Steptoe and Son by Ray Galton and Alan Simpson, produced by Owen Bell, BBC Four, 14 September 2016

Filmed once more in front of a live audience, this remake of an episode originally broadcast in 1970 told a familiar tale of Harold (Ed Coleman) trying to escape from urban squalor in Shepherd's Bush yet being frustrated by his scheming father (Jeff Rawle).

Wisely the two actors did not attempt to recreate the vocal and gestural nuances of Corbett and Brambell, but instead provided impersonations - the kind of approach where we could laugh with them, but at the same time realizing that the modern actors were very different. On the other hand we could revel in the sheer brilliance of the Galton and Simpson script - in case we did not already know it, Harold Steptoe is another version of Hancock, the man perpetually looking for something better yet unable to find it. Both men were equipped with the ability to vocalize their frustrations in sentences that were at once funny yet exceptionally sad. Try as they might, they would never escape. Albert Steptoe, for all his tendency to act pathetic, was actually a strong and manipulative personality, keeping his unfortunate son under a tight leash and thereby restricting Harold's prospects.

Producer Owen Bell was highly successful at communicating this relationship to viewers through a camera-style based on the close-up and the two-shot. This was perhaps the biggest advantage of the studio-based sitcom - it might have been visually stereotyped, but it gave an insight into what the characters thought and felt.

Poldark by Winston Graham, adapted by Debbie Horsfield, directed by Edward Bazalgette et. al. BBC One, Aug-Oct 2016

What can one say about Debbie Horsfield's rendering of Winston Graham's evergreen series of classics that has not been said before? Being old enough to remember the 1975 version when Robin Ellis strode through the West Country with his scanty undershirt revealing a hairy chest and equally distinguished sideburns, I was impressed with Aidan Turner's recreation of the same role. Turner has a wonderful gift for smoldering; his features do not change much, but his eyes flash and his lips purse in a way that brooks no resistance from anyone. George Warleggan (Jack Farthing) is an eminently hissable villain, his pasty face and arrogant mien contrasting with Robin Poldark's humanity. The facial and bodily contrasts between the two resembles that of any great melodrama. We know George will get his comeuppance in the end, but we marvel at the extent to which he is prepared to manipulate others in order to achieve his aims.

Filmed on the rolling Cornish coast, POLDARK knows how to make the best use of its locations, filming its protagonists against the setting sun or having them walk alone among deserted beaches or wading into the sea. There are also plenty of opportunities for Ross to be shown either shirtless or sweat-soaked down the mine, moving in close proximity to his fellow-workers in lurid orange light. We can understand from their expressions how committed they are to their futures, despite George's best efforts to impede them.

In truth the structure of each episode is a tad repetitive, with Ross and his wife (Eleanor Tomlinson) having to overcome a series of struggles both mental as well as professional: negotiating obstacles like Scylla and Charybdis so that they can arrive at a happy end. But the production, directed by a variety of artists, is constructed with such élan, with plenty of swash, buckle and romance that we are scarcely aware of its schematics. The BBC used to distinguish itself with these kind of dramas of a Sunday night - there was HOWARDS WAY set in the contemporary era that enjoyed a long run. How pleasant to see the new POLDARK perpetuating that tradition.

Victoria by Daisy Goodwin, directed by Oliver Blackborn et. al., Mammoth Productions for ITV, 28 Aug. - 16 Oct. 2016

On the basis of seeing the first episodes of this Masterpiece drama, broadcast in the UK by ITV, I can freely say that I am hooked on to it. Daisy Goodwin's script is both taut and cleverly written, while the performances of the main protagonists are uniformly convincing. I particularly like Jenna Coleman's characterization of the young Queen - so apparently vulnerable yet possessed with an inner strength of will that enables her to resist the repeated blandishments of her self-interest mother the Duchess of Kent (Catherine H. Flemming), who so dearly desires to assume the title of Regent, aided and abetted by her unscrupulous ally Sir John Conroy (Paul Rhys).

This eight-part drama wears its moral scheme on its sleeve by contrasting the hissable villain the Duke of Cumberland (Peter Firth), with the pragmatic yet goodhearted Lord Melbourne (Rufus Sewell), who admires the Queen yet remains convinced that she has to transform herself from an immature girl into suitably monarchical material, and will try his utmost to achieve that transformation. Sometimes he has to be cruel to be kind, but all in a good cause. In between these two extremes stands the Duke of Wellington (Peter Bowles), and Sir Robert Peel (Nigel Lindsay), both members of the Tory Party (and hence implacably opposed to Melbourne's politics), but interested in maintaining the business of government.

As with most television costume dramas, the sets and decor are both opulent and historically accurate, supplemented by useful CGI shots where necessary. I especially liked some of the cinematographic effects (by John Lee) - especially the use of aerial shots to suggest the insignificance of humanity when compared to the greater business of running the country.

And it is this sense of contemporaneity that lifts VICTORIA out of the run-of-the-mill and transforms it into living, breathing drama. We hear a lot about the importance of "duty" - from the Queen as well as her friends and enemies - and we are led to speculate on what that term really signifies. Is it just a catch-all description masking self-interest, or do people really believe in it? In light of recent political upheavals in the United Kingdom, with one Prime Minister resigning (ostensibly out of "duty"), and the opposition party tearing itself asunder with different conceptions of the same term, we wonder just how much VICTORIA is commenting on the present as well as the past, especially in its concern with politics and its relationship to the country's future.

National Treasure by Jack Thorne, directed by Marc Munden, Channel Four, 20 Sep - 11 Oct. 2016

Newspaper reviewers have predictably commented on the parallels between Jack Thorne's drama and the so-called "Operation Yewtree," in which major celebrities - the "national treasures" suggested by the title - were found to be serial abusers, or used their fame to exploit the vulnerable. The two central performances of Robbie Coltrane as Paul Finchley and Julie Walters as his wife have also received due recognition.

