Pete's Pad: February

For half of February all I was watching was the Winter Olympics, but I’m not going to bore you with my ice-cold takes on on Kirsty, Mia, Zoe and Scotty were robbed by the judges, how the general public should appreciate Tim and Ed’s commentary brilliance more regularly than every four years, or why the US women’s hockey team are vastly superior to the men’s.

However, that last point does give me a slippery segue into Heated Rivalry - a fantasy where gay men can come out in the NHL.

I have a terrible habit of going against things because they’re popular. Recent and relevant case in point, The Traitors is the biggest show on British television right now, and people on my timeline that I respect seem to agree it’s good value for that popularity, but because I’ve missed getting in on the ground floor and telling other people about it myself, I can’t bring myself to get involved. So no, I haven’t seen the latest episodes of the Irish version, and no, it’s probably not just because I don’t watch much ‘reality’ TV, but rather that I’m obstinate and contrary. This is all to say, that sometimes people drag me out of my worst impulses and make me engage with the zeitgeist. In this case, my sister-in-law got my wife watching Heated Rivalry, who then loved it so much that I was forced to get involved. So with some trepidation I sat through the steamy sex - sorry six - episodes and yeah, it’s alright, for a soapy romance kind of thing. Again, I’m making excuses about types of TV I don’t usually watch, but there’s often fun to be found straying out of your lane once in a while. And that’s what this homo-hockey drama is, a bit of finely-polished, solidly-directed, pleasingly not-too-over-the-top-once-you-get-past-all-the-fucking, fun. I’m glad it’s out there and has become such a phenomenon, because lord knows the gays need a win in North America right now. Plus the two leads are adorable together.

Easily the best thing I watched last month though was Small Prophets, a delightful new comedic drama from MacKenzie Crook, which shares much in style, humanity and speed (or lack thereof) with his previous masterpiece, The Detectorists. This six-episode run focuses of Michael, a beardy weirdo working at the local DIY superstore and struggling to get over the disappearance of his partner. Michael Palin is perfectly cast as his eccentric nursing home-bound father, who suggests summoning homunculi to find out where she went. I won’t spoil any more of the plot, but every character is well worth their time on screen and you’re never far from some lively dialogue, a solid visual gag, or brilliant bit of comic acting. They’re only half an hour a pop, and I was so beguiled they all got watched within two evenings. Seriously, if you take just one recommendation from me this month, make it this programme; it’s just lovely.

Something close to the opposite of lovely is Adolescence writer Jack Thorne’s reworking of Lord of the Flies. Alongside director Marc Munden, it’s a visually trippier take the book’s on-screen predecessors, using a four-episode arc to present the drama from the perspectives of its main protagonists. One of my best-graded essays in high school English was a compare/contrast between Lord of the Flies and The Beach, analysing desert island life as a microcosm of society, so I’ve always got time for another pass at the analysis. At times the wildlife cutaways, colour saturation and hallucinatory camerawork are distractingly unnecessary, but overall they do serve to match the alarmingly rapid descent into savagery. The child actors make it work though, from the astonishingly assured debut of David McKenna as poor Piggy, to the perfectly smarmy Lox Pratt as Jack. I’m not sure the extra backstory and flashbacks really add much, but it’s good to have a modern version of this classic educational text to help another generation get caught up in the story and what it really means.

Sticking with British drama, I’ve just finished Dirty Business, which sees the English untreated sewage scandal getting the dramatisation treatment - and not before time. More so than the subpostmasters or the phonehackers, this is perhaps the most egregious tale, given the scale of the dumping and the deadly consequences - as well as complete lack of consequences for the water companies. The privatisation of the country’s water utilities must rank among the worst of all Thatcher’s dreadful policy decisions. It’s just such a basic mismatch of priorities to have such a fundamentally important public good as clean water and proper human waste disposal given over to private capital, and the pursuit of profit over people. It’s sometimes a bit jarring to have the death of Heather Preen and the subsequent suicide of her father cut up against the comedic turns of those playing the water executives, PR people and, most gallingly, the environmental regulators. It’s also a bit of an odd mishmash of factual and artistic license, but if the anger the programme brings forces some change, then I can overlook such inconsistencies. Nice (read: not nice in the slightest) to see Cameron and Truss popping up to gleefully announce cuts to regulation, which clearly exacerbated the problem, as the Environment Agency’s dilution was arguably as much of an issue in not properly inspecting the treatment works, due to the facial adoption of ‘operator self monitoring’ and executive conflicts of interest. It all feels like and advert to vote Green at the next election; although one fears we’re so far down the privatisation route - with the likes of Thames Water so indebted and with such archaic infrastructure - that any attempt to nationalise will be futile in the short to medium term. They’re far from perfect, but boy am I glad we’ve got a public water utility in Scotland.

