High Drama

I have just seen the most extraordinary advert. It's for some kind of antibacterial spray or something, I don't know what, I was laughing too hard to notice. In the ad, there's the usual voiceover about how bacteria from food is transmitted on chopping surfaces. Then a mother hands her baby a carrot baton that has been chopped on the same surface as some raw chicken. In the baby's hand, the carrot stick turns into a raw chicken leg. What I totally love about the ad is that in the corner, in small letters, you are assured that this is a "dramatisation". You read it here first: there are no germs fearsome enough to turn a carrot into a chicken. Yet. But until they develop that power, just in case, use Dettol.

And I Owe It All To Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage

Remember this? Yes, only a fortnight ago the Gender Analyzer was convinced to the tune of 76% that I was a bloke. Today, it is 95% sure that I am a woman.

Can it be coincidence that for the last few days I have blogged exclusively about bad sex, X Factor and Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage?

X Factor: Hallelujah!

Word reaches me that the X Factor winner will be recording a cover of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' for their debut single. Putting aside that being a bit like the Strictly winner doing a showdance to Wagner, it does help one massively in the dilemma of who to vote for. The choice of 'Hallelujah' does point heavily towards an anticipated Diana win. Here she is mutilating 'Yellow'. She could do that to 'Hallelujah' too - "Remember h'when I moved in yeeew..."



But wouldn't it be much more fun to hand 'Hallelujah' over to softcore R'n'B (rhythm n boredom) quartet JLS (or as I always think of them, John Lewis Partnership)? Here they are paying homage to the Fab 4:



Or, my own particular favourite choice in this context, Eoghan Quigg. According to the X Factor website, Eoghan "grew up in Derry, Northern Ireland and is currently studying for his GCSEs... Singing since the age of two along to Disney cartoons, Eoghan would love to be the male equivalent of an Irish Leona Lewis. He found his voice whilst singing with the school choir and from then on, sang all the lead roles in the school musicals. Justin Timberlake is Eoghan’s idol and he got to the finals of Irish School Stars in their Eyes two years ago."

Ignoring the startling news that Justin Timberlake got to the finals of Irish Schools Stars In Their Eyes two years ago, Eoghan would seem to be the perfect choice to carry off the depth of Leonard Cohen's lyrics. Here he is with the equally profound Never Forget by Take That:



GCSEs? 11 plus, surely. Anyway, game over, he has my vote. I cannot wait to see him sing 'Hallelujah'.

And finally, a reminder of how it should be done:

Please Watch This Film

Panorama: Addicted to Aid, November 24th 2008. You can probably only watch in the UK, and only for up to a week from transmission, ie until Sunday November 30th. It's about aid in Africa, and from my (albeit limited) experience it is bang on the money, as it were. The last few seconds are particularly thought-provoking.

...And I owe it all to Arthur Leone PR

I have been blogging, on various sites, for five and a half years. That's a lot of blogging. (Although, if I believe Malcolm Gladwell, it is slowly turning me into a genius, so I can't complain.) People often ask me why I blog, and I tell them: for fun. To practise writing. To feel part of the world when in reality I am sitting alone at home all day. To build up a lovely community of readers, who I can then flog books to. What I rarely say is: so that people will give me stuff. This is because people don't give me stuff, though I sweat blood and get blisters on my fingers to entertain them day in day out for five and a half years (see above) completely voluntarily and unpaid, and I will totally accept gifts and cash sent via my agent David Godwin at David Godwin Associates as a token of your appreciation, though please also send the receipt so I can swap it for something I actually want.

Anyway: enter Arthur Leone PR. A few weeks ago I happened to mention Dirty Dancing: The Musical on my blog, and to say thank you, they were kind enough to offer me two tickets to go and see it, though this did come with a veiled rebuke for not having given it its proper name: Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. Just for having mentioned it! (And can I just say: Jimmy Choo, Tiffany, Apple (that's computers, not fruit, though I will accept fruit, I am not fussy), Porsche, Prada...)

So anyway, last night, off I went with a dear friend to see Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. From here on in, dear reader, there will be spoilers. However, I am not too worried about this, as I am fairly sure that you divide neatly into two camps: people who have seen Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Screen, and therefore already know everything that happens in Dirty Dancing: the Classic Story On Stage, and those of you who have never seen Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Screen, have no intention of ever seeing Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Screen Or Stage, and therefore couldn't give a monkey's nut about spoilers.