Yet Marc Munden's drama contains so many other brilliant aspects, that don't necessarily focus on the more salacious material but try to explore how and why Fınchley should behave as he did. What we understand from the celebrity and his wife is how narcissistic they are; despite their frequent protestations of love for one another, as well as for their daughter Dee (Andrea Riseborough), they are pathologically incapable of listening. Riseborough's characterization is profound; she does not speak much, but she has a way of looking at the ground, almost as if she cannot face the ordeal of communication, especially with her parents. There is one sequence in particular involving Marie and Dee that sums up the emotional disconnect between them; taking place in a bedroom during Dee's birthday party, Marie emphasizes quite vehemently that she wants her daughter to get better, without understanding in the least how she and her husband are the root cause of Dee's problems.

Munden's production is distinguished by memorable cinematography from Ole Bratt Birkeland. Birkeland is fond of long tracking shots, with the camera moving down lengthy corridors to discover the characters. As viewers, we feel we are eavesdropping on their private secrets - just like Peter and Marie, as they seek to find out what's "wrong" with Dee. Birkeland also uses lighting to reinforce the theme: during the birthday party Peter gives one of his windy speeches. As he does so, the camera tracks slowly to the left, revealing candles at the front of the frame, and after a few seconds settles on Dee, looking once again at the ground in embarrassment, her face obscured by yet more candled. Material things seem to matter more to Finchley - they can be easily controlled, and do not require him to empathize. The fact that Dee appears at the end of the shot emphasizes her insignificance.

Much of the action unfolds in a dream-like world of psychedelic greens, reds, and blues, drawing attention once more to the fantasy-world that Peter and Marie inhabit. Alternatively several sequences take place in darkened rooms, illumined by miserable spotlights; the perfect ambiance for anyone to behave inappropriately without fear of discovery.

Despite its pertinent subject-matter, NATIONAL TREASURE is not really about the abusive celebrity, but looks instead at the destructive ways in which parents - especially those who profess a blameless way of life - destroy their siblings, as well as others, through neglect, or by assuming that people will behave in certain preordained ways. The action unfolds slowly in a series of lengthy exchanges punctuated by occasional musical interludes (by Christobal Tapis de Veer, but remains compelling. This is one of the best dramas I have seen on any medium in the entire year.

Brighton Rock by Graham Greene, screenplay by Greene and Terence Rattigan (GB, 1947)

It might be a commonplace critically to pronounce the first film version of Graham Greene's novel to be not as good as the source- text, but in this case we would be terribly wrong.

John Boulting's film offers a dystopian world of mid-twentieth century Brighton: ostensibly set during the Thirties but applying as much to the time when the film was released. The resort's streets teem with people desperately trying to have a good time in the sunshine, sitting in deck-chairs, eating in shabby restaurants, enjoying rides in the Chamber of Horrors or eating candy-floss. Brief romances wither and flourish; older citizens find solace in the pub. No one, it seems, can think about the future; everything must be lived in the present, otherwise they might succumb to desperation.

In this kind of environment it's hardly surprising that Pinkie (Richard Attenborough) and his gang should thrive. They can offer 'protection' from the chaos - at a price, of course - and should their victims be unable to pay up, they can be readily disposed of. This was the time of the spiv and his henchpersons, who walked unmolested through the streets, carefully concealing themselves from public view and striking when and where necessary.

Harry Waxman has produced some truly memorable visual metaphors for this world. He uses a tilted camera in which the characters' faces are reflected in the mirror; on at least two occasions he has people smashing china figures on the ground. The death of Pinkie's loyal associate Spicer (Wylie Watson) is truly shocking, especially when the gang-leader throws a suitcase of the old man's clothes from an upper level down to the lower level, to rest on the inanimate corpse. Human life is that cheap for the young man.

Yet the Boultings' version of the book also focuses on another level of meaning, as it tries to explore Pinkie's psychology in terms of his religion. He continually fingers his rosary beads, reminding us of his lapsed Catholicism; this represents a source of considerable guilt, but he conceals it beneath a veneer of bravado. Attenborough is quite masterful at this; his face remains impassive throughout, his eyes staring coldly at the camera or boring into his friends' expressions as if defying them to detect a chink of emotion underneath. He believes that the only means to survive in an amoral world is to be a 'hard man.'

In line with the censorship codes of the day, Pinkie is brought to bear in the end, as he loses his sang froid and commits suicide - a final betrayal of his Catholic faith. But the Boultings have not finished yet; in a supremely unexpected moment, they have Pinkie's common-law widow (Carol Marsh) playing a gramophone record of her husband disclosing her true feelings for him. The needle sticks, and we hear only one phrase repeated over and over, so much so that it becomes meaningless - a suitable metaphor for the world Pinkie inhabited.

Owing a lot to the pragmatic techniques of British documentary film=making, with lighting and shadow effects straight from German Expressionist movies of the previous decade, BRIGHTON ROCK is a true classic of the postwar British cinema, as arresting today as it ever was.

The Shooting Party by Isobel Colegate, screenplay by Julian Bond (GB, 1985)

THE SHOOTING PARTY, based on the novel by Isabel Colegate, is one of those low-budget films that tends to be characterized as a "heritage film," offering incidental pleases to viewers who are prepared to make the effort, but perhaps not pitched at general audiences.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Alan Bridges's work is both a technical and thematic masterpiece, brilliantly making use of cinema's resources to comment on British insularity both before and after World War One.