Crossing the pond, I also recently enjoyed Wonder Man, the latest Marvel telly series and another of their odder ones; which are usually those I like best. This is no exception, as it reprises Ben Kingsley’s Liverpudlian thesp-cum-pretend-warlord, who is now a refined character in LA, but coerced into going undercover to reveal the superpowers of fellow actor Simon. It shares some similarities with The Studio, particularly a real love of Hollywood coming through in all the little details and industry lore, as well as occasional cameos of real actors as heightened versions of themselves. The episode which explains why supes are banned from productions has a particularly good star turn from Josh Gadd, and I loved the fact Coronation Street was referenced during a browse through Trev’s apartment. Given it’s a Spotlight series, it’s hard to know whether the characters will be folded into the multiverse saga, but regardless, this was easily one of the best things to come from the MCU in ages.

While the second season of Fallout started during January, I thought I’d see it out before weighing in. The funnier of the two big-budget, post-apocalyptic video game adaptions, is more of the same really; not that that’s a bad thing. I certainly have my preferred characters and plot strands by this point, but it’s all of a high standard. The odd couple of ghoul and girl are my favourite and I particularly enjoyed the flashback origin stories of Goggins’ character. Kyle MacLachlan also seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself, chewing through all that scenery. The whole thing does feel a bit meandering at times though, which sort of makes me want to go back and play through the game to choose my own narrative.

Onto films, and given it popped up on Sky Cinema, we gave the new Naked Gun a go. Liam Neeson may be a weird old racist in real life, but he’s pulled off a decent Leslie Neilson impression in this franchise rehash. If you liked the originals you’ll enjoy this - it’s dumb, gag-stuffed nonsense - perfect for a not-too-taxing Saturday night on the couch. As ever with things like this, or Airplane or Hotshots, it’s actually the occasional surreal skit that I like best, and there’s a few enjoyably odd exchanges in this too.

Quite the tonal shift from that to Train Dreams, which sees Joel Edgerton on fine form and well suited to the gruff logger lead role in this Oscar-baiter from director Clint Bentley, who seems to be channelling Terrence Malick in visual and voiceover style. I came to this a bit late via a recommendation from a pal, but I’m glad I did, as it’s a contemplative, tragic tale, as brutal and beautiful as the American frontier setting. Given all the hardship and heartbreak though, it’s been a while since I’ve seen an ending that straightforwardly spirit raising.

To continue the them of happy endings, I’m going to finish this post with a little ramble about the fact that two of my oldest friends have pulled their respective fingers out and released some very fine music into the world.

Firstly, my best man Michael Ford, under the guise of MFÒ, has stuck out a slinky little EP, with a concept no less: combining natural textures with industrial elements; where the forest meets the grid.

Even better than that, he’s gone and started a record label too - Third Landscapes - with the promise of a mix series. This all makes me tremendously happy, as he might be my favourite DJ and we both somewhat reneged on teenage dreams of being globe-trotting producers and dance music journalists, respectively.

I’m told one of the reasons he plucked up the courage to get his new creations out there was due to the support and community fostered by Tom Mangan, or Tee Mango, who I chatted to recently as I’d never really appreciated such production guru services existed. I spoke to some other people doing similar things and pitched it to a few editors, but alas, couldn’t quite convince anyone it was worthy of a published feature. Not really keeping up my side of the bargain I’m afraid; but promise I did try.

Oh, and last, but definitely not least, my other pal and another former Kapital resident, Brad Charters - AKA Blurred Line - has stuck up a propulsive three-tracker of tough techno for fun times. It makes me so pleased that these talented people are sharing what they do best, and I’m now trying to work out how its possible to get them both behind the decks in front of a packed dancefloor again.