And to be fair to those folk at Arthur Leone PR, Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is not really a musical in the purest sense. This is to say that nobody breaks into song to describe the innermost feelings in their hearts. This is slightly disappointing: it does mean that there is no "I Carried A Watermelon" tango, no "Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner" Cha Cha Cha. On the other hand, this decision does save Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage from being really, really crap. You still get some on-stage singing, mainly set up as 'performance' at Kellermen's (the holiday camp where the play is set), and the rest of it is off-stage, either recorded or with the cast doing creditable impersonations of the original songs off the soundtrack. The choice to go au naturel with the music does mean that the eighties stuff off the soundtrack (She's Like The Wind, Hungry Eyes and of course I've Had The Time Of My life) sticks out miles, just like it did in the movie, and as with the movie I was left wondering why the hell Johnny Castle sets his final valedictory performance to a style of music that will not be invented until at least twenty years after the story is set. On the other hand, he does keep banging on about his exciting new ideas, so maybe that explains it. Me, I'd have been happy with a pachanga.

Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is in the main a faithful representation of the original Dirty Dancing, as you would expect. It is, after all, The Classic Story On Stage. The cast have been chosen and made up to look like the original characters (Baby's wig is particularly brilliant), key scenes from the movie are acted out almost precisely as they are in the film, key dance routines also. And this is all to the good. There would have been rioting and people ripping out the seats had Baby carried a cantaloupe, sat in a circle, and if *that* lift had been omitted. In fact where the production starts to go wrong is where it decides to veer away from the movie, in, for example, the alarming "Civil Rights" sequence where a black cast member unaccountably sings in front of a rear projection of Martin Luther King for no reason whatsoever. Did Dr King dance? Did he dance dirtily? He was a church man. I think not. Also, upon consultation with my dear friend and companion, we are both convinced that nowhere in the original movie are the words "there's a lot of power in these wrists" uttered by Johnny Castle during the lift practice sequence. Because if they were, I would have been sure to respond, as I did audibly on the night, "I'm sure there are, mate." Also, in the movie, I am pretty certain that Johnny and Baby kiss at some point, probably prior to them having sex. (As an aside, the sex in Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is kind of gross and projected onto screens at the rear so that you can have a really good look at it. Do not take your young kids.) There is no kissing in Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. Why? Halitosis? Cold Sores? Incurable phobia of lip contact?

So you don't go to Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage for fresh interpretation, surprises, or snogging (though it might be worth a visit if you are a die-hard Martin Luther King fan.) So why do you go? Well, for the dancing. The dancing is spectacular. I have never seen anything like it in any musical I have seen, and believe me I have seen a lot of musicals. Like Sarah Palin, I may even be able to claim to have seen "all of them". The cast are incredible - special mention has to go to the girl playing Penny (the one who gets "knocked up" by "Robbie the creep" and thus precipitates the collapse of Baby's relationship with her father, leading Baby to be seated in a corner) who is about seven feet tall, one inch wide, and can insouciantly kick her ankles behind her head. The routines are fabulously choreographed, and intelligently too, allowing for contextual variation between people who "can dance" or "can't dance" while still making all the dancing enjoyable to watch. My only criticism of the dancing was that there was not enough of it. Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage, is pretty average in every respect except the dancing, but when it comes to the dancing, it is exceptional. Therefore it would seem like a good idea to topload the dancing, especially in the second half where the plot gets murky and a bit dull. Incidentally, Strictly fans, there is a lot of recognisable Latin dancing in this, and so you are primed to particularly enjoy it. I would go so far as to say that if you love Strictly you're in with a good chance of loving Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage, so run, don't walk etc.

On the other hand, if you love convincing American accents or for that matter convincing acting of any variety, if indeed actors being able to act is a bit of a deal breaker for you, you might want to consider staying away. The cast have been chosen for their dancing, and it shows in the best and worst possible way. Allow me to be blunt about this: a hell of a lot (though not all) of people on that stage can in no way act, and sadly amongst their number is lead male, Johnny Castle. Johnny Castle - whose dancing is undeniably brilliant - may be one of the worst actors I have ever seen. Every line he speaks goes beyond unconvincing into a whole new realm. Lovely companion and I got to the point where we wept tears of laughter every time he opened his mouth. As did the people in the row in front. Not only was it impossible to believe that he and Baby were in love, it was impossible to believe that Baby could even tolerate being in the same room with him, in fact I would go so far to say that it was impossible to believe that he was an actual human being, let alone a would-be gigolo trying to escape from a humdrum life as a house-painter through the medium of dance. (To be fair, anybody would have to be a pretty impressive actor to convince on that score.) The moment when Johnny Castle appears for his final dance - just before rescuing Baby from that corner - may be the most unintentionally hilarious stage moment I have ever witnessed, and I will not elaborate, so that you can appreciate it in all its glory.