The first few sequences pass by exceptionally quickly: few of the guests at Sir Randolph's (James Mason's) home have time to talk with one another, as they are perpetually occupied in dressing for dinner, eating food, and discussing the next day's hunting. We wonder why they seem so desperate, especially in view of their privileged lifestyle. The answer emerges gradually; they are pathologically incapable of expressing their true feelings. Lord Gilbert and Lady Aline (Edward Fox, Cheryl Campbell) are unhappily married yet stay together for the sake of form. Lord Bob (Robert Hardy) makes himself agreeable to everyone without saying anything of any value. They seem hell-bent on preserving what they perceive as the "old values" that made England great in the Victorian era without in the least understanding how worthless they have become.

The "Hunting Party" of the title refers to a three-day shooting festival, where the aristocrats indulge in hunting just for the sake of it, loyally supported by Sir Randolph's band of servants. No questions its morality, save for lifelong pacifist Cornelius Cardew (John Gielgud). Director Bridges slows the action down quite significantly here, allowing viewers to acknowledge the regular - and uncomfortable - series of gunshots accompanied by tight pans of the birds falling dead. The parallels between such sequences and the forthcoming conflict in World War I are obvious; only in the future it will be human beings rather than birds who will perish.

The action attains a human dimension when we discover that the little boy Osbert (Nicholas Pietrek) is desperate to save his pet duck from the carnage. As he wanders desperately about the dawn- misted landscape before the hunt is about to start, we realize just how destructive humanity can be as they disrupt the balance of nature for their selfish pleasures.

Although Bridges does not exempt his characters from criticism, he manages to introduce a Chekhovian element into the film's latter stages. While no one can ever contemplate a future different from the past, the aristocrats are in a sense victims of circumstance, lacking both the power and self-awareness to change their lives. This element is emphasized in a highly poignant moment as Sir Randolph vainly tries to offer succor to one of his servants (Gordon Jackson), who has been accidentally shot, but finds himself emotionally incapable of doing so, and bursts into tears quietly.

Released only three years after the Falklands Island invasion of 1982, widely celebrated at the time as a great victory for British pride, THE SHOOTING PARTY offers a chillingly downbeat interpretation of jingoist attitudes that prove more destructive than beneficial.

The Pleasures of Turkish Popular Cinema 3: THE PAST IS A WOUND IN MY HEART (1970)

First a film, then a hit pop song, then the subject of a remake for Turkish television, MAZI KALBIMDE YARADIR (THE PAST IS A WOUND IN MY HEART) is a prime subject for filming.

Turkan (Turkan Soray) is a young woman on her wedding-day looking back on a turbulent past of rivalries, lust, and heartache with a family she is never sure about, with lovers who turn out to be false while pretending to be true, of so-called female confidantes out to exploit her, and of perpetually seeking for security despite everything that happens to her.

Her struggles are chronicles in a series of highly dramatic sequences - of love, hate, beating, family conflict, private observations behind curtains (recalling Polonius in HAMLET), public sequences in seedy bars or hotel rooms, and domestic moments taking place in the main living-space.

Director Osman F. Seden, a master at this kind of filmmaking, tells the story of a community under threat, not just from self-interest, but from the desire to maintain past certainties - such as the continuation of the family through marriage - while trying to secure social and material advancement. The struggle is not an easy one; often it seems that people are prepared to sacrifice their loved ones' integrity for the sake of a fast buck. The only character who remains morally pure is Turkan herself - despite her apparently frailties, she is a strong-willed personality who is more than able to stand up for herself, even if she never resorts to physical or mental violence.

While defiantly set in the present of early Seventies Istanbul, MAZI KALBIMDE YARADIR looks back to a mythical past of romance and sentiment, the kind of lasting values that not only bring audiences closer to the action on screen, but evoke worlds that can be easily identified. There is a certain kind of optimism about this film that is particularly endearing, and guaranteed to appeal to Yesilcam's fans; despite all that life might throw at you, if you keep your integrity, then you might be able to find some form of happiness, however transient. This quality makes the film attractive to watch.

The Pleasures of Turkish Popular Cinema 2 - FOR HONOR (1960)

Set squarely during the period of the Republic of Turkey's rapid industrialization era of the late Fifties and early Sixties, NAMUS UGRUNA (FOR HONOR'S SAKE) tells the story of a young migrant (Esref Kolcak) trying to make an honest living as a cab-driver touring the city's flesh-pots, but remaining apparently unaffected by their charms. Apparently happily wedded to his loyal spouse (Serpil Gul), he does not take much home in pay, but he is happy with his modest lot, living in a small community on modest means.

Things take a turn for the worse, however, once he becomes involved in complicated plots of love and betrayal involving a good-time girl (Peri Han) and her rich lover (Memduh Un, later a well-known director in his own right. The scenario is set for another high- octane melodrama of passion and desire, with plenty of violence, action and incident - just the kind of brew Yesilcam cinema could provide time and again for its audiences.

What separates Osman F. Seden's black-and-white film from others within the genre is its focus on issues of intense concern at that time. In itself betrayal meant nothing; that was what women were expected to do, if they were not looked after by their spouses. It was a point of honor among all males that they should undertake this task; if they failed, they were subject to ridicule from their close friends in the Kiraathane, or coffee-house, which is precisely what happens here. This is what "honor" denotes in the film.

On the other hand, families were expected to be the bedrock of a stable society, and live comparatively modestly, shunning the fleshly delights of the big city. Director Seden makes much of the contrast between Esref's modest dwelling and the lights of the big city; in one, the citizens look out for one another and try to protect themselves; in the city, the people act hedonistically by eating, drinking, and indulging in casual affairs. The latter course inevitably leads to destruction, both moral as well as social.

