Category: Rants

  • The Light That Burns Twice As Bright Burns For Half As Long

    A Warning for British People: I’m going to annoy you immsnely by describing a series of a British thing as a “season”, because that’s more or less how it works here in America, even for British shows. That is, in fact, now it used to work in the UK as well, but at some point we shifted over and you’re welcome to do the research on the history of that if you like, but I shan’t be covering it here. Anyway, feel free to whinge at me for using an American word. If it makes you feel any better I’ll be using British spellings for words like “analyse” and “colour”. I’m sure you’ll find an American spelling in there somewhere for you to get grouchy about, but at the end of the day the spelling I choose to use is still going to be accurate somewhere, and that’s alright for me.

    One common thing I get told by my New American Friends when I introduce them to my favourite British comedy shows is, “Wow, the seasons are so short!”. And, to their credit, they’re absolutely right – the average length of a season of a British show, sitcom in particular, is usually between six and eight episodes. The problem with their statement is that it’s usually said as a complaint. Which is daft.

    When it comes to television, Americans are spoilt. They are. They get anywhere between twelve and twenty-four episodes a season, regardless of genre. Almost every successful American television show finds its way into international markets. Shows that are successful elsewhere in the world wind up getting remade just for them. It’s perhaps a little understandable that they get a little snobby when it comes to the television that the rest of the world has to offer.

    But there’s an interesting corollary between the perceived quality of a show and the number of episodes a comedy has has over its run. Let’s analyse that now, shall we?

    blackbooksLet’s compare two shows from the last few years – in Britain’s corner we have Black Books, a sitcom about a cynical, alcoholic bookstore owner and his oddball friends. There are exactly eighteen episodes of Black Books, each one twenty-five minutes in length spread out over three seasons. Every single one of this episodes is choc full of cracking gags and some brilliant acting from Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey, and Tamsin Grieg. It’s a great show, and it’s one of those shows I can watch from beginning to end, over and over again, until death.

    Our American example? Scrubs, a hospital comedy that has not long completed its eighth season and is about to go into its ninth. There are, at last count, one-hundred-and-sixty-nine episodes of this sitcom, each one clocking in at around the twenty-two minute mark. The first season consists of twenty-four episodes. Twenty-four. Seasons 2 through 6 had twenty-two episodes each. Season 7 had eleven episodes, but would’ve had eighteen were it not for the 2007-08 Writer’s Strike. Season 8 had eighteen episodes, and season 9? In production right now.

    Already that paragraph is longer than the one about Black Books, and I haven’t even begun to talk about the overall quality of the show, which I will do now in a third paragraph.

    scrubsScrubs is, in its first two or three seasons, an absolutely fantastic show. It’s easily some of the best comedy that has come out of the US in the last decade. It began to falter somewhere around the fourth season, where the fantasy sequences started to get a little wobby or become a little too long, and by season 7 the show had descended into madness. The characters had become horrible parodies of themselves. The comedy was gone. The acting was dire, by virtue of the fact that the characters and the tone of the show had changed so much. Scrubs’ seventh season is an almost entirely different show. It began to pick things up again during the eighth season, which was a marked (and, for American television, incredibly rare) return to form.

    This is the problem, though: Would you rather have eighteen consistently brilliant episodes of a show, or nearly one-hundred-and-seventy episodes of a show, over half of which are mediocre tripe? If I say to someone, “I like Black Books,” that statement is consistent because the show is consistent (although here in the US I usually have to tell people what it’s about, who’s in it, and whether they’ll “get it”). If I say to someone, “I like Scrubs,” I usually have to qualify that with which seasons I did like, which seasons I didn’t, and then go on to say why.

    Personally I’ll take quality over quantity any day.

  • It Fills A Hole

    We’re all humans, right? I mean, unless an animal testing laboratory has been raided and dozens of cerebrally-enhanced genetic super-chimps have been freed from their cage, slipped out of the building masked by the confusion and tear-gas and then, having discussed amongst themselves what they should do with their new-found freedom, decided to hightail it to the nearest Internet Cafe and look up an obscure British writer’s blog, I think it’s a safe assumption to make.

    So with that in mind, I think it’s fairly safe to say that sometimes, when we are faced with feelings of emptiness and dissatisfaction with the current state of our lives (Why haven’t I got any regular income? Why won’t the BBC return my calls? Is The Beatles Rock Band really $250?!) we turn to unusual places to plug up the gaping hole that has pushed itself into our lives. Some people fill that hole with television, or sex, or by writing abusive emails to publishing companies. Others, such as myself, tend to fill that void with food.