So the obvious question remains: did I have the time of my life? Hell yes. Just not entirely in the way that the show's producers (or indeed Arthur Leone PR) might have wished. If you are the kind of person who loves reveling in so-bad-it's-good, and who will appreciate some extraordinary dancing on the side, I urge you to go right away to Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. If, on the other hand, you veer towards the ept rather than inept in your performance standards, and are apt to tut and roll your eyes when Baby's Father changes accent for the thirtieth time of the night (though to be fair, we got the understudy), perhaps just stick to the original movie, as acted by actors, not dancers.

Bad Sex: We Have A Winner!

Finally! The Guardian has published extracts from all this year's shortlisted contenders for the Literary Review Bad Sex Award. Always my favourite award of the year, the chance to revel in some prose that's purple in every respect, often from some of the world's greatest writers (John Updike won a lifetime achievement award this year) which makes us hacks feel so much better. I have to say, though, that the quality over the last few years has been going up, which is to say down, which is to say that the bad sex really does not hit the embarrassment G spot in the way it used to. In fact some of this year's extracts (notably Simon Sebag Montefiore's) barely qualify as "unconvincing, perfunctory, embarrassing or redundant" in the words of the prize's founder, Auberon Waugh. Could it be that the Bad Sex Award has actually worked and made people write sex that is actually good? I do sincerely hope not.

Having said that, Rachel Johnson is arguably a worthy winner for sentences such as Almost screaming after five agonizingly pleasurable minutes, I make a grab, to put him, now angrily slapping against both our bellies, inside, but he holds both by arms down, and puts his tongue to my core, like a cat lapping up a dish of cream so as not to miss a single drop. Ugh. Do people really think of cats when having sex? But I do think that Ann Allestree has the right to feel robbed when she made such a sterling effort with 'Open your thighs,' he urged as he parted the folds of her vulva. 'You are so moist down there.' He stroked and probed her with two fingers as she felt her blood waken. He raised himself to his knees and bent to roll his tongue around her weeping orifice. Male readers: do not be fooled into thinking that words such as vulva, moist or (dear god no) "weeping orifice" are going to get many women's blood to waken. And Kathy Lette deserves a shout for He broke free with muscular ease, unhooked my bra with composed expertise, found my nipple and flicked his tongue back and forth until it went hard. His towel fell away. Sebastian's erect member was so big I mistook it for some sort of monument in the centre of a town. I almost started directing traffic around it. He rolled me sideways on to my back and, in one flowing motion, my tracksuit and panties were down, lassoing one ankle. His fingers edged up my thigh and then plunged inside me. All sounds a bit painful to me.

Congratulations to all involved, anyhow. I am weirdly jealous, there is some pretty grim sex in Gods Behaving Badly after all. As it happens, I met the Bed Sex Award organisers at a party a couple of years ago and begged to be on the jury one year, and they said they would consider it, as they backed, white-faced, from the room. Perhaps I will jog their memories. Or flick my tongue back and forth across their memories like a hungry cat...

Strictlywatch 2008: Week 10 Results

You see, the purpose of watching the results show is not to find out who went off, the internet will tell you that. (It was Jodie and Ian, losing out to Lisa and Brendan.) It's to discover that Rachel's brothers are dead ringers for Phil and Grant Mitchell. No wonder she always gets the best dresses, the choice order in the show, the top marks. She's obviously threatened to send the heavies round. As the Mitchells would put it, it's FAM'lee, INnit.

Never Mind The Strictly Come X Factor!

So I couldn't be bothered to write separate posts about all of last night's TV. So sue me.

Strictly up first, chronologically speaking. Of course, I mooted a boycott due to Sergeantgate, but it's hard to maintain a boycott when you're alone at home of a cold Saturday evening and it's just there. Strictly this week seemed to have been designed with the intent of distracting truculent bloggers from writing about John Sergeant. By which I mean that you might switch on with the full intent of writing about John Sergeant, but it's bloody hard to stay focused when Tess Daly is wearing a black bondage boob tube with a tablecloth tucked in the front. (Later in the evening, Simon Amstell on Never Mind the Buzzcocks quizzed guest Alesha Dixon (still Britain's most perfect female) on her views about Tess being "dead behind the eyes", to which I would reply: so would you be if forced to dress as Undertaker Barbie.) Within two dances, the judges had nearly drawn blood in an argument over Christine and Matthew's unremarkable [insert whatever dance they were doing here; cannot be bothered to look it up.] Overmarking Rachel Steven's Foxtrot with four perfect tens was a late salvo to encourage viewer outrage away from the JS target, but none of this was ever going to work against Kristina Rihanoff's tears of farewell. "I admire you, I respect you, I adore you," she told John. Angry viewer from London allowed herself a little snivel.

