BBC1’s Survivors: whoever put this together has been watching Lost and Heroes, and it’s all the better for it; its characters, being Brits, aren’t as consistently gorgeous, but they’re morally ambiguous while remaining sympathetic, which is the winning hand played by big American dramas at their best. But the recent birth scene was, in one crucial respect, a letdown.
OK, we’d been primed for it to be a quick labour; it was her third, and she was sure it would be as easy as shelling peas, or picking daisies, or something. But the creepy music had warned us that the delivery might turn out not to be as straightforward as the fate-tempting mother anticipated... And lo, it’s breech. Here’s the fatal flaw; it was completely preposterous to suppose that the sexy sister from Nathan Barley would have been happy to push one out with Mumsy Abby and the slick boss from Peep Show looking benignly on.
I know this character was exceptionally Zen – so much so that she responded to the unmedicated schizoid antics of her group leader with warm affection, and instead of deciding it might be a smart move to keep her newborn out of his orbit, volunteered the hope that the baby would help him to recover. But all the same... She might have put up with Abby, just, but Mr Peep Show Boss, delightful though he is, would have almost certainly received some very sweary marching orders. Am totally digging him in his Survivors incarnation, though. I hope it’s true that he’s going to be the new Doctor Who.
Showing posts with label Lost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lost. Show all posts
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Blood and grunts: the daft birth awards
The literary world has its annual Bad Sex awards, but as far as I know there aren’t any statuettes for iffy on-screen nookie performances. Of course sex in the movies doesn’t often look a whole lot like the real thing, for good or ill; it’s a strictly codified and emblematic art form, in which a lady who has just been merrily pluking will wrap a sheet around the entirety of her body in order to leave the sanctuary of the king-sized bed, thus notifying us that she is still modest and adorable despite the hot heave-ho she has, or so we are led to believe, just been receiving (step forward with your head hung in shame, SATC movie.)
Sometimes a sex scene really does convey the urgency of passion – I’d like to single out Ana Lucia and Sawyer in Lost for an honourable mention. Now that looked like she actually wanted it to happen, and who could blame her? Of course, within a couple more episodes she’d been dispatched like a fallen virgin in a horror movie, so there was no opportunity for a recurrence. Still, that particular bit of intimate action came as something of a relief after endless episodes in which they were all cooped up on the island forging alliances and enmities and, on occasion, eyeing each other up, but no-one was actually getting down to it.
Maybe the fear of giving birth sans epidural would have been a powerful disincentive, but actually, given all those long summer evenings with nothing else to do besides go paddling and wait for the Others to come calling – whaddayagonnado? If it was a French series, they’d all have been rutting in rock pools as soon as they’d recovered from the crash landing, retrieved some Gauloises from the hold and had a few long, pause-ridden and enigmatic discussions about Rousseau (the original dude, not the bird with the mad hair.)
Sex in the movies is tricky, but birth really is a sure-fire enticement to absurdity. For starters, as all tremulous mums-to-be learn, labour can go on for days, especially first time round. In this context I’d like to single out Friends for an honourable mention. OK, so Jennifer Aniston looked as if she was stretched out on a spa bed with mild indigestion rather than undergoing an experience you wouldn’t wish on a suspected terrorist, but hey, it is a comedy, and at least the writers made a joke out of poor old Rachel’s failure to progress.
The other thing that was excellent about that episode was how Rachel ended up cooped up with Janice. In the throes of labour even a relatively benign presence could be just as invasive as that honking comic monster; there’s nothing like the ward round walking in to put you off your stride, though you should probably be grateful, on balance, that somebody’s actually bothering to check up on you.
Sometimes a sex scene really does convey the urgency of passion – I’d like to single out Ana Lucia and Sawyer in Lost for an honourable mention. Now that looked like she actually wanted it to happen, and who could blame her? Of course, within a couple more episodes she’d been dispatched like a fallen virgin in a horror movie, so there was no opportunity for a recurrence. Still, that particular bit of intimate action came as something of a relief after endless episodes in which they were all cooped up on the island forging alliances and enmities and, on occasion, eyeing each other up, but no-one was actually getting down to it.
Maybe the fear of giving birth sans epidural would have been a powerful disincentive, but actually, given all those long summer evenings with nothing else to do besides go paddling and wait for the Others to come calling – whaddayagonnado? If it was a French series, they’d all have been rutting in rock pools as soon as they’d recovered from the crash landing, retrieved some Gauloises from the hold and had a few long, pause-ridden and enigmatic discussions about Rousseau (the original dude, not the bird with the mad hair.)
Sex in the movies is tricky, but birth really is a sure-fire enticement to absurdity. For starters, as all tremulous mums-to-be learn, labour can go on for days, especially first time round. In this context I’d like to single out Friends for an honourable mention. OK, so Jennifer Aniston looked as if she was stretched out on a spa bed with mild indigestion rather than undergoing an experience you wouldn’t wish on a suspected terrorist, but hey, it is a comedy, and at least the writers made a joke out of poor old Rachel’s failure to progress.
The other thing that was excellent about that episode was how Rachel ended up cooped up with Janice. In the throes of labour even a relatively benign presence could be just as invasive as that honking comic monster; there’s nothing like the ward round walking in to put you off your stride, though you should probably be grateful, on balance, that somebody’s actually bothering to check up on you.
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