Some of the sequences might seem quite violent by today's standards. They certainly are, but we have to invoke that point of honor once more; to find their spouses being unfaithful, or to have their moral character impugned were both major shortcomings to the male psyche, and sometimes the only way they could react was in the most elemental way possible. Yet Seden shows that Esref is not entirely bad - although his life is ruined by the film's end, he still vows faithfulness to his spouse, even while serving a forthcoming prison sentence. In the Yesilcam world humanity is always capable of redemption, if they understand the true values governing their society.

Technically speaking NAMUS UGRUNA is a superb example of how Yesilcam worked subliminally on the audience. The narrative jags from one sequence to another, punctuated by (plagiarized) sequences of western classical standards ranging from Stravinsky's "The Firebird," to Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique," to the Gershwin Brothers' "A Foggy Day." These are inserted quite deliberately for dramatic effect, to heighten emotion and thereby increase identification with the action; what is happening is part of real life, not cinematic fiction.

There is so much incident, action and movement in the film that we are left quite breathless by the end.

The Pleasures of Turkish Popular Cinema 1: TWENTY YEARS LATER

Released later on in the illustrious career of Turkish Yesilcam star Ayhan Isik, YIRMI YIL SONRA (TWENTY YEARS LATER) has him returning to his hometown of Istanbul a broken man, his integrity intact to be sure, but lacking a job, pride, and most importantly a stable family life. He endures a series of mental struggles involving his wife, daughter, and several shady business associates; he does his best to ensure a happy future, but is eventually reduced to standing in melancholy fashion on Istanbul's Galata Bridge contemplating a life devoid of prospects.

Osman F. Seden's film contains familiar elements characteristic of the Yesilcam genre - a tight focus on family life both as a source of stability and a site of social pressure; an analysis of gender roles, where Isik feels that he has a responsibility to ensure the future welfare of his family yet lacks the strength to do so; and a focus on frustration, both psychological as well as societal, as he feels that he has somehow failed everyone closest to him as well as himself.

YIRMI YIL SONRA offers a snapshot of the rhythms governing daily life in early Seventies Turkey, where community values still form the backbone of social cohesion, yet are placed under almost intolerable strain by the insidious threat of capitalism, as symbolized by several sequences involving sharp-suited business people in wheeler- dealings, followed by party-scenes in seedy clubs patronized by belly-dancers catering to the mostly male clientele. Such conflicts have been a fact of life for decades now, and have only been sharpened with the advent of more outside investment.

Stylistically speaking the film contains its own conventions, of repeated intercut close-ups followed by abrupt transitions from one location to another. Narrative coherence does not necessarily apply here; what is important is that audiences should see close-ups of their favorite stars, in sequences that rehearse previous movies (there is an overt quotation from one of Isik's earliest successes KANUN NAMINA (1952)) in this film, reminding us of the continuity of his star image.

YIRMI YIL SONRA is a film for fans, who enjoy seeing their favorite actors play the same role, but it also appeals to the subliminal desire for repetition as a form of social stability, giving people the familiar feeling of security in changing times. Through such strategies director Seden encourages a feeling of community that actively contradicts the film's basic plot.

The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, adapted by Tony Marchant, BBC One, 17-31 July 2016

As with most adaptations, a comparison with Joseph Conrad's source- text might prove insignificant: suffice to say that Tony Marchant's screenplay bears as much relationship to the novel as Charles Bennett's version for Alfred Hitchcock's SABOTAGE (1936). The plot and characters are there, but Charles McDougall's BBC production is best approached on its own terms.

From the beginning we are plunged into the familiar world of BBC Victorian London - a miasma of darkened streets, thick mud and rickety buildings illuminated with blue-gray light. The interior of Verloc'; (Toby Jones's) seedy Soho shop is illuminated by dim yellow lights that suggest that the wares on offer are not the true reason for the shop's existence. And so it proves: Verloc is a double- agent working both for the Russians and the British, as well as presiding over meetings of an anarchist group attended by the Professor (Ian Hart) and Yundt (Christopher Fairbank), among others.

Director McDougall contrasts this nether-world with the stylish bourgeois world of the embassies, where the Russian consul Vladimir (David Dawson) sits behind a desk in a bejeweled room, the very epitome of surface respectability. Through such contrasts the production makes a pointed criticism of so-called "Victorian Values," where lower- and lower-middle class tradespeople like Verloc are employed to do the upper class's dirty work for them, and cannot really resist for fear of being socially exposed. 

Yet things take a much darker turn after the second episode when Verloc's plan to blow up the Royal Observatory at Greenwich goes horribly wrong, and his brother-in-law Stevie (Charlie Hamblett), an innocent young man with learning difficulties, is killed instead. We are made painfully aware of the true consequences of terrorism; it is not the perpetrators who suffer but civilians instead. Verloc tries his utmost to exonerate himself; but with metaphorical blood on his hands, he just seems like a coward unwilling (or unable) to take responsibility for his actions. He meets a violent end which seems somehow right in terms of the story's logic.

But the story has not finished yet: although the Greenwich bombing causes something of a stir in the press, as well as in Parliament, the Establishment manages to close ranks, with no one really being brought to justice for the crime. Assistant Commissioner Stone (Tom Goodman-Hill) preserves his reputation, enabling him to attend the best society parties, while Vladimir continues in his role as a Russian diplomat engaging in subversive activity. Verloc's death causes no more than a ripple of disquiet among these people; he might be gone, but there is always another double agent ready and willing to take his place, who might be equally dispensable in the future.

In the end we feel little else but a sense of frustration at an amoral world where former prisoners such as Michaelis (Tom Vaughan- Lawlor) are automatically suspected of committing further crimes, even though they have never been near the actual scene where the felony took place; and the ruling classes seem to continue the endless whirl of parties, balls, and other gatherings with little or no thought for others' suffering.

