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I have to agree with this.
couresy of Chalie Brooker.
-=-=-=-=-=
"I'll be there for you..." Not any more you won't. Wave goodbye to your Friends (Fri, 9pm, C4) because they're about to vanish forever. Apart from Joey, who's poised to enter the spin-off dimension, presumably in a show that consists entirely of him crying alone in an empty room.
In case you're a rabid fan who's spent the past fortnight trying to avoid finding out what happens in this final episode, don't worry - I won't blow any "surprises" here, so relax. Breathe out. Unbutton yourself. Not that much.
Of course, you'd have to have poked your eyes out with a teaspoon to somehow dodge the finale-spoiling screengrabs and photos plastering the tabloids the day after its US broadcast, so you'll be enjoying the show in sound only - but you can't have everything.
(While we're on the subject, the single worst spoiler in history is the front cover to the VHS edition of the original Planet Of The Apes movie, which is largely taken up by an artist's impression of Charlton Heston slumped disconsolately in front of a half-buried Statue of Liberty. What next? A collector's edition of Seven housed inside a full-scale replica of Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head?).
Anyway: Friends. Or more specifically, The One I Warmed To Against My Will. When it started a full decade ago, I was virtually pre-programmed to despise it. That clean-cut, anodyne cast. Those newspaper articles about the wonderful haircuts. The whooping audience. That bloody theme tune.
Unfortunately, my steel-clad cynicism was permanently undermined when I accidentally caught an episode and found myself laughing. Afterwards, shuddering, I vowed to avoid it at all costs in case it shattered my cosy misanthropic worldview.
But recently, given its ubiquity in the Channel 4 schedule, I realised I'd become a fan by osmosis. I think it's the writing. No matter how many accusations you hurl at Friends, you can't deny it's funny. And engaging. And tightly plotted.
In fact, the way the plotting works is impressively shameless: most episodes open with a pre-credits sequence in which Character A bursts into Central Perk to nakedly deliver some crucial exposition - "I've got a job interview tomorrow!", "I just met this really hot guy!", "I found a magic whistle!" and so on - to be met by a chorus of quickfire gags from Characters B to D that a) make you laugh and b) distract you from the sheer cheek of establishing the storyline in such an unabashed manner. What's not to admire?
Then there's the performances, which are absurdly cartoonlike, yet rarely seem quite irritating enough to make you want to kick the screen in and start machine-gunning the neighbours. Matt LeBlanc, in particular, is responsible for more violent mugging than all the crackheads in New York put together. It's appropriate that he's going on to star in a spin-off called simply Joey, because he spends most of his screen time pulling silly faces and going "durrrrr", like the matinee-idol equivalent of a mid-1980s English schoolboy. They should shoot his new show through a horse collar and enter it into a gurning contest.
Still, Joey's the only cast member who hasn't become a wizened old twig, as evidenced by the title sequence, which cuts jarringly between contemporary snippets of our diet-ravaged chums and the ancient original opening credits in which they cavort in a fountain like bloated Cabbage Patch kids. It seems the NBC canteen serves nothing but soil and tiny pebbles to keep its million-dollar superstars in trim; compare this to EastEnders, where every cast member blobs out after three weeks in the Square and, in-between takes, there's a guy shovelling battered pies down their necks in a desperate bid to ensure they're too fat to fit the narrow aperture of the internet [W]-cams in their dressing rooms.
What with this and Frasier evacuating our living rooms, it's hard to see how our American cousins can ever make us laugh again. Unless they re-elect Bush. But that'd be very hollow laughter indeed.
couresy of Chalie Brooker.
-=-=-=-=-=
"I'll be there for you..." Not any more you won't. Wave goodbye to your Friends (Fri, 9pm, C4) because they're about to vanish forever. Apart from Joey, who's poised to enter the spin-off dimension, presumably in a show that consists entirely of him crying alone in an empty room.
In case you're a rabid fan who's spent the past fortnight trying to avoid finding out what happens in this final episode, don't worry - I won't blow any "surprises" here, so relax. Breathe out. Unbutton yourself. Not that much.
Of course, you'd have to have poked your eyes out with a teaspoon to somehow dodge the finale-spoiling screengrabs and photos plastering the tabloids the day after its US broadcast, so you'll be enjoying the show in sound only - but you can't have everything.
(While we're on the subject, the single worst spoiler in history is the front cover to the VHS edition of the original Planet Of The Apes movie, which is largely taken up by an artist's impression of Charlton Heston slumped disconsolately in front of a half-buried Statue of Liberty. What next? A collector's edition of Seven housed inside a full-scale replica of Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head?).
Anyway: Friends. Or more specifically, The One I Warmed To Against My Will. When it started a full decade ago, I was virtually pre-programmed to despise it. That clean-cut, anodyne cast. Those newspaper articles about the wonderful haircuts. The whooping audience. That bloody theme tune.
