Travel Man: 48 Hours In…

While some parts of modern life are returning to a semblance of normality, particularly if you already avoided all human contact, one area of sunshine in our otherwise pointless existences has come back with an added layer of jeopardy.  What used to be called going on holiday, but is now defined as a hobby under the smugger term of “travelling”, is fraught with the risk of your foreign destination falling foul of arbitrary quarantine rules mid-sojourn.  It might have been officially safe to go there, but you could end up coming back from somewhere dangerous, required to submit to an honesty box-enforced personal lockdown of two weeks, just for burning your skin and eating full Englishes in Marbs.  Luckily, TV has many options when it comes to vicarious holiday-making.  I’ve already covered Cruising With Jane McDonald, much to the ambivalence of my loyal reader(s).  But this week I’m going to be telling you all about my recent obsession with Travel Man.

Everyone loves Richard Ayoade.  He was crucial to the charm of The IT Crowd and has gone on to make a living as a professional silly sausage, which schtick is only enabled by his conversely erudite true nature.  For those of us whose lifestyles are more than a little inspired by the teachings of Asperger, he’s a ruddy hero.  Like me, he’s guilty of the approach to travelling where, on the day you’re required to leave, you’d do anything to be able to stay at home instead.  Once away, you may well have a lovely time and forge treasurable memories, but you’re never gladder than the moment you cross the threshold back into your own abode again.  An entertaining choice, then, for a travelogue series.  Let’s run through, to borrow Ayoade’s own frequent references, the format points:

Travel Man always goes with a pal

Each episode focuses on a different predominantly European destination, to which Ayoade is accompanied by a predominantly comedic companion.  It’s a who’s who of British televisual light entertainers, though some Hollywood heavyweights do steam in, introduced to us with all their hyphenations: writers, actors and, ubiquitously, broadcasters.  But what really is a broadcaster?  Am I broadcasting now?  I don’t know.  The show has been opened with a madcap monologue where Ayoade soliloquises from multiple incongruous locations on the pitfalls of modern weekends away: what if it’s a bit rubbish?  The showbiz pal then sets us up for the second earful, demanding to know why they have been brought to Porto/Bergen/Athens etc.  Cue a street jive-inspired yet still deeply ironic beginner’s outburst to the place in question.  The guest tourists are often reduced to foils for Ayoade’s self-confessed glibness, with any showing off swiftly halted, but there is always enough chemistry for the viewer to yearn for an accompanying ticket.

Travel Man is on a budget, a massive one

Prices for sundries and excursions pop up in jaunty bubbles onscreen, with an overview of the cheapest possible trip to our destination given early on.  However, this is often run roughshod over in the very next scene when inordinate funds are spaffed on the most extravagant of hotels.  It’s wasted on Ayoade, who cares only to toss his retro luggage on the king size before dashing off.

Travel Man is tight on time

There’s a lot to be forced into 48 hours, ideally three activities either side of the break plus travel and extra filming time.  As such, Ayoade is constantly badgering his co-voyager to hurry up, resulting in a trail of unfinished drinks and food being left in their wake.  I always find this funniest when his celeb pal wants to chill in the hotel on arriving and Ayoade must insist upon them meeting him downstairs immediately in order to stick to their itinerary.  Relaxing this ain’t.

Travel Man can’t be arsed with the food or indeed any other affectation

Whether trying odd local dishes, or sitting through a 14-course Michelin-starred tasting menu, Ayoade is ever the everyman in only ever being able to assess things as “fine” or “OK” – he’ll often refuse additional bites if he deems one mouthful sufficient for analysing flavour.  Fuss and fancy are instant turn offs, often dismissed on the spot, much to the disappointment of obsequious wait staff and barkeeps.  I unknowingly channelled this approach on a media jolly to San Sebastián when I inadvertently told the maître d’ at Arzak that I didn’t like the monkfish.  Whoops.

Travel Man is nourished by facts

Our guest follows Richard on a schlepp to the city’s nearest highpoint, using a bird’s eye view to orientate themselves and discuss Ayoade’s vertigo.  Before, during and after, they are showered with openly Wikipedia-procured nuggets of varying relevance, often responding with their only viable reaction: bemusement.  On occasions, even hired tour guides seem to know less than our Richard.  It’s all deliciously awkward.  Of note is when UNESCO World Heritage Site status is pointed out, as we do realise at one point that nobody knows what this means.

