Well oil be damned

Does anyone really believe in the concept of 'too much of a good thing'? Surely, if something's great, then our appetite should be insatiable?

Take American TV drama, for instance. In recent years, cinema's once-poor relation has evolved into the number one destination for discerning viewers. The Sopranos, Dexter, Mad Men, The Closer, Breaking Bad, True Blood - all these shows have helped to establish the small screen as the place to find incisive writing, great performances and compelling story-lines. But are we starting to get burned out by all this quality viewing? Don't we sometimes long for something a little, well, trashy?

It's not so long ago that serial drama meant something very different. Plots that could be recapped in the time it took to play the opening theme music, characters who could swap allegiances quicker than they changed their outfits, and a sense of familiar repetition that ensured the status quo was never really upset. Simpler times.

So if you've ever worried that you need study notes to make it through an episode of The Wire, there's some good news. Plans are afoot to resurrect two of the world's most popular and iconic shows - titles that required very little thinking, just plenty of gawping in disbelief.

For almost a decade, Dallas was the most popular TV show in the world, thanks to a heady combination of deceit, deception and double-dealing. In an average day, any member of the Ewing family could find themselves forging a will, staging a corporate takeover and escaping a house fire, whilst still finding time for two different hairstyles and a love triangle.

Focusing on the internecine rivalries between two feuding oil families in Texas, the long-running series was really about the battle of the sexes. Whilst the men postured and pontificated in hats large enough to create their own micro-climate, the women struggled to assert their independence in an alpha-male world. And when it all got too much, there was always a handsome stable-hand or bottle of vodka to help soften the blows.

Whereas British dramas preferred to depict alcoholics as park bench-dwelling destitutes, swigging from a brown paper bag, Dallas managed to make chronic drink dependency look positively glamorous. Sue Ellen would always remember to take off her clip-on earrings before making short work of a crystal decanter full of burgundy.

In their own way, Dallas and its tawdry doppelganger Dynasty were just as fantastical as Star Trek or Battlestar Galactica, they just had fewer spaceships. No-one ever tuned in for searing sociological insight. They wanted to see glasses of champagne thrown in people's faces, or two ballgown-clad matriarchs duking it out in a conveniently placed swimming pool.

So we should be waving our stetsons triumphantly in the air at the news that both shows are currently being lined up for 'reimagining'. Finally, a chance to return to the opulence, escapism and shoulderpads of yesteryear.

Although Dynasty is being talked up as a prequel of sorts, hoping to appropriate some of Mad Men's alluring sixties ambience, Dallas is heading back to the small screen with some of its original characters still in place.

Larry Hagman, Linda Gray and Patrick Duffy are being courted to reprise their iconic roles as the Ewing clan. And the PR machine promises 'a mix of old and new faces' (in some cases, on the same head), as the cast is padded out with the next generation of oil-hungry ne'er-do-wells. TNT boss Michael Wright told the press: "This is not a remake as much as a continuation. It takes the next generation of Ewings and continues the battle."

Writing in the Guardian yesterday, Hadley Freeman expressed concern that the show's obsession with conspicuous wealth might seem distasteful in "the recession-heavy 21st century". But if there's one thing that both Dynasty and Dallas managed to prove, time and time again, it's that money doesn't buy you happiness. In this age of austerity, maybe that's a moral we could all benefit from.

In the gutter, gazing at the stars

In the last couple of days there have been a couple of interesting articles about modern celebrity in two very different papers. Although the tone, style and approach are as dissimilar as Jodie Marsh's breasts, the underlying message is hard to miss - the world of celebrity is in crisis.

Writing for the Guardian, Aditya Chakrabortty argues that the influx of "low-grade stars has thrown the celebrity world into a sub-prime crisis" - drawing a clever, but not entirely convincing, parallel with the financial meltdown that occurred in the US because the regulators were asleep on the job.

Meanwhile, the Daily Mail published its own attack on modern fame, courtesy of Lisa Norris, a 'celebrity booker' who seems to have worked on every lousy TV show that was ever commissioned. In amongst the breathtaking revelations of imperiousness (Anne Diamond) or egotism (Paul McCartney), Norris manages to contradict herself several times.

One minute she's lamenting the sleazy nonentities who have "hijacked the status of star" - the next she's bitching about the fact that genuine A-listers are filled with their own self-importance. Missing the irony, she even finishes her rant with a plug for her forthcoming book, "The title? What else but I'm A Celebrity Booker . . . Get Me Out of Here!" She's not so much biting the hand that feeds her as chewing her way up to the elbow.

