marcelproust

Saw this last night at the LFF, and while it does betray its stagey origins from time to time, there is much to enjoy in this biopic of Joe Meek, legendary music producer and nutcase. The film doesn't shy away from the murkier aspects of this mercurial character's life - the drugs, the rent boys, the cottaging, the verbal and physical abuse meted out to all and sundry - but Meek does emerge as something of a sympathetic character. I guess that's why so many people put up with him - there must have been something charming about him.

Good performances - including a pointless cameo from Kevin Spacey as Meek's financial backer, the appropriately named Major Banks. Standouts include the young actors playing Heinz and Patrick, the latter being a general factotum-cum-boyfriend who is one of the few people loyal to the last.

Nick Moran should be commended for bringing this quirky, sometime shocking story to the screen - whether it will find an audience beyond 60s music fans or those with a morbid curiosity for stories of pop scandals will remain to be seen.

Incidentally, I live in Islington and walked home past 304 Holloway Road, where almost the whole film takes place. It did send shivers down my spine.

God, how I love this programme.

They say that if you put a thousand monkeys in a room with a thousand typewriters then in a thousand years they will write the works of Shakespeare.

Some years ago a group of producers put one monkey in a room with an etch-a-sketch and the result was: Dante's Cove.

It's genius. A parallel world where concepts that we accept as normal just do not exist. Like "acting". And "shirts".

But goodness me, what a wonderful place to live. An entire island populated by beautiful, young, sexy people. And Tracy Scoggins.

It's a place where someone called Reichen Lehmkuhl (who apparently won a reality TV show and dated Lance Bass) must atone for his sins by submitting to living his life under a sheen of baby oil.

It's where we marvel at the "performance" of Charlie David - possibly the most wooden actor who ever lived. (Let me put it this way - that chiselled torso isn't so much the result of Gold's Gym as it is a carpenter's workshop. No really, you can see the other actors batting away the splinters.)

In short, a masterpiece. I wouldn't miss an episode.

Oh dear. When it comes to remakes, or "re-imaginings" or whatever the current vogue is for churning out an old favourite with a new cast, Sir Michael Caine said it best: only remake the flops. It makes perfect sense: if you fail then everyone thinks one can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear, but if you succeed then it's bouquets all round.

But that remaking a classic like James Ivory's film of E. M. Forsters's novel of Edwardian manners is folly of the highest order was borne out last night with this limp and unengaging ITV drama.

Wrapping the action in a clumsy flashback device robbed the story of any freshness or spontaneity, and it quickly became a lot like watching a school play version of one of your favourite films.

There were some interesting touches - Mark WIlliams' closeted Mr Beebe picking up Florentine rentboys would have brought a blush to Forster's cheeks. Also amusing were Mr Beebe's blushes as George Emerson and Freddie Honeychurch shed their clothes for the famous bathing scene. But in order the find the gold there was a good deal of dross.

Comparing any actress to Dame Maggie Smith is unfair, but Sophie Thompson really came off badly - her Miss Bartlett nothing more than the same irritating ticks and tricks she always uses. There was no real person there. Laurence Fox's far-too-handsome Cecil Vyse seemed to be reading his lines from a cue card and far more interested in his clothes than in Lucy.

All in all it makes one deeply fearful for adapter Andrew Davies' upcoming version of Brideshead Revisited.