Lexx-2

Scattered amidst the elephants graveyard of bad Australian television there has always been one dependable genre: the sketch comedy show. Whilst our country has only made a handful of genuinely good sitcoms, the sketch comedy genre has been the source of numerous gems. "Fast Forward", "The Late Show", "The Big Gig" and "The Micallef Programme" are just four examples of great Australian comedy.

Sadly, the last few years have not been so kind, with duds such as "Skithouse", "Big Bite" and the disastrous "Let Loose Live" going some way to degrading a once reasonably proud tradition. Now along comes "The Wedge", an amalgam of every single thing that is wrong with Australian TV comedy.

If you're the kind of person who finds bogans, wogs, fat people and overbearing laugh tracks automatically funny - without anything so intrusive as wit or irony - this is the show for you.

"The Wedge" tries desperately to be a "Little Britain" or "League of Gentlemen" for Australian audiences, which is a worthy idea, except that to succeed in that goal, the writing actually needs to be, y'know, funny. All the performers try too hard to be funny, as if you were stuck watching a bad university revue. The writing is loaded with tired stereotypes, grindingly predictable setups and lame puns (Sandra Sultry - stop, my sides!) backed up with the world's most unsubtle laugh track (Laugh dammit! LAUGH!!!!!) which often runs when there isn't even a joke! If "The Wedge" had run on Nine or Seven it would have been axed within six weeks. Ten may be more patient, but based on what "The Wedge" has come up with so far, that goodwill is sorely misplaced. It's truly disheartening that Ten has given a 26 episode commitment to this garbage when we have some of the best stand-up comedians in the world who can deliver more laughs in 30 seconds than an episode of "The Wedge" can muster in 30 minutes.

Peter Sellers died in late 1980, just as he was on the verge of getting another Clouseau flick off the ground. The film was to be titled Romance of the Pink Panther, and this time Sellers was writing the film, with Blake Edwards nowhere in sight. Upon Sellers' death, UA offered the film (which was originally to be helmed by Sidney Poitier, then later Clive Donner) back to Edwards. Rumor has it that the studio wanted Dudley Moore to replace Sellers. Moore and Edwards passed on the same grounds: that no actor could possibly replace could Sellers. A sensible move. Unfortunately, Edwards had other ideas....

This is the result.

There's seldom been a film that's felt as simply, utterly wrong as Trail of the Pink Panther. With this film, Edwards attempted to make an "all new" Panther escapade using deleted footage of Sellers from the previous three Panthers, with brand new scenes filmed around him to make it appear as if Sellers was really involved. For a little while, it almost works (the joins are at times seamless) despite itself. But then you see a sequence lifted wholesale from "Strikes Again" (Clouseau's mishap with a bag of groceries) and things go rapidly downhill. The Sellers footage is of course very amusing, but it's painfully obvious which Panther films the scenes were cut from (especially the "Strikes Again" footage, where a number of that film's supporting characters suddenly appear for no good plot reason) and the flimsy plot does all manner of convulsions to fit the scenes in.

Then, 40 minutes in, Clouseau vanishes, his plane having "disappeared". Suddenly, what plot there was (which was nothing hot anyway) evaporates and the film wanders into would-be Citizen Kane territory. From here on Joanna Lumley (quite lovely with a French accent) wanders in as a TV reporter determined to track down Clouseau. With her arrival, the pace grinds to a halt and so do the laughs. It's certainly nice to see some of the early Panther notables again (David Niven, Graham Stark, Capucine) along with an amusing contribution from Richard Mulligan as Clouseau's even battier father, but even this doesn't really work, outside of padding the film to a releasable running time.

Even worse is that Niven, who was gravely ill at the time, is dubbed by C-Grade impressionist Rich Little. Little can be hilarious impersonating celebrities (his Howard Cosell on Futurama is a blast) but his attempt to seriously imitate Niven is just painful, with his own accent frequently creeping in. It only gives Niven's scenes a bizarre, otherworldly quality, in a film that already feels mighty creepy. Little is also roped in to imitate the voice of Harvey Korman (more successfully) and Sellers (excruciating), which only makes things stranger.

This second half of the film mixes Lumley's interviews with Clouseau's contemporaries with heavy doses of flashback footage (from earlier Panthers), all of it so much better that the new stuff. Even when it attempts to be funny on its own, Edwards resorts to stealing these gags (as opposed to the footage) from earlier triumphs. Witness Dreyfus's barely concealed laughter during his attempt to eulogise his former nemesis...And then remember that he did the exact same thing in "Revenge"...

