyable rapping of Will Schuester.  But even in my most recent viewing, I uncovered new favourites that I had previously missed, such as Wide Awake or Hand In My Pocket/I Feel The Earth Move.  Sadly, with every new detail I spotted, I uncovered another inconsistency (though Glee is brave enough to poke fun at itself for a lot of these).  It’s haunting that two of the cast are deceased (Cory Monteith and Mark Salling), while attitudes have changed since Glee first aired – in particular, around single-use coffee cups which most characters seem addicted to.  So, yeah, I’ve got major beef with this show.  I would have done things differently, and I have a clear idea about how, but this mustn’t take away from what it achieved.  Whether schmaltzy, or heavy-handed, or too whimsical, Glee takes on all comers in the battle against bigotry.  And who knows, maybe that real-life fight would be going better if we all danced and sang together a bit more often.