This is an angry production, one which castigates everyone with even a tenuous connection to state-sponsored terrorism for the crime of indifference, while suggesting that there is little or no solution to this problem. The cast are uniformly excellent, especially Hamblett as Stevie and Vicky McClure as Verloc's unfortunate spouse.

Life in Squares - the Lives of the Bloomsbury Group (BBC Two, 2015)

Remarkable Insight into the Life of an Epoch-Making Group of Artists

Although I did not expect it, I found LIFE IN SQUARES to be a remarkable piece of television drama, offering insights into the lives of the Bloomsbury Group that I had never previously thought of.

The title is a clever one, suggesting the bourgeois existence of the Stephen sisters Virginia and Vanessa (played by Lydia Leonard, Eve Best, Phoebe Fox, and Catherine McCormack across the three-episode structure) where they grew up in luxury, but also denoting imprisonment, both mental and emotional. David Roger's production designs, with elegant rooms heavily over-stuffed with curios of all historical periods, restrict the actors' freedom of movement; they are forced to move round chairs, or negotiate too many ornaments. When the Bloomsbury Group meet for their regular soirées, they do so in small, confined rooms, with little room to breathe.

This kind of goldfish-bowl lifestyle inevitably has a significant effect on the Group's life-choices. While dedicating themselves to ideals of artistic purity that transcend the mundane concerns of early twentieth century Britain, we wonder whether that represents nothing more than a form of futile release from conformity. This is especially summed up in Vanessa Bell's checkered career; a talented artist in her own right, she becomes so much subject to her husband Clive's (Sam Hoare/ Andrew Havill's) bidding that she ends up losing her artistic will. She embarks on a long-term relationship with Duncan Grant (James Norton/ Rupert Penry-Jones), but finds little emotional satisfaction there - despite his undying devotion to her, he remains a professed homosexual.

Virginia experiences equal pains. We know from the start that she is mentally fragile, but it seems that her sister's overbearing nature, coupled with the prevailing ideology that all wives should have children at that time, pushes her into marriage with Leonard Woolf (Al Weaver. Guy Henry), Although the two enjoy a tranquil and often fulfilling life, it is not what Virginia wants. She tries to find solace in her writing, but even that is not enough to prevent her from committing suicide at the outbreak of World War II. From this drama, we get the sense of terrible sorrow that such an innovator should have felt so hemmed in by social and mental pressures that she should take her own life.

The sisters' existence does not change, even when they sacrifice London for the country, and Vanessa's family moves into Charleston, an idealized retreat still open to general visitors. Life there becomes even more claustrophobic, especially when Duncan's boyfriend David Garnett (aka Bunny) (Ben Lloyd-Hughes/ Jack Davenport) moves in. Vanessa is often forced into the role of unwilling peacemaker; at length she ends up doing something that she felt she must do, but ends up causing her lasting mental pain and suffering.

What makes LIFE IN SQUARES such a game-changing piece is that its sympathy extends to male and female characters alike. Would-be critics like Roger Fry (Elliott Cowan) are trying to make their way in the world as they pronounce on the effect of Modernism on the post-1918 universe, but they appear to lack the conviction to do so. This is chiefly due to their environment; the hothouse world of London (and provincial) society is so insulated from from worldly affairs that it ends up feeding on itself.

Brilliantly directed by Simon Kaijser from a script by Amanda Coe, LIFE IN SQUARES offers important material for reflection on the power as well as the limitations of the imagination, and how we must remain mindful of ourselves and our well-being rather than subjecting ourselves to the often restrictive dictates of prevailing socio-economic convention.

Dickensian, created by Tony Jordan, BBC One, December 2015 - January 2016

Thoroughly Enjoyable Serialization Inspired by Dickens's Novels

Produced by Tony Jordan (who also wrote seven of the twenty episodes), formerly of EASTENDERS, DICKENSIAN could be superficially described as a nineteenth century transposition of the BBC's popular soap opera. The action takes place in an unspecified London street teeming with people - beggars, hawkers, sellers, pedestrians - and lined with shops. A pub ("The Three Cripples") provides a focus for much of the action just like the Queen Vic in the soap. The protagonists originate from a variety of socio-economic backgrounds and interact with one another on cold winter days, where the snow mostly lies thick on the ground or falls lightly. The only thing missing from DICKENSIAN that would give it the authentic EASTENDERS touch is the familiar line of dialogue where one character wants to "have a li'le talk (tawk)" with another.

Frivolity apart, DICKENSIAN is a highly entertaining mélange of various plots, all moving outwards from the central incident taking place in episode one - the murder of Jacob Marley (Peter Firth). Inspector Bucket (Stephen Rea) of "the Detective" (Scotland Yard had not yet been created) pursues the case with relentless persistence, despite occasional misfortunes (such as putting his back out). With his Sarff Lundun accent and quiet manners, he has a knack of making people talk without resorting to violence.

In a subplot, Mr. Barbary (Adrian Rawlins) tries to maintain a facade of gentility despite being in considerable hock to Marley and Scrooge (Ned Dennehy). He has two daughters - one a perpetual spinster (Alexandra Moon), the other a flighty spendthrift (Sophie Rundle) in love with a penniless soldier (Ben Starr).

Miss Havisham (Tuppence Middleton) has inherited her father's fortune as well as control of the family brewery, leaving her brother Arthur (Joseph Quinn) with a small inheritance. Resentful of her power - which he believes is unjust - he collaborates with Meriwether Compeyson (Tom Weston-Jones) to try and recover it. Compeyson is a lip-smackingly convincing villain, able to turn on the charm where necessary as well as commit unspeakably evil deeds (such as drowning Miss Havisham's dog).

