Homeland. It’s not as good as the first series yet, is it?
When Carrie came over all infanticidal when bathing Brody junior (now come on, WHERE did they find that startlingly-Damian Lewis like baby), I started questioning whether I should have stuck with Our Girl on the BBC (more of which later). I mean, I know she’s nuts, old Carrie, but come on.
Mind you, she’s pulled off some excellent childcare skiving which I could learn from. “I’m sorry, I can’t do the evening feed/bathtime/nappy change as I need to go and oversee a bomb-drop on a jihadi cell that might change the course of 21st century international politics” is pretty tut-proof, I reckon. I may try similar next time it is my turn to get involved in a half-term project to make a First World War bolt-action rifle out of match sticks or create a papier mache canopic jar.
Ben and I laughed a lot at episode two, which I don’t think the programme makers meant to happen, and I even found myself wondering out to the kitchen in search of a Curly Wurly half way through the supposedly tension-infused scenes where Carrie needles an ex-Islamabad case officer with a secret, now demoted to filing bits of paper in a basement archive (This is actually the job I would be badgering for, if I were in the CIA.)
It’s a good job there’s BBC Iplayer so that I could catch up with Lacy Turner in Our Girl, aired against Homeland over on BBC1. The first episode of this was quite good a month or so ago but it saddens me to report that the final episode was absolute tut.
It got really bad last week when we were asked to believe that Smurf the Welsh soldier, whose unrequited love for main character Molly Dawes (sounds like a bingo call – All The Fours! etc etc) had finally sent him doolally, actually risked the lives of all his colleagues in the face of Al Quaida danger just to get back at their commanding officer who the hapless Ms Dawes had fallen for.
This week just got worse. Molly was portrayed as so thick she would have made a plank look sparky (Sergeant to Molly: “The boss is still in hospital. There have been complications”. Molly: “Is that bad?”) yet somehow she managed to beguile her CO into falling in love with her.
Over dinner after they had returned from Afghan, he continually has to simplify his language to primary school levels just so she can understand his declarations of love and he seems entranced after kissing her hand when she suggests that he was just wiping the cabbage off his face. Such sophisticated banter.
Again, much laughter on the Hatch sofa. If I were in the army and had settled down to watch this, I think I would have switched off at the start of the second episode when Molly seemed to forge an intimate bond with a ten year old Afghan girl purely based around giving her a couple of Bic ball point pens. Molly becomes somehow obsessed with the child, despite only ever speaking to her about three times, always in a language that the child does not speak. This biro-based relationship becomes the bedrock of the show and Molly’s raison d’etre and she harps on about it to her squaddy mates every opportunity she gets. Cue crieS from the sofa: “NOBODY CARES, MOLLY, BECAUSE THE PRODUCERS HAVENT BOTHERED TO DEVELOP HER CHARACTER!”
Still, it’s not all bad. I’ve got Educating the East End coming up which always prompts outrage from the sofa on why teachers are paid so little and has me thanking my lucky stars I don’t teach maths to Year 9s with over-plucked eyebrows and enough hormones to feminise the entire male fish population of the North Sea.
Plus my rootling in the kitchen during boring bits in the above shows has yielded a family pack of Revels. Onwards and upwards.