Travel Man has other foibles

He makes outrageous sartorial choices.  He has a real passion for funiculars (and you will too).  He finds it outrageous when artisanal workshops do not conclude with appropriate certification.  He is vivid in his descriptions of tummy bugs.  He treats guides facetiously by asking them to stay in touch.  But most of all…

Travel Man gets travel sick

Across the nine series and counting, the producers push Ayoade into every mode of transport imaginable, from speedboats to helicopters, from camels to toboggans.  Each and every one triggers his motion sickness.  As a fellow sufferer, I identify with this more than I can convey here.  In fact, I have developed sympathy sickness which comes on whenever Ayoade looks queasy.  Which is often.

Nevertheless, this show is now a firm favourite of mine in light of its lightness and entertainment.  I feel as though I’ve been on a farewell grand tour of my beloved EU with a host of new pals.  Its irreverent tone really takes the gap yah out of someone else’s holidays, transcending the traditional tedium of online showing off by never taking anything that seriously.  Best of all, its brutal honesty really peaks at the very end when Ayoade is itching to get home and shut the doors.  Should they have come?  It doesn’t matter if you have speedy boarding.

Master Of None

We’re all going through tough times.  Some of us are still dealing with symptoms of Parks & Recreation withdrawal, even though we finished this delicious sitcom over two years ago.  How I still envy my friend who made her first watch last (after following my recommendation to take on this particular boxset in the first place) by rationing the episodes over time and taking care to watch each several times before moving onto the next one.  What we both had in common, though, was only discovering Leslie Knope and her Pawnee pals many years after the show had finished broadcasting.  Such is the power of late boxset discovery.  If we really make an effort, there’s every chance we can get through all the TV shows ever made.  Surely that’s something to cherish on the deathbed.  But, in keeping with my penchant for coming to things late, I recently spotted the two seasons of Master Of None on Netflix.  For a reason that at this point was unknown to me, this show was all the rage back when it appeared between 2015 and 2017.  Aziz Ansari was striking out on his own, leaving behind Tom Haverford whose teachings about Treat Yoself Day (nothing beats his and Donna’s mantra: fine leather goods) and hilarious expressions live on in memories I recall on a regular basis.  I recall awards buzz and maybe even awards wins that I am too lazy to look up.  Let’s be honest, you’re dying to hear what I thought, so let’s proceed.

Master Of None at first appears to be gentle viewing.  It’s amusing but doesn’t bend over backwards to provide lols.  There’s narrative tension, but it doesn’t necessarily sensationalise itself to produce drama.  Yet, you care.  And that’s because Ansari as Dev Shah is a rather likeable everyman.  A New York-based millennial reaching the point in adult life when you’ve got to ask yourself some questions about your career, your relationships and your dreams if you’re not already on the conveyor belt of generic lifestyle steps that starts with engagement and ends in babies, Dev dabbles in acting.  His real passion is saved for eating food that needs to be as delicious as possible.

The first season settles, with some wobbling, into a meandering pace, dealing in turn with such issues as parenthood, having foreign parents, ageing, dating morals (would you pursue a married lover?) and representations of Indians in the media.  There’s a universality to some of this, but the frank examination of America’s relationship with certain ethnic heritages delivers refreshing and challenge thought provocation, all while keeping within the show’s friendly style.  It’s part social comment, part whimsy.  A storyline casually emerges as Dev’s relationship with the charming Rachel (Noël Wells) progresses thanks mostly to her inability to be offended by his jokes, creating a new layer of jeopardy as we will these lovers to make it together.

Series two has a more experimental feel.  The action shifts to Italy (for pasta making), while episodes freewheel boldly with their own style.  There’s black and white, flashbacks, montages and an assembly of loosely interconnected stories that shines a light on the experience of newer New York immigrants, contrasting it against Dev’s own attitudes as someone born in the USA.  He’s as self-entitled as the child of any developed country, but this constantly has him at odds with his more pious Indian parents (played by his real-life mum and dad).  A new love story emerges, and you’ll track its star-crossing with the same anxiety you might have found elicited by Normal People.  Master Of None dares itself not to give you what you think you want.