Back in the broadsheets, Chakrabortty argues that the concept of fame-seeking is nothing new, and holds Byron up as the quintessential example of a 19th century 'popular idol'. Rather than being a minority pursuit "taken up only by those with grotesque character deformations", celebrity is now a feasible goal for countless millions of people.

So what's changed, and why should we care? Chakrabortty believes that it's not celebrity that has evolved, more our perspective on it: "If you define fame as being known by strangers, then newspapers, cinema and especially TV have always driven the spread of celebrity... the public used to look up to their stars; now they are minded to look down."

Name-checking such talent-adjacent column-fillers as Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian and Kelly Osbourne, Chakrabortty reminds us that they make for "frankly ropey" celebrities and gravely warns that the entire fame industry is set for a massive implosion. But he never actually addresses our fascination with people we look down upon.

So why do people like this maintain such premium real-estate in our minds? The classic Hollywood stars of yesteryear depended on talent, determination and a work ethic that would make Bob Cratchit feel like a layabout to make the grade. But having worked so hard to attain their success, they became distant, remote and untouchable.

The instant-win nature of modern celebrity is very different. There are no eligibility requirements, no rules of admission, and no basic codes of conduct. In essence, fame is an all-too-accessible members' club. It's tantalisingly within our grasp - we're just waiting for our keys to the changing room.

Any resentment or innate superiority we feel towards this new generation of 'celebrity' has nothing to do with the diminishing status of the word itself. Instead, it's linked to the fact that we feel a sense of entitlement - we deserve what they've got, since they did nothing to earn it in the first place. As Morrissey once sang, "We hate it when our friends become successful."

Lighting the touch-paper

OK, I admit it. I suffer from road rage. 90 percent of the time my temperament is about as mild as a lukewarm cup of herbal tea, but stick me behind the wheel and in a matter of minutes I'm swearing like a Tourettes sufferer being audited by the Inland Revenue.

I've often argued that it's cathartic to have the occasional outburst (it's an argument that usually falls on deaf ears) - however, Giles Coren has written an article for the Daily Mail making the exact same case. Apparently, scientists at the University of Valencia have found that the occasional outburst can increase blood flow to the pleasure-points in the brain.

This must come as a great relief to readers of the Daily Mail, since the paper goes out of its way to trigger their anger receptors as often as it can. Everything about the paper, from its editorial style to its typeface, seems expressly designed to needle and agitate, leaving its loyal readers in a constant quivering state of annoyance - ready to blow at the merest infraction.

Coren, however, attempts to distance himself from that mindset, claiming that he's been mischaracterised as Mr Angry: "Not that I’m an angry person myself, I should say. I am a man of great phlegm and restraint. Until provoked. When goaded, I will admit, I can fly off the handle ever so slightly. But not over anything minor. It takes something big."

I'm not sure how this correlates with his 1000-word rant to the sub-editors at the Times who foolishly tinkered with one of his articles. Although only one word had been changed, Coren raved on as though someone had set fire to his house, only for the fire service to then have to smash his car windows to reach the hydrant.

He also got into trouble earlier this year when he tweeted that his neighbour's 12-year old son was annoying him by playing his drums incessantly. Rather than phone the council to complain to the noise pollution team, Coren theorised about raping, killing and burning the boy. Which is surely a perfectly reasonably response.

It's Coren's belief that most of what's wrong with 'Broken Britain' can be directly attributed to our attempts to be more civilised and empathetic with one another, leaving us mired in a "world of cowering, timorous individuals mired in a culture of greed, terror and dismal dead-end jobs, call-centres, wars, stupid blasted iPads for dopey morons to play rape-and-murder video games on the way to work, and pointless anger-bleeding-management courses".

That's the problem with anger - when the red mist descends, logic and reason fly out of the window. As a result, Coren's article leaps from one mindlessly aggressive attack to the next, without a trace of cohesion or relevance. He takes pot-shots at 'paella-munching boffins', 'so-called kebab shops' and 'clipboard bashers' amongst others, without ever managing to connect any of the dots.

Anger is good, he says. Anger is what makes us human, and helped overthrow the great evils of modern civilisation - Apartheid, Communism and the Poll Tax. And you'd better believe that those other blights on modern life will follow, just as soon as we all connect with our inner Hulk. Giles' targets? The hunting ban, bendy buses and one-way traffic systems. Well, he is writing for the Mail after all.

Or maybe he forgot where the article was going? Because after raving about the fact that scientists can't agree on whether anger is healthy or harmful, a Mail sub-editor has helpfully added links to two other stories on the paper's website. Their headlines? "It's official: Anger really CAN kill you" and "Getting angry is good for your health".

Honestly, it's enough to make you lose your rag all over again.