    It’s a dangerous thing. I’ve spent much of the last few months couped up on my own in my house. Often I haven’t left my bedroom because I’ve been on my computer either writing, talking to friends, or playing Tales of Monkey Island. Occasionally I will leave my room, slouching and scratching my back like some sort of well-dressed caveman, and wander into the kitchen where I will, for no real reason whatsoever, get something to eat.

    There’s no need for this. I’m not hungry. I’m not even peckish. And yet I have lost count of the number of times where I have been sitting at my computer, blinked, and then found myself standing in the kitchen looking into the fridge. Occasionally I have gone one step further and found myself sitting at my computer desk with a tub of Pringles and a jar of dip, an occurance which fills me with dread because we never buy Pringles.

    Then there was a recent incident where I found myself eating Nutella out of the jar with a spoon. Such antics are forgivable of a young boy who just likes chocolate, but I’m a 23 year-old man. I’m supposed to be a professional. So why the Hell am I shovelling chocolate and hazelnut spread out of the jar and directly into my mouth?

    It’s possible I am simply a Disgusting Human Being. Indeed, I don’t dismiss this option. There is at least one item in my DVD collection that would probably validate this theory (and, y’know, who amongst us hasn’t gone to Amazon UK and seen series one of Not Going Out for the limited-time-only price of £3 and subsequently purchased it in a moment of heady recklessness?).

    I used to go for a daily walk. I stopped doing that because It’s Fucking Hot, and I am tall and red-haired and British and therefore not built for the surface-of-the-sun levels of heat LA seems to endure for 347 days of the year.

    So my plan from tomorrow is this: Eat healthily. Yes, that’s ridiculous. Yes, my primary source of food for tomorrow will be a local AM-PM and the only food they serve there has been treated with more chemicals than a Marvel superhero. But dammit, I’m going to eat healthily or not at all. One way or another I’m going to get Results. I’m not huge, and I’d like to keep it that way.

    Meanwhile, I have to find something else to fill that hole with. What were the other things I mentioned earlier…?

  • An open letter to Companies Who Send Out Spam Email

    Dear Time Vampires,

    Thank you for your rescent correspondence, in which you have expressed an interest, nay, concern that my penis may not be quite as long and hard as my lady friends might perhaps prefer. Your suggestion that I “make [my] pecker glorious!” (a suggestion you made in the interest of “carnal victories!”) did not fall on deaf ears. That being said, while I appreciate your continued engrossment in the size of my sexual organs, your concern is unwarranted.

    Similarly, I do not gamble. I never have done. Alright, technically that’s a lie – when I was 12 I put a £1 coin into a fruit machine in a pub, but I didn’t win anything and the experience left me dispondant towards the notion of gambling. It’s unlikely, then, that I will be visiting any one of the online casinos you have recommended to me over the last six years.

    Finally, I must stress to you that I am not Russian and do not presently live in a house with a Septic Tank, so I must politely decline your cleaning fluid.

    With regards,
    Ben Paddon

  • An open letter to Film Critics

    Dear Film Critics,

    I’m not going to lie, I’m slightly envious of your position. You have somehow managed to reach a point where you are basically paid to tell people what you think of this film, or that film. Bloggers like myself are doing that for nothing, which either means we’re remarkably stupid or you’re remarkably clever. The idea that someone can find a career as an Opinion Merchant is one that appeals to me greatly, and I hope some day to be able to count myself amongst your numbers.

    I do take exception, however, to just how incredibly lazy some of you are.

    Firstly, I think it goes without saying that “If you liked x, you’ll love y” is not a review. It barely qualifies as a comparison. Telling me that I’ll love Watchmen because I think The Dark Knight is brilliant? That’s rubbish, and it’s easy-to-write rubbish because they happen to fall into the same genre. I know people who love Notting Hill but absolutely detest Love Actually. There are more than plenty of people out there who adore Lord of the Rings but cannot stand Harry Potter (and no, I don’t care what you say – they are the same genre). If I were your Editor-in-Chief, I would dock your wages for telling me that y is good because it happens to share some familiar elements with x.

    This goes double for “it’s x meets y“. That’s not a review. That’s a pitch. You don’t have to pitch the film to me, you just have to tell me what you thought of it. If your thought was “it’s x meets y” then your opinion is, I think, far too limited to deserve being paid for.

    Finally, and this is perhaps the most important point, there is no such thing as a “popcorn movie”. It doesn’t exist. Nobody, and I mean nobody goes to the theatre to sit there and just eat the popcorn. Describing any film (a recent example being X-Men Origins: Wolverine) as a “popcorn movie” is non-committal, time-wasting bollocks. The film is either worth seeing or it isn’t, and if the best you can muster in the review is thoughts on the concessions then the film probably isn’t worth seeing. I can stay at home and eat much nicer popcorn for far less the expense.

    Please think about this the next time you get to see a movie for free so you can write about it.

    Kind regards,
    Ben Paddon