I took to taking in my episodes in the bath, something which ramped up when I solved my heatwave woes by filling the bath with cold water and immersing myself at various points during the day when my own sweat was causing me to slip off my laptop keyboard.  Dev and his pals quickly feel like old friends, even though some of their lines can be slightly mumbled.  Every so often, we’re treated to a bit of Orange Is The New Black’s Danielle Brooks stealing scenes as Dev’s agent while Eric Wareheim’s Arnold grew on me over time despite my initial resistance.  Lena Waithe comes into her own in the Thanksgiving episode (which she wrote), offering a sensitive telling of a story we see represented all too rarely.

Master Of None doesn’t necessarily make you feel strong feelings.  It’s subtler than that.  It champions what you might otherwise miss and doesn’t care about what you’re used to seeing.  It’s playful throughout and therefore an undeniably nice watch.  It made me think and it made me feel and, if any more comes along, I’ll definitely be pressing play.

Succession

People are always telling you what you should do.  You should stay two metres apart from each other.  You should work from home.  You should watch Succession.  Sometimes, it’s good to ignore people.  If you’re being selfish with space around the eggs in the supermarket, I’m only going to give you a matter of moments before I invade your two metres for my Burford Browns.  I don’t want to work from home anymore because the office has air conditioning and my flat is now the inside of a hair dryer only without any air movement whatsoever.  And I didn’t really want to watch Succession.  It looked like rich white people arguing while being unattractive and there was too much sexy and exciting TV to be getting on with.  Episode one only confirmed my apprehension.  There were so many characters, none of them likeable.  They talked quickly and oh-so-wittily, making references where I lacked context.  There were lots of suits, lots of greys, too many office interiors (even though this has become my dream destination).  Episode two was more of the same.  I itched with the desire to distract myself.  The crossing and double-crossing felt distant and irrelevant.  I still hadn’t picked a horse to back and, more specifically, I didn’t want to.  What should have been humorous just felt weird and in poor taste.

But everyone had been so insistent.  They had told me I really would like it.  And then, episode three happened.  I crossed a threshold.  I was hooked.  I don’t know what did it.  It was like a penny dropping.  Suddenly, Succession was the absolute treat of each evening.  I even felt like a grown up watching it.  My phone discarded out of sight, full focus on the screen, I got more and more into it, eventually unable to resist the urge to binge through the remaining episodes of the second season just because I had to know what was going to happen next.  And now I can’t bear the wait for more.  So maybe I should listen more to people telling me what I should do.  Either way, I’m now going to commend the living daylights out of Succession, but I’ve bucketed the commendations into handy themes for easier digestion, helping you, the reader, to manage your entrance into an exquisite, intelligent boxset that stretches the very limits of what you thought was possible on television.

The spot-on and terrifying exposition of a media landscape

You won’t have heard of Waystar Royco, nor the Roy family who own most of it, but both might strike you as uncannily familiar.  Succession deals with this media conglomerate (which also includes cruise lines, theme parks and a scattergun array of ill-advised ventures in other markets) and the unanswerable question about who is next in line to take on its captaincy once the paterfamilias (I’ve always wanted to use this word) steps down.  While this intrigue ensures endless tension, the interplay between the family’s right-wing news channel (ATN) and their political ambitions would be ludicrous if it didn’t mimic real life so closely.  Financing, acquisitions, cover-ups: there’s dirty trick after dirty trick, with Shakespearean levels of backstabbing and betrayals.  Yet the boardroom melodrama is so plausible you could buy this as a genuine documentary.  You just need to accept that there is nobody to root for.