No X please, we're musicians

With two weeks left to go before the new X-Factor champ is crowned in a flurry of glitter and bombast, it's time to start thinking about life after X. Viewers have a four-week respite before switching over to ITV2 for the next series of American Idol, and this year's contestants will be knuckling down for a grueling 52 date tour.

But what about life after that? Irrespective of who wins, several of the final 12 will release albums in the next twelve months which will likely follow the same inauspicious path of Eoghan Quigg, who must have set a land-speed record in his rush to the bargain bin.

That's the problem with the X-Factor - it's a soap opera rather than an effective A&R strategy. Viewers get caught up in the drama, they vote for their favourites, and they boo the cartoon villains. But they never actually express a desire to buy the musical output.

The true measure of whether or not someone has the X-Factor, lies in the audience's willingness to support the acts outside of the glare from Simon's teeth. Thankfully, one ex-factor alumnus has a plan to help contestants cope with the post-traumatic stress of anonymity. Ben Mills, the gravel-voiced rocker who was beaten by both Leona (understandable) and Ray Quinn (unforgivable), intends to open a 'sanctuary' for the show's runner-ups.

Like Windsor Safari Park with a mixing desk, the rehab-meets-recording studio concept will be "somewhere that people who have been on a show like X Factor could come...and talk about what they've been through." I guess the first step towards recovery is admitting that you're not very good.

Ben's intention is to look after reality TV contestants who are "struggling with their fame". Or lack thereof. He's even planning to have "some llama and a few kangaroos." Seriously, I am not making any of this up. 

But what about the rest of the music industry? How will it cope in a post-X-Factor world? Not well, if The Guardian is to be believed - pop music is dying as a result of Simon's ratings juggernaut. In an article filled with loftily arrogant statements about the idiocy of the masses, various commentators come forward to condemn both the format and its audiences. Alan McGee who signed Oasis and managed the Libertines, claims "If you are stupid enough to watch it that is what you get, you deserve it. I have no pity for you."

The rest of the article rehashes the same old arguments - pop music as commodity versus indie music as art, singer-songwriters being inherently more worthy than vocalists. But popular music doesn't have to be high art. And no-one ever dismissed an orchestra for only ever doing cover versions of other people's compositions.

The most annoying quote, however, comes from Jon Savage who wrote England's Dreaming, a history of punk. He describes X-Factor viewers as "people who aren't passionate about music. And there's always been a huge market for people who weren't passionate about music." Maybe you're not authentically passionate about music until you've stood in a Camden basement watching Amy Winehouse bleeding from the toes.

If nothing else, the X-Factor is now the last format standing for getting music artists in front of a mainstream audience. With no Top of the Pops, no Chart Show and no CD:UK, this is the only music-specific TV show left. Even if the audience wouldn't know 'real music' if they fell over it. 

If I could turn back time

This is Diane Sawyer. For those of you who don't know your Sean Hannitys from your Anderson Coopers, Diane is one of the most recognisable news anchors in the US. As well as being amongst the thirty most powerful women in America (according to the Ladies' Home Journal), she's also 63. That's not a typo. She'll be 64 on the 22nd December.

I don't know what Diane's secret is. Maybe she eats her 'five a day', or perhaps she bought some glowing purple potion from Isabella Rossellini. Either way, she does not look her age. Or any age for that matter.

She's one of an alarming new generation of older women who have managed to unwrite all the rules of nature, with their lineless faces, feathered hair and aerobicised bodies. Whether they're forty or sixty-five, there's no way to tell how old they're supposed to be. And it's creepy.

Even more creepy is a story that ran in the Guardian today, that suggests the gruesome lengths that some people will go to in order to halt the passage of time. It's been alleged that a gang in Peru has been killing villagers and draining the fat from the corpses for use in cosmetics. The story broke when two suspects were arrested in Lima carrying bottles of liquid human fat which, they claimed, were worth around £36,000 a gallon.

Police were acting on a tip-off about a thriving trade in fat that was being shipped to Europe and sold as an anti-wrinkle cream. Suddenly, the scene in Fight Club where Brad Pitt steals from the bins outside a liposuction clinic to make his own brand of designer soap, doesn't seem quite so preposterous

Although medical experts agree that human fat can help keen skin supple, they're dubious about the idea of a black market in something that is so readily available. However, the implications are astounding - think how cost-effective it would be to have the fat sucked out of one end and pumped into the other.

It's like the BOGOF of plastic surgery, with patients emerging thinner and younger-looking from a single visit. Surely it's only a matter of time before canny Channel 4 producers get Gillian McKeith and Myleene Klass together to host a mash-up of 'You Are What You Eat' and '10 Years Younger'.