Unfortunately, my steel-clad cynicism was permanently undermined when I accidentally caught an episode and found myself laughing. Afterwards, shuddering, I vowed to avoid it at all costs in case it shattered my cosy misanthropic worldview.
But recently, given its ubiquity in the Channel 4 schedule, I realised I'd become a fan by osmosis. I think it's the writing. No matter how many accusations you hurl at Friends, you can't deny it's funny. And engaging. And tightly plotted.
In fact, the way the plotting works is impressively shameless: most episodes open with a pre-credits sequence in which Character A bursts into Central Perk to nakedly deliver some crucial exposition - "I've got a job interview tomorrow!", "I just met this really hot guy!", "I found a magic whistle!" and so on - to be met by a chorus of quickfire gags from Characters B to D that a) make you laugh and b) distract you from the sheer cheek of establishing the storyline in such an unabashed manner. What's not to admire?
Then there's the performances, which are absurdly cartoonlike, yet rarely seem quite irritating enough to make you want to kick the screen in and start machine-gunning the neighbours. Matt LeBlanc, in particular, is responsible for more violent mugging than all the crackheads in New York put together. It's appropriate that he's going on to star in a spin-off called simply Joey, because he spends most of his screen time pulling silly faces and going "durrrrr", like the matinee-idol equivalent of a mid-1980s English schoolboy. They should shoot his new show through a horse collar and enter it into a gurning contest.
Still, Joey's the only cast member who hasn't become a wizened old twig, as evidenced by the title sequence, which cuts jarringly between contemporary snippets of our diet-ravaged chums and the ancient original opening credits in which they cavort in a fountain like bloated Cabbage Patch kids. It seems the NBC canteen serves nothing but soil and tiny pebbles to keep its million-dollar superstars in trim; compare this to EastEnders, where every cast member blobs out after three weeks in the Square and, in-between takes, there's a guy shovelling battered pies down their necks in a desperate bid to ensure they're too fat to fit the narrow aperture of the internet [W]-cams in their dressing rooms.
What with this and Frasier evacuating our living rooms, it's hard to see how our American cousins can ever make us laugh again. Unless they re-elect Bush. But that'd be very hollow laughter indeed.
I wonder what makes those whistles so damn magical?
I would read screenburn but I've been reading his column in The Guide every week for ages now, so I've already practically read the book. I remember this one.
The gag with Screenburn though was that he watched bad TV, so anything that appears in his columns or books is awful by default...just some things aren't as awful as others.
EDIT: Excellent book though, perfect for short train journeys.
EDIT #2: And what exactly is Brooker's fascination with spoons in eyes, and magic whistles? He mentions them every other page!
EDIT: Excellent book though, perfect for short train journeys.
EDIT #2: And what exactly is Brooker's fascination with spoons in eyes, and magic whistles? He mentions them every other page!
Great article. He told it how it is and got it right. Sometimes journalists will be critical to make a name for themselves, which could have been an easy trap to fall into, but this is a balanced bit of writing which was enjoyable to read because I was nodding in agreement the whole way through.
I have to agree with this.
couresy of Chalie Brooker.
-=-=-=-=-=
"I'll be there for you..." Not any more you won't. Wave goodbye to your Friends (Fri, 9pm, C4) because they're about to vanish forever. Apart from Joey, who's poised to enter the spin-off dimension, presumably in a show that consists entirely of him crying alone in an empty room.
In case you're a rabid fan who's spent the past fortnight trying to avoid finding out what happens in this final episode, don't worry - I won't blow any "surprises" here, so relax. Breathe out. Unbutton yourself. Not that much.
Of course, you'd have to have poked your eyes out with a teaspoon to somehow dodge the finale-spoiling screengrabs and photos plastering the tabloids the day after its US broadcast, so you'll be enjoying the show in sound only - but you can't have everything.
(While we're on the subject, the single worst spoiler in history is the front cover to the VHS edition of the original Planet Of The Apes movie, which is largely taken up by an artist's impression of Charlton Heston slumped disconsolately in front of a half-buried Statue of Liberty. What next? A collector's edition of Seven housed inside a full-scale replica of Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head?).
Anyway: Friends. Or more specifically, The One I Warmed To Against My Will. When it started a full decade ago, I was virtually pre-programmed to despise it. That clean-cut, anodyne cast. Those newspaper articles about the wonderful haircuts. The whooping audience. That bloody theme tune.
Unfortunately, my steel-clad cynicism was permanently undermined when I accidentally caught an episode and found myself laughing. Afterwards, shuddering, I vowed to avoid it at all costs in case it shattered my cosy misanthropic worldview.
But recently, given its ubiquity in the Channel 4 schedule, I realised I'd become a fan by osmosis. I think it's the writing. No matter how many accusations you hurl at Friends, you can't deny it's funny. And engaging. And tightly plotted.