A galaxy of lesser characters revolve round these plots: Mrs. Gamp (Pauline Collins) sets her amorous sights on Silas Wegg (Christopher Fairbank); Mrs. Bumble (Caroline Quentin) tries to fulfill her social ambitions despite her husband's (Richard Ridings's) physical and mental inertia; and Fagin (Anton Lesser) tries every trick in the book to keep Bill Sikes (Mark Stanley) under control. Oh, and we must not forget the Cratchit family trying to continue an edenic existence under the most trying of circumstances.

Each one of the twenty half-hour episodes intertwines these plots, creating a world of perpetual motion wherein something always seems to be going on. It is a tribute to Jordan's production that he has managed to portray mid-nineteenth century London as a teeming city riddled with corruption, yet with some elements of kindness thrown in.

Purists might object to the series on the grounds that it is not "faithful" to Dickens's novels in the sense of reproducing the plots. Rather it could be described as a mash-up of all the most memorable characters from a variety of texts (GREAT EXPECTATIONS, OLIVER TWIST, PICKWICK PAPERS, and so on). Yet the series is very Dickensian in outlook: many of the novels were originally written in serial form, and Dickens's readers used to eagerly await the next installment to find out what happened to their favorite characters. This is precisely the feeling we get from DICKENSIAN.

Mr. Holmes, BBC Films/ AI-Film, 19 June 2015

Bill Condon's latest film offers a fascinating take on an elderly Sherlock Holmes (Ian McKellen), who has by now retired from professional detective work in the belief that he has lost his capacity to solve cases. Being over ninety now, he cannot remember why that should have happened; but with the help of young Roger (Milo Parker) plus a series of objects possessing particular significance to Holmes's past, the great detective actually finds out.

Jeffrey Hatcher's screenplay offers a fascinating take on the limits of logic. Holmes has spent his life relying on it, but as he becomes more and more involved in that past case, he realizes that humanity possesses other important qualities - emotion, for instance. For the majority of his lengthy life, Holmes has repressed that side to his character, condemning him to a life of isolation. He only discovers its value during his last days.

More generally, MR. HOLMES invites us to reflect on Holmes's status as a character in western popular cultures. Although a fictional character - penned by Conan Doyle - the film treats him as a living being who objects strongly to the late Dr. Watson's representation in the stories. The Holmes of this film hates a pipe and never wore a deerstalker; these were both affectations provided by Watson for the readers' entertainment. Taking these comments into account, we wonder whether there is any real distinction to draw between the "real" and the "fictional" Holmes. Condon intensifies this feeling through the chocolate-box settings, all green fields, shiny locomotives and impeccably clad villagers walking in the back of the frame. In truth, the Britain of 1947 (where the action begins) was a shabby place, with people dressed dowdily and most motor vehicles left over from the prewar era.

Having set up such an intriguing premise, it's a shame that the film lacks the courage to follow it through. Holmes's housekeeper Mrs. Munro (Laura Linney), who hitherto has been jealous of the detective in the belief that he has somehow "corrupted" her son Roger, undergoes a change of heart and decides to look after the old man. The film's subplot involving a mysterious Japanese man (Hiroyuki Sanada) makes little or no sense at all, while some of the visual devices - such as the sign of "Hiroshima Station" (in English) plastered across an anonymous-looking building are simply amateurish. In the end we feel that MR. HOLMES is something of a lost opportunity, its story being sacrificed on the wheel of a happy ending.

Succinct if Slightly Previous Introduction to Beckett's Work, BBC World News, 25 December 2015

Based on public knowledge of his television career, Richard Wilson might seem the last person to be given the job of introducing a Beckett program. The boorish Victor Meldrew in ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE (1990-2001) - a character who wouldn't recognize art if it slapped him in the face.

In truth Wilson has enjoyed a long theatrical career as an actor and director of plays new and old. He played Krapp in KRAPP'S LAST TAPE at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield - the culmination of a lifelong interest in Beckett's work.

The problem with Beckett is that critics have been obsessed with pigeon-holing him. Wilson traced the origins and growth of his reputation in Britain and Europe; during the Fifties and Sixties Beckett was always cast as an "Absurdist" writer whose work was quite literally about nothing. Few recognized his debt to popular cultures, especially music-hall. Ian McKellen, who played in a long-running revival of GODOT in London and New York with Patrick Stewart, brought out this aspect of Beckett's work; in a filmed extract from the revival, we understood how funny he could be.

On the other hand, there were others who described Beckett in rather precious terms as someone preoccupied with "the human condition," leading us to speculate on "which humans," and "what condition"? Sometimes it's best to listen to the author: GODOT is about two people waiting for something, not about existentialism or any other late twentieth century philosophy.

We have to admire the strength with which some actors cope with the physical demands required by Beckett's work. Lisa Dwan has had to cope with the onerous experience of NOT I, in which only her mouth is visible to spectators. This places particular demands on her vocal abilities. The fact she has performed the one-person role so successfully emphasizes her proficiency as an actor.

The Young Montalbano: The Man who Loved Funerals (L'uomo che andava appresso ai funerali), RAI, 14 September 2015

"L'uomo che Andava Appresso ai Funerali" concentrates on two deaths - a lonely hermit with a penchant for attending funerals not his own; and the wife of a bourgeois builder whose personal life turns out to be more complicated than might be first assumed. The plot develops in leisurely fashion with plenty of pauses for various scenic incidentals - shots of the Sicilian coast in the late afternoon, pans of the sylvan landscape, and establishing shots of the sleepy villages built in ancient limestone. Director Gianluca Tavarelli seems more preoccupied with situation rather than incident - even in a sleepy town there are dark deeds taking place behind the paneled front doors.