But no time for mawkishness, because it was straight over to ITV for X Factor: the Take That special.

First question: am I the only person to have noticed that Take That's new single sounds exactly like Coldplay? Consider the evidence:



Also, that Mark can't stop wearing hats: which is celebrity shorthand for being bald.

Unexpectedly I totally loved the X Factor Take That special, mainly because it turns out that Take That songs are versatile / bland enough (delete according to inclination) to be adapted to any number of different styles, so everyone put in good performances, rather than the uncomfortable constipated karaoke that so often results. The other reasons were that they just seem so damn happy to be there, that I unexpectedly have a crush on Howard (I think: possibly Jason, one of ones who doesn't sing, anyway, and didn't take part in the rehearsal process because they have nothing to contribute), and also, after all the John Sergeant bitching, that it is quite refreshing to have a programme where all the contestants are fresh-faced ingenues that it is impossible to be horrible about, and the nastiness is mostly contained in the endless Simon-Louis war (Team Simon!). Oh, and in the results show, they had both Same Difference, recast as Sandy and Danny do High School Musical with BIG EXPRESSIVE FACES, *and* the singing albino robot butler Rhydian, performing their new singles.

Finally I watched Never Mind the Buzzcocks, in the course of which I discovered that Kelly Jones from the Stereophonics is a tosser (which I already knew) but knows it and doesn't care (which I didn't know, and makes me like him a whole lot better.)

Venus

At some point today I will blog about last night's television (Strictly! X Factor! Eddington and Einstein! Buzzcocks! Not all of which I will necessarily elaborate on, but talk about a top-class route to midnight.) But before I do, a preview: one of my favourite films of the last few years, Venus, is on Channel 4 tonight at 10.05. Although scripted by Hanif Kureishi and starring Peter O'Toole, this was largely overlooked on release, probably because it is about old people (boring / gross). Please don't let this put you off.

The main thrust of the story is the infatuation that ageing thesp Peter O'Toole develops for an unremarkable young girl, Jodie Whittaker. It's her very unremarkableness which is so seductive to O'Toole, who is mesmerised by her insouciant youth, a quality that he once had but can never get back as he passes his days trapped in his stubbornly decaying body, reading obituaries of his former friends and colleagues. His sensual lust for her is our pathway into understanding how vibrant O'Toole's inner life still is despite all outward appearances. His spirit is willing, but his flesh is weak.

What for me provides the beauty of this film are O'Toole's friendships, with Whittaker's uncle (Leslie Phillips) - a fellow thesp - and with his ex-wife, Vanessa Redgrave, with whom his relationship has passed beyond love, beyond bitterness, and into a sort of unquestioning interreliance which can only come from a lifetime of shared history. These characters may be old but they are not dead yet, and their emotional complexity, the depth which comes from their long life experience, their insistence on living every last ounce of life whilst facing death, makes you wonder why we spend all our filmic energy examining the comparatively shallow lives of the young and naive.

The film is incredibly moving and extremely funny and beautifully performed, as you'd expect from the likes of O'Toole, Phillips and Redgrave, though newcomer Whittaker doesn't let the side down either. Very highly recommended for a wintry night in.

Strictlywatch 2008: The Guardianista View

From the letters page of today's Guardian:

The Strictly Come Dancing affair (Quick, quick, slow - and stop, as Sergeant quits Strictly, November 20) throws up some interesting issues with regard to the evaluation of culture - should its public value be assessed by a group of experts or more democratically? Experts often find accommodation of Joe (or Jo) Public and the democratisation of decision-making processes problematic as they reckon that there are important educational and aesthetic meanings underpinning worthwhile art which can be learned, a legitimate culture that they represent which reflects their expertise and understanding, hence they literally know best.

Firstly, this fails to accommodate how culture changes and how meaning cannot be controlled by experts. Secondly, although traditionally art has been seen as in opposition to entertainment, it has always appropriated aspects (from Niccolò Paganini's virtuoso displays on the violin in the early 19th century to Carsten Höller's slide installation in the Tate Modern in 2006) muddying differentiation and clarity. Thirdly, to assume that entertainment is not serious art and therefore of lesser importance fails to appreciate its subversive and humbling qualities, which can be likened to carnivalesque parody, which in this particular instance may be Jo Public's understanding of its role. And who is to say that this is not legitimate use of public money?

Dr Paul Clements

London

So we're all clear now? Excellent. Let that be the final word on the subject.