Post by jetsetwilly on Jun 9, 2007 14:49:55 GMT
From Saturday's Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguide/columnists/story/0,,2096134,00.html):
Tracey as The Face of Boe is an image that will now stay with me.
People on TV aren't people; they're distorted electronic drawings of people, and only an idiot would judge someone based on how they come across on a reality show. Reader, I am that idiot. Big Brother 8 (C4, E4, daily) began with a gimmick presumably designed to quell sour memories of the race war. The house was pumped full of girls. Since a woman can't walk from one side of the room to the other without provoking a catty feud with at least three other females, even if you offered to pay them £100 per minute of camaraderie, these are ideal breeding conditions for a summer of life-enhancing squabbling.
At the time of writing, the house contains the following. Sam and Amanda. Chirping, identical borderline foetuses resembling the cover of a collector's edition of Barely Legal, their entrance was terrifying; toting lollipops and squealing about the colour pink, they seemed to have stepped out of a sinister, perverted remake of Charlie And The Chocolate Factory. Lately, they've calmed down a bit: just as well, since thanks to all those mirrors, there often appear to be eight of them.
We'll skip Nicky and Chanelle for now, since both seem far too nice to succeed, and instead ponder Charley, an instant villain (played by Neneh Cherry) who made the classic error of assuming international celebrity status in her own mind the moment she entered the house. Not so much a person as a damning indictment of everything, I assume she'll have been evicted and booed to the moon and back by the time these words reach you. Almost a pity.
Next, Shabnam. An over-excited Meg and Mog blabbermouth cursed with demented eyes (the self-adhesive, googly ones you'd stick on a sock puppet), Shabnam has tucked her personality behind a wall of breathless prattle and is therefore hard to read. As is Tracey. Worzel Gummidge. Jimmy Savile. The Face of Boe. That witch from Chorlton And The Wheelies (pictured). Cackling rave Womble Tracey provides an inexhaustible supply of cruel lookalikes to choose from. For this reason alone, she's one of the more entertaining inhabitants, better than say, Emily, because Emily doesn't really look like anyone or anything, in the way that the cast of Hollyoaks don't look like anyone or anything either. A classic example of anonymous prettiness; the second your brain registers that she's attractive, it simultaneously deletes her face from memory.
Then there's Carole, Laura, and Lesley. The most likable housemates since Pete or Aisleyne, Carole and Laura haven't put a foot wrong; Lesley however, is becoming increasingly peculiar, and appears to have wandered into the house by mistake during a distracted "turn", like a menopausal shoplifter.
At the time of writing, there's only one man about the house - and he's a girl too. The human equivalent of Leslie Phillips saying "well, helllll-oh", oily, lipless Ziggy seems to have based his entire persona on Anthony Head's portrayal of a smug yuppie twat attempting to bag Sharon Maughan in the old Gold Blend commercials. For some reason I have a recurring fantasy in which Ziggy eats something that disagrees with him, and spends an afternoon staggering around with liquid dribbling down his thighs, in full view of the girls and cameras. Anything to knock that self-satisfied look off his fizzog.
And that's it so far. Chances are by the time you read this, they'll have put some more men in. And, with any luck, Clyde the orang-utan and a wisecracking robot. We can dream.
Finally, The Apprentice (Wed, 9pm, BBC1) roars to a close, following last week's chilling boardroom finale, in which Katie Hopkins cemented her position as the most terrifying, unpredictable screen villain since Sadako from the movie Ring. What - WHAT - was going on in her head? We shall never know, just as we'll never know what motivated the Zodiac killer. The final is now a showdown between the sole credible contestant (Kristina), and a shivering puppy (Simon). Surely a foregone conclusion. Surely.
At the time of writing, the house contains the following. Sam and Amanda. Chirping, identical borderline foetuses resembling the cover of a collector's edition of Barely Legal, their entrance was terrifying; toting lollipops and squealing about the colour pink, they seemed to have stepped out of a sinister, perverted remake of Charlie And The Chocolate Factory. Lately, they've calmed down a bit: just as well, since thanks to all those mirrors, there often appear to be eight of them.
We'll skip Nicky and Chanelle for now, since both seem far too nice to succeed, and instead ponder Charley, an instant villain (played by Neneh Cherry) who made the classic error of assuming international celebrity status in her own mind the moment she entered the house. Not so much a person as a damning indictment of everything, I assume she'll have been evicted and booed to the moon and back by the time these words reach you. Almost a pity.
Next, Shabnam. An over-excited Meg and Mog blabbermouth cursed with demented eyes (the self-adhesive, googly ones you'd stick on a sock puppet), Shabnam has tucked her personality behind a wall of breathless prattle and is therefore hard to read. As is Tracey. Worzel Gummidge. Jimmy Savile. The Face of Boe. That witch from Chorlton And The Wheelies (pictured). Cackling rave Womble Tracey provides an inexhaustible supply of cruel lookalikes to choose from. For this reason alone, she's one of the more entertaining inhabitants, better than say, Emily, because Emily doesn't really look like anyone or anything, in the way that the cast of Hollyoaks don't look like anyone or anything either. A classic example of anonymous prettiness; the second your brain registers that she's attractive, it simultaneously deletes her face from memory.
Then there's Carole, Laura, and Lesley. The most likable housemates since Pete or Aisleyne, Carole and Laura haven't put a foot wrong; Lesley however, is becoming increasingly peculiar, and appears to have wandered into the house by mistake during a distracted "turn", like a menopausal shoplifter.
At the time of writing, there's only one man about the house - and he's a girl too. The human equivalent of Leslie Phillips saying "well, helllll-oh", oily, lipless Ziggy seems to have based his entire persona on Anthony Head's portrayal of a smug yuppie twat attempting to bag Sharon Maughan in the old Gold Blend commercials. For some reason I have a recurring fantasy in which Ziggy eats something that disagrees with him, and spends an afternoon staggering around with liquid dribbling down his thighs, in full view of the girls and cameras. Anything to knock that self-satisfied look off his fizzog.
And that's it so far. Chances are by the time you read this, they'll have put some more men in. And, with any luck, Clyde the orang-utan and a wisecracking robot. We can dream.
Finally, The Apprentice (Wed, 9pm, BBC1) roars to a close, following last week's chilling boardroom finale, in which Katie Hopkins cemented her position as the most terrifying, unpredictable screen villain since Sadako from the movie Ring. What - WHAT - was going on in her head? We shall never know, just as we'll never know what motivated the Zodiac killer. The final is now a showdown between the sole credible contestant (Kristina), and a shivering puppy (Simon). Surely a foregone conclusion. Surely.
Tracey as The Face of Boe is an image that will now stay with me.