To be honest, the scenic incidentals are more entertaining than the story. The sight of Montalbano (Michele Riondino) finishing off his plate of spaghetti at the local restaurant, accompanied by a glass of sparkling wine, reminds us of the importance of food to any Mediterranean culture. Montalbano takes regular breaks in the local bar - not to drink alcohol, but to partake of black coffee and cogitate on the cases at the same time. Time is more relaxed here: cases get solved at the end, but the investigating officer seems to take a more leisurely approach compared to his northern European equivalent.

Tavarelli is fond of brief moments where the plot is suspended briefly and the focus centers instead on emotions. When Catarella (Fabrizio Pizzuto) sees a beautiful woman entering the police station, he is smitten by love; he stares at her, and the camera pans in slow motion towards her as a love-song plays on the soundtrack. Were he in a position to do so, he would try his best to make a pass at her. Likewise Montalbano, during one of the more rocky moments in his relationship with Livia (Sarah Felberbaum) is shown in a two-shot in bed to the sound of an Italian ballad. Perhaps the episode's most memorable shot occurs when Montalbano and Livia sit opposite one another at a table; through a clever use of lighting Tavarelli suggests that there is a partition between the two of them. This is not a physical but an emotional partition. Although their differences are resolved at the end, we still suspect that the course of their true love will never run smooth in the future.

Perhaps not the most memorable episode of the Sicilian detective series, but nonetheless it has its moments.

The World According to Kenny Everett, ITV1, 13 December 2015

It was interesting - or perhaps more than a coincidence - that this ITV profile of the late DJ should have been broadcast so soon after BBC Four's rerun of the bio-drama BEST POSSIBLE TASTE (2012) which at least tried to examine the complexities of this incredibly innovative yet shy personality.

Verity Maidlow's documentary took a far more straightforward approach by chronicling the major episodes in Everett's life interspersed with largely flattering memories from celebs such as Chris Tarrant, Billy Connolly, Roger Taylor (Queen) and Steve Norman (Spandau Ballet) as well as the DJs sister and ex-wife.

We only learned that Everett was a fundamentally retiring personality who invented his wacky radio - and later television - persona as a means of covering up his shortcomings, whether psychological or sexual. It was only towards the end of his life that he finally came out, ending years of speculation (as well as agony) about his sexuality. In many ways his media persona resembled that of another famous repressed homosexual, Kenneth Williams; both were unbelievably talented, yet chose to hide themselves behind a variety of vocal masks, especially while being interviewed as themselves.

Everett's chief contribution to media history was not only achieved through radio; his series THE KENNY EVERETT VIDEO SHOW (for ITV) and the KENNY EVERETT TELEVISION PROGRAMME (for the BBC) attracted high audiences and critical plaudits. But neither of them were stylistically quite as innovative as the celebs liked to claim; the combination of zany humor and video trickery had been part of Spike Milligan's Q series for the BBC since the mid-Sixties. Everett took that tradition and rebooted it for a younger audience in the late Seventies and Eighties.

Short on insight, but long on video clips from his work in all media, THE WORLD ACCORDING TO KENNY EVERETT proved mildly diverting.

Rudolf Nureyev: Dance to Freedom, BBC Two, 19 December 2015

Combining re-enacted drama with testimony from Nureyev's ex- colleagues and friends in the Kirov Ballet, as well as in Paris, Richard Curson Smith tells the story of the virtuoso's defection from the Soviet Union during the company's first European tour.

Ever since his earliest days at the Kirov, Nureyev was always a rebel. Convinced of his own abilities as a dancer, he seldom listened to his peers in an organization that was stiflingly hierarchical in structure. He regularly quarreled with the ballet- master, but managed to make something of a name for himself in supporting roles. Originally he was not slated to go to Paris and London on the Kirov's first European tour, but a combination of chicanery and sheer persistence ensured that he eventually went.

The Soviet authorities were particularly jumpy about the whole scheme. They had KGB agents shadowing most of the company and reporting on their behavior, especially Nureyev, whose activities included regular socializing with newly-discovered French friends. He made friends with rich spoiled girl Clara Saint; and the two of them led his minders a merry dance round the Parisian clubs and bars.

The defection itself is full of questions. As Curson Smith stages it, Nureyev was on his way with his fellow-dancers to the London dates, when he decided to escape his minders in a daring bid for freedom and subsequently claim political asylum. Whether this was a spontaneous act or an elaborately planned scheme remains unclear: the documentary refuses to provide us with a clear-cut answer.

In the end Noreyev was offered an engagement in Paris with the Grand Ballet du Marquis de Cuevas, but stayed only a few months, violently disliking their production of "The Sleeping Beauty." He did not return to the Soviet Union until 1987.

Curson Smith's production is meticulous in its research - so meticulous, in fact, that the narrative tends to sag in parts. There are almost too many reminiscences, which often repeat themselves. At the end we are left with several unresolved questions: was Nureyev actually politically aware, or did he simply want to escape from the Kirov, having exhausted all his creative potential with that company? And did the KGB actively sanction his defection, based on the belief that it was politically more expedient to eliminate a potentially subversive force from their jurisdiction altogether?

Ballrooms and Ballerinas: Dance at the BBC, BBC Four, 13 December 2015

DANCE AT THE BBC looks at the origins, growth and development of dance-related programs since the mid-Fifties to the dawn of the Noughties. There are some familiar historical landmarks, such as the presence of COME DANCING in the schedules for almost the entire period covered by the documentary, and the evolution of dance troupes from Pan's People to Hot Gossip.