The first ever portrayal of accurate adult sibling relationships

Lining up to inherit the vast fortune and power of the company, three brothers and a sister represent the future of the Roy family.  Eldest son, Connor, has dialled out of the race, but his abuse and misuse of his own (his dad’s) wealth reveals him to be a threat to the real world, if a non-contender in the Roy battles.  Kendall, our heir apparent, is having the worst go-to-work-with-dad day that anyone has ever experienced, only it’s his whole career.  Pouring all his energy into the company, at the expense of everything else, his fractious paternal relationship is the source of unending and delicious plot twists.  Jeremy Strong shifts effortlessly between conniving shark, office square as trend-missing douchebag and downtrodden underling.  Meanwhile, Kieran Culkin brings so much to what are already most of the best lines as Roman Roy, the rebellious one who can’t get taken seriously but who also doesn’t take anything seriously.  Then there’s Shiv (an outrageously good Sarah Snook), the daddy’s girl striking out on her own, trying to rise above the wheeling and dealing but always getting suckered back in.  I’ve spent too long enumerating the Roys, when the emphasis is on their relationships.  What I really buy is that these four grew up together.  Their childhood fisticuffs even persist into maturity (Shiv and Roman).  Their bickering is no longer about sharing toys, but manipulating dad, running companies (into the ground) and willing each other to look as bad as possible, all while forming occasional united fronts whenever it suits.  Needless to say, you can’t build a case to become CEO of a global megacompany when you’re blaming your brother or sister for your own mistakes.

The use of Brian Cox

Now we’ve done the kids, let’s look at the dad.  Logan Roy is our rags-to-riches self-made man.  We might be in a time when we acknowledge that plenty of screen time has already gone to white old men, but Brian Cox consistently delights in this role.  Even my pet hate of being able to tell how much he’s enjoying himself in his performance doesn’t get activated because his performance is so convincing.  It’s merely my assumption that he gets to have a great time as an actor, whether suffering the after-effects of his stroke, or reacting to his kids’ betrayals.  It would be worth working for Logan Roy just to get fired in a blaze of abuse.

The swearing

Which leads me to Logan’s potty mouth.  Never has the expression “f*ck off” sounded so satisfying.  This is how he concludes most dialogues, whether with his leadership team or his own children.  He hits the K with real back-of-throat disdain, his words literally causing the recipient to acknowledge they have no other choice but to f*ck right off.  Now that’s power.

The passive aggression

We don’t always resort to effing and jeffing though.  Plenty of the dialogue sparkles with outright cusses semi-shrouded in manners or corporate jargon.  When the wordplay moves from artful cleverness to explicitly rude insults, it’s somehow all the more delightful.

The money

Not only do the cast splash their cash, but so too does the production.  Choppers seem to be on standby, and no location seems too remote to receive a full shooting unit, whether Dundee or obscure stately homes elsewhere in Britain, or US ranches, or indeed a yacht in the Mediterranean.  I would like to work on the show just so I can try out the inflatable slide on the back of Logan’s mega vessel.

The supporting cast

The Roys have become everything to me, but every character in their orbit enriches Succession.  Hiam Abbass (Logan’s wife Marcia) revels in her scenes as the conniving stepmother, while my softest spot is reserved for the company’s general counsel, Gerri Kellman (J. Smith-Cameron) who seems to work every hour of the day, mostly while wearing ball gowns, but can be an absolute boss when required.  Special mention of course to Cousin Greg who is pure joy in his naivety, never more so than when being mistreated by Tom Wambsgans (an incredible Matthew McFadyen).  I even enjoy Willa.

But this is enough commending – there’s only so much I can say before we start running through plots and spoiling surprises.  From a sceptical viewing, pressing play under pressure from TV connoisseur friends, I’ve become obsessed with Succession.  You really should watch it.

Euphoria

Following on from I May Destroy You and Normal People (let’s forget about Final Space for now), we’re continuing this week our run of blogging ourselves silly about outstanding drama.  Fair enough, this show was on a while back, so I’m well behind the curve here (we can even call it a second wave unless people find that triggering), but, realising I wasn’t making the most of my Sky subscription, I decided to go for something available on Sky Atlantic here in the feudal state of the UK (where you can be a lord if you’re mates with the government).  I’ll admit that Chernobyl was top of my list when it came to getting more into the channel that became the British home of Game Of Thrones, but people had been telling me about Euphoria since it first broadcast.  However, what they said was kind of off-putting.  They talked about club kids.  Whatever these are, they’re not inherently interesting.  I myself am immune to FOMO and therefore haven’t been awake past midnight for many years.  However, TV shows about people who do go out at night can offer a useful vicarious route to the thrills, chills, spills and queuing up outside in the cold to pay real money for the privilege of going inside a place experienced by the kinds of people who do have social lives.  The Euphoria advocates also talked about drugs.  Again, not a part of my life, unless you count the crazy crazy highs of pre-dawn crossfit sessions, but I suppose I thoroughly enjoyed Narcos, even if I only used my post on that show to point out that, currently, buying illicit substances funds criminality.  As such, my expectations of Euphoria were that it would simply be sequences of drugged-up teenagers raving to house music under the glow of colourful lights.  Superficial, yes, but potentially just what I was after.  For some reason.