If there is one shining light in this misbegotten dud, its the peerless Herbert Lom. He's a truly underrated comic presence who manages to rise above the material with all his facial ticks, pratfalls and explosions of rage.

The final shot of the film, with Clouseau standing on a cliff face, looking out to sea (only to get pooped on by a seagull) manages to sum up the whole enterprise. It's a blatant stand-in (how could it be anything but?) and when he does speak (cursing the "swine seagull") it's clearly Little's voice doing a bad Sellers impression. Having passed on "Romance" because he believed no one could replace Peter Sellers, Blake Edwards only went on to prove his point.... In an even less dignified way!

Maybe the final comment should go to Edwards and his dedication at the beginning of this misguided, shambolic but possibly well-intentioned fiasco..."To Peter. The One and Only Inspector Clouseau"

This is, was and forever will be one of my favourite films of all time. A joyous love letter to the music, magic and madmen of Manchester, 24 Hour Party People is utterly, utterly exhilarating. Even if you don't know your New Order from your Durutti Column, you'll be hard-pressed not to get a kick out of Michael Winterbottom and Frank Cottrel Boyce's freewheeling depiction of a great time in pop culture.

In a nutshell, this is the story of a scene, a scene that grew out of the british punk explosion of the mid seventies. Inspired by the rising vibe in his home town, television presenter Tony Wilson, with the aid of colleagues Rob Gretton and Alan Erasmus created Factory Records. Factory is, as described in the film "an experiment in human nature", with no written contracts (barring one written on a napkin in Wilson's own blood) and total creative freedom for its acts. From the mid seventies to the early nineties, Factory launched a barrage of fresh and exciting talent on an unsuspecting world, ranging from punk (Joy Division, later to become New Order) to house (A Guy Called Gerald) and dance (Happy Mondays). At the centre of it all was Wilson, all the while balancing his empire building with a steady day job with Granada Television.

Winterbottom's film crams sixteen years of music history into under two hours, using and appropriately chaotic mix of storytelling techniques to rocket the story along. It's by no means an accurate account, (just listen to the commentary by Wilson on the DVD) but encapsulates the spirit of the Manchester Movement beautifully. The plot itself is split into two halves. Firstly, the early punk days, spearheaded by a promising quartet called Joy Division. Joy Division were the first notable artistic success of the label, but were hindered by controversy (the name was derived from the Nazi division of women who were used in an attempt to create the master race), gigs that often degenerated into brawls and most crucially, a talented, but troubled, severely epileptic lead singer, one Ian Curtis. The rapid rise and even faster fall of Joy Division anchors the first half.

The second half sees us bear witness to the birth of rave culture, aided along by one of Wilson's acts, the Happy Mondays. Formed by brothers Shaun and Paul Ryder, they blazed through Manchester in a blizzard of coke and heroin and shaped dance music in no small way. Oh, and they pretty much helped to run Factory into the ground.

Bouncing from hilarious comedy (a great deal of it improvised)to genuine poignancy (the decline of Curtis is heartbreaking stuff) the film is an utter triumph of wit, wonderment and technique. As Wilson, comedian Steve Coogan is nothing short of dynamic. Teetering on the right side caricature (and injecting a great deal of his Alan Partridge persona in to the mix) Coogan is the lynchpin for an otherwise wildly chaotic narrative. The entire cast do sterling work impersonating the Manchester luminaries of old (and by old, I mean young, before the drugs and booze). From Danny Cunningham's uninhibited Shaun Ryder to John Simm's gentle Bernard Sumner and Andy Serkis's fearsome Martin Hannet, (an arguably more fearsome character than Gollum if you ask me....) they're all great. But best of all is Sean Harris, who is simply unforgettable as Ian Curtis. He's so dead-on accurate its almost scary, from the haunted eyes and cheeky humor (witness his first meeting with Wilson) to the eccentric dance moves, its a performance that deserves every award in the book.

Oh and the music. Well if you're already a fan, I sure as hell don't need to say it, do I?

As it was, so it goes and so do I. See this movie before you die. Go on, rent it tonight, rent it now, buy it if you have to or if you're really desperate, just steal a copy. But please, see this movie, you won't regret it.