The most intriguing aspect of Andy Hall's documentary is the archive material. We see clips of Victor Sylvester presenting TELEVISION DANCE CLUB, which ran till the mid-Sixties; the camera-work looks stilted, but we have to admire the presenter's enthusiasm as he offers instruction in traditional ballroom dance as well as the twist. There are archive clips of classical ballet productions such as SLEEPING BEAUTY, THE NUTCRACKER and THE RAKE'S PROGRESS featuring luminaries such as Dames Alicia Markova and Margot Fonteyn. And there are clips from archival documentaries focusing on subjects as diverse as the weight of Russian-made compared to British-made dancing shoes and the experience of young boys studying at the Royal Ballet School. John Noakes willingly makes a fool of himself for BLUE PETER, while The Goodies take the mickey out of the couples performing on COME DANCING.

The material from the Seventies and Eighties is perhaps less interesting, if only because the BBC did not seem as interested in dance during those periods as they had been in the past. While there were documentaries covering different forms of dance - disco or break-dancing - the focus seemed more anthropological rather than artistic; viewers were being told why people embraced these forms rather than taking them up for themselves.

Inevitably some of the lazy historical clichés reappeared as part of the narrative. Dance became more sexy in the "Swinging Sixties" as a result of a relaxation in censorship laws, and became more and more raunchy as time progressed. The fact that dances were equally explicit earlier on in the century - for example, in Weimar Berlin - was conveniently overlooked.

In the end the narrative rather petered out, ending with a look at the revival of STRICTLY COME DANCING (2004-), which spawned a renewed interest in ballroom dancing. The fact that ballet continues to be a staple of the BBC's schedules (especially on BBC Four), was conveniently overlooked. Nonetheless director Hall should be congratulated on a fruitful trawl through the archives.

Dance Rebels: A Story of Modern Dance, BBC Four, 13 December 2015

Bernadette O'Brien set herself a difficult task in this documentary; to tell the story of modern dance since the early twentieth century in a ninety minute slot. She did an excellent job, combining archive footage with re-creations of some of the most seminal dances performed by students at the Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance.

Some of the archive footage was quite fascinating. We saw the only extant film of Isadore Duncan performing in 1917 in front of an admiring audience, as well as interviews with influential figures such as Rudolf Laban. Modern dance represented a reaction against what was perceived as the dead hand of tradition cast by classical ballet, where moved had become stereotyped and dances were performed mostly for the sake of it. Duncan and Laban wanted to bring the art up to date through innovative movements, and choreographies embodying current issues, using the body to tell stories. Sometimes their efforts caused controversy, but it re-invigorated dance, as well as inspiring others to follow their example.

In the postwar period American innovators such as Martha Graham and Merce Cunningham pushed the boundaries still further, concentrating not only on the body but on divorcing movement and music. With his longtime collaborator (and lover) John Cage, Cunningham developed dance forms that had no need of accompaniments; they were often developed separately and brought together only a day or so before the first night.

In Britain modern dance innovators were spearheaded by Michael Clark, whose work turned away from classical or traditional sources and embraced new musical movements and/or fashions such as punk. Once again it seemed as if he deliberately courted controversy, but by doing so he demonstrated modern dance's potential to expand in any way it chose.

The program ended somewhat peremptorily by interviewing several contemporary British choreographers. To be honest, their work, although creditable, lacked the chutzpah associated with their more celebrated forbears; but we had to admire their efforts to broaden the genre in different directions.

The content made one omission: we wondered why the work of Marie Rambert was not surveyed. Perhaps she was not exclusively devoted to modern dance. Nonetheless this was a thoroughly informative and well constructed piece, an eye-opener for anyone not really conversant with the genre.

And Then There Were None - BBC One, 26-28 December 2015

Others have remarked on the way in which Sarah Phelps's screenplay transforms Agatha Christie's best-selling novel - which has endured a long life as a play, as well as being repeatedly remade for the screen - into a three-hour epic full of thunder and lightning, both meteorological as well as psychological.

In its latest incarnation, the novel works brilliantly as a Gothic thriller that takes the lid off the civilized veneer of a group of Brits (and one Irishmen) and exposes the guilty passions lurking underneath. General John MacArthur (Sam Neill), an ostensible pillar of the community, cannot forget the time during World War One when he shot one of his officers in cold blood for making love to his wife. Emily Brent (Miranda Richardson), a spinster trying to lead a morally pure existence with plenty of prayer at night, willfully contributed to one of her "companions" throwing herself under a train by refusing her assistance during times of need. Dr. Armstrong (Toby Stephens) has been traumatized by the experience of tending to the wounded during World War One, to such an extent that he was guilty of professional negligence after the conflict had ended.

All ten protagonists have similar secrets to conceal; as the drama progresses, directors Basi Akpabio, Rebecca Keane and Craig Viveiros expose every one of them, just like peeling the skin off a pudding. What we discover is that they are all psychologically disturbed in some way; the visual effects such as the thunderstorm, the flashing lights, the rolling waves surrounding the island (on which they are all marooned), and the biting wind, are physical manifestations of their inner turmoil.

Viewed from this perspective, what might seem visually or verbally excessive - for example, Stephens's capacity to overact during times of extreme stress - is entirely justified. This version of AND THEN THERE WERE NONE explores the dark recesses of the human psyche to expose the protagonists' bestial natures. The 1939 setting is significant; in the year the Second World War broke out, everyone begins by behaving complacently, as if believing that their class- conscious attitudes would never alter. By the end, we understand just how precarious British society at that time actually was; few people had ever managed to come to terms with the horrors of the previous war, and the forthcoming conflict would only exacerbate their pain.

Sometimes Phelps's script seems somewhat anachronistic, with attitudes redolent of the contemporary world rather than pre-Second World War society. Yet the decision to adopt this strategy is justified as a means of helping us understand our past, as well as realizing just how difficult, if not impossible, it can be to conceal our sins. A memorable adaptation.