Euphoria is so much more, however, and I am now grieving for the fact I have finished all eight episodes.  Set in East Highland, presumably a generic American neighbourhood that feels a bit Californian but could be anywhere, this is a show about high school teens that elevates the trope to new (drug-fuelled) highs.  I’m sure I could research the actual location, but I’m bashing this out during a lunch break, and the one thing about working from home (slash living at work) that I’ve learnt during lockdown is that nobody is allowed a lunch break, so speed is of the essence – something by now we’ve hopefully grown used to in my weakening week-on-week prose.  At the heart of our stories, we have the main character of Rue.  She is our guide to this world and the point around which a lot of it revolves.  Rue is played by Zendaya, who is an actor who doesn’t need a second name.  I think there has been news about her, but I’ve never really seen it.  What I have seen, though, is her mesmerising and heart-wrenching performance as Rue.  Freshly back from rehab following an overdose, Rue is a victim of America’s addiction to prescription drugs.  A lot of our narrative tension comes from her palpable struggles with keeping clean.  Intersecting with these are the challenges of her budding friendship with Jules, a brightly dressed new student who forms a kindred spirithood with our Rue.

This would be compelling in itself, but I have to confess that Rue’s arcs are, to me at least, some of the least interesting in the whole of Euphoria.  They’re still more gripping than 99% of TV out there, but it’s the surrounding cast of other high school classmates that really hooked me in.  Rue, however, serves as our introduction point, often narrating the opening scenes of each episode, sparing no production expense in bringing to life scene after scene depicting various tableaux of childhood dysfunction.  Every family we look into is a hot mess and a product of visceral pain.  Whether we’re introduced to McKay’s (father’s) dreams of NFL stardom (a dramatised Last Chance U of sorts) or given a whistle-stop tour of the origins and undoings of Maddy’s incredible confidence, you can’t take your eyes off the screen until everything is divulged.  This renders the ensuing plot points all the more significant, serving as a grounding for our teens’ otherwise reckless actions.

This structure also permits Euphoria to tread tired old high school and growing up themes in a way that completely resists any definition as generic.  Instead, we are awash in originality as we consider the blossoming (ugly head rearing) of such onset-by-adulthood innocence losses, including but not limited to: gender, sexuality, body image, parental disappointment, mental health and many many more.  Seriously, all your favourites are here.

Somehow, this plays out with a high level of stylisation while retaining a contrasting grittiness.  Euphoria is at once dreamlike yet realistic.  And yes, I’ve just said the same thing twice, but with some of you I really feel a need to labour the point.  There’s nothing for me to criticise with my usual archness.  Sure, maybe I could do without so much importance being placed on eye make-up/furniture, but it’s an aesthetic that gets confidently owned.  Euphoria loves a tracking shot as much as I do; we’re either following a single character on the march, or watching a beautifully choreographed ensemble march play out in varying directions.  This adds a compelling and masterful intensity to the glorious unravelling that brings together all the characters’ narratives in the fairground episode.  No doubt the originality of the soundtrack helps glue the individual strands to each other.

Everybody, this is the show Skins wishes it had been.  I am desperate to find out more about the whole gang.  I want to be told more about the sadness behind Cassie’s eyes.  I want to know if Kat will persist in her delusion that she is using sex as a weapon on others rather than on herself.  Why do I feel such sympathy towards Fezco?  Can we get more of Lexi (whether dressed as Bob Ross or not)?  And dare I ask: how can things end between Nate and his father?  So let’s view my gushings here as a well-deserved round of applause for something that will guarantee you at least eight evenings of entertainment and thought-provoking diversion, all while looking pretty nice on your telly and leaving nobody uncertain that the televisual golden age rumbles on.