Just when you thought he’d retired to Spain, Ricky Gervais is back, with a very British half-hour comedy fully paid for by Netflix. This has given him absolute creative freedom and total autonomy; this may not be the best thing in the world. His masterpieces, The Office and Extras, were created with Stephan Merchant. Left to his own devices – and I’m talking full solo album here, writing, directing and starring in each of the six episodes – he’s still wicked and at times wickedly funny, but prone to meandering, self-indulgence, repetition and a misguided love of soulful guitar.
After Life (Netflix) is Gervais’ take on grief. His character, Tony, has lost his wife – the only woman he’s ever been with, or ever needed to know – to cancer. Now he’s in his late forties in a small English village, working for the very local paper as a features writer, and utterly, suicidally miserable. The two things keeping him alive are his dog, and his newfound freedom to be as rude as he wants to people, knowing that if and when too much offence is finally taken he can simply, happily top himself.
It’s by design a miserable set-up and unfortunately the series is out of balance, focusing too much on the maudlin at the expense of the funny. There is very little forward momentum and a few basic situations – Tony’s boss (and brother-in-law) expressing frustration at Tony’s malaise, Tony watching his deceased beloved on his computer, Tony walking his dog through sunny British countryside to a soundtrack of truly dreadful soulful guitar – are simply repeated and repeated again. Like Tony himself, it’s a show at a dead end, with no impulse to forge ahead.
That said, when there are jokes, they’re great; Gervais is superb in his role; and the milieu is surprisingly enchanting. Whether or not this type of English idyll still survives with a working newsroom of at least six employees, it’s a pleasant place to hang, even with god-awful, grumpy Tony sitting in the middle of it.
Similarly, the best thing going for Turn Up Charlie (also Netflix) is the lead performance at its centre, that of Idris Elba, who also “created” the show but is not actually a credited writer nor director. He must have come up with the concept, and the concept is not good. Elba plays a past-his-prime London DJ who gets hired to be the nanny for his rich and famous friend’s little girl. So it’s big Idris and a precocious little girl getting to know each other, which, for many scenes, is precisely the hell it sounds.
Elba is such a strong, charismatic and talented actor that you need awesome performers to support him; he does not have them here. Most damningly, Frankie Hervey, as the little girl, isn’t up to the gig, looking like she’s remembering her lines and gestures rather than delivering them. This is her very first acting job, and boy, does it show. This is enough to sink the show right there, but unfortunately her mother is played by (second-billed) Piper Perabo who’s no good either.
Elba does his best – he’s always watchable – and London looks cool. But it’s embarrassing to watch this spectacular actor surrounded by amateurs in such a mummified premise. A true candidate for a “What were they thinking?” award. Watch the punters prove me wrong and this thing be a huge hit. That’s obviously what it’s going for, because high art this ain’t.
Nor, unfortunately, is Miracle Workers (Stan), although it’s certainly high concept. It’s damning with faint praise, I suppose, to say that the best thing about it is the casual diversity of its cast. All comers are represented (particularly actors from South Asia) and their background is not a story factor. This is good. This is woke.
But the show itself is absolutely mired in old-school sitcom tropes, the worst offender by far being “sitcom acting”. Most performers in this show are swinging for the back row in every single shot, let alone scene. It’s tiring to watch. The worst offender is the female lead, Geraldine Viswanathan. She plays Eliza, a worker bee in Heaven assigned to duty alongside Craig (Daniel Radcliffe) in the division that answers prayers. So far, so twee; at least God (Steve Buscemi) is kind of a bum, swilling beer and wasting time when he could be tending his work, and in particular, Earth.
The gags come fast but few stick. Despite the obvious charms of Buscemi and Radcliffe, I found the show hard to stomach. There’s just too much mugging.
It’s not so much over-acting as terrible acting that plagues Now Apocalypse, also on Stan. Greg Araki, the bad boy of the New Queer Cinema movement (The Living End, The Doom Generation, Mysterious Skin), jumps into the streaming fray with a show so monumentally amateurish that I’m frankly surprised it’s been put to air. The meandering plot involves a young LA man whose recurring dream of something nasty happening in a laneway reveals itself, at the end of the pilot, to be premonitions of a rapist alien beast, but the show’s true intent seems to be to parody young ‘uns and this tech, particularly dating apps and webcam sites. A, yawn, and B, satire needs to be witty. This is turgid. The actors are really good looking and routinely shot undressed and / or having graphic sex; one can’t help but feel Araki perving on the other end of the lens.
Slightly better, and certainly better crafted, sci-fi and satire are available in chunks ranging from six to seventeen minutes on Netflix’s Love Death + Robots, an animated anthology of eighteen self-contained sci-fi tales. The animation varies from modern video-game photo-realism to traditional 2D, and the quality from yawn to all right. There’s nothing brilliant here, but plenty to divert you over your cereal. Kids, hard-core sci-fi nerds and animation aficionados will almost certainly have more eager reactions.