In fact, the way the plotting works is impressively shameless: most episodes open with a pre-credits sequence in which Character A bursts into Central Perk to nakedly deliver some crucial exposition - "I've got a job interview tomorrow!", "I just met this really hot guy!", "I found a magic whistle!" and so on - to be met by a chorus of quickfire gags from Characters B to D that a) make you laugh and b) distract you from the sheer cheek of establishing the storyline in such an unabashed manner. What's not to admire?
Then there's the performances, which are absurdly cartoonlike, yet rarely seem quite irritating enough to make you want to kick the screen in and start machine-gunning the neighbours. Matt LeBlanc, in particular, is responsible for more violent mugging than all the crackheads in New York put together. It's appropriate that he's going on to star in a spin-off called simply Joey, because he spends most of his screen time pulling silly faces and going "durrrrr", like the matinee-idol equivalent of a mid-1980s English schoolboy. They should shoot his new show through a horse collar and enter it into a gurning contest.
Still, Joey's the only cast member who hasn't become a wizened old twig, as evidenced by the title sequence, which cuts jarringly between contemporary snippets of our diet-ravaged chums and the ancient original opening credits in which they cavort in a fountain like bloated Cabbage Patch kids. It seems the NBC canteen serves nothing but soil and tiny pebbles to keep its million-dollar superstars in trim; compare this to EastEnders, where every cast member blobs out after three weeks in the Square and, in-between takes, there's a guy shovelling battered pies down their necks in a desperate bid to ensure they're too fat to fit the narrow aperture of the internet [W]-cams in their dressing rooms.
What with this and Frasier evacuating our living rooms, it's hard to see how our American cousins can ever make us laugh again. Unless they re-elect Bush. But that'd be very hollow laughter indeed.
couresy of Chalie Brooker.
-=-=-=-=-=
"I'll be there for you..." Not any more you won't. Wave goodbye to your Friends (Fri, 9pm, C4) because they're about to vanish forever. Apart from Joey, who's poised to enter the spin-off dimension, presumably in a show that consists entirely of him crying alone in an empty room.
In case you're a rabid fan who's spent the past fortnight trying to avoid finding out what happens in this final episode, don't worry - I won't blow any "surprises" here, so relax. Breathe out. Unbutton yourself. Not that much.
Of course, you'd have to have poked your eyes out with a teaspoon to somehow dodge the finale-spoiling screengrabs and photos plastering the tabloids the day after its US broadcast, so you'll be enjoying the show in sound only - but you can't have everything.
(While we're on the subject, the single worst spoiler in history is the front cover to the VHS edition of the original Planet Of The Apes movie, which is largely taken up by an artist's impression of Charlton Heston slumped disconsolately in front of a half-buried Statue of Liberty. What next? A collector's edition of Seven housed inside a full-scale replica of Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head?).
Anyway: Friends. Or more specifically, The One I Warmed To Against My Will. When it started a full decade ago, I was virtually pre-programmed to despise it. That clean-cut, anodyne cast. Those newspaper articles about the wonderful haircuts. The whooping audience. That bloody theme tune.
Unfortunately, my steel-clad cynicism was permanently undermined when I accidentally caught an episode and found myself laughing. Afterwards, shuddering, I vowed to avoid it at all costs in case it shattered my cosy misanthropic worldview.
But recently, given its ubiquity in the Channel 4 schedule, I realised I'd become a fan by osmosis. I think it's the writing. No matter how many accusations you hurl at Friends, you can't deny it's funny. And engaging. And tightly plotted.
In fact, the way the plotting works is impressively shameless: most episodes open with a pre-credits sequence in which Character A bursts into Central Perk to nakedly deliver some crucial exposition - "I've got a job interview tomorrow!", "I just met this really hot guy!", "I found a magic whistle!" and so on - to be met by a chorus of quickfire gags from Characters B to D that a) make you laugh and b) distract you from the sheer cheek of establishing the storyline in such an unabashed manner. What's not to admire?
Then there's the performances, which are absurdly cartoonlike, yet rarely seem quite irritating enough to make you want to kick the screen in and start machine-gunning the neighbours. Matt LeBlanc, in particular, is responsible for more violent mugging than all the crackheads in New York put together. It's appropriate that he's going on to star in a spin-off called simply Joey, because he spends most of his screen time pulling silly faces and going "durrrrr", like the matinee-idol equivalent of a mid-1980s English schoolboy. They should shoot his new show through a horse collar and enter it into a gurning contest.
Still, Joey's the only cast member who hasn't become a wizened old twig, as evidenced by the title sequence, which cuts jarringly between contemporary snippets of our diet-ravaged chums and the ancient original opening credits in which they cavort in a fountain like bloated Cabbage Patch kids. It seems the NBC canteen serves nothing but soil and tiny pebbles to keep its million-dollar superstars in trim; compare this to EastEnders, where every cast member blobs out after three weeks in the Square and, in-between takes, there's a guy shovelling battered pies down their necks in a desperate bid to ensure they're too fat to fit the narrow aperture of the internet [W]-cams in their dressing rooms.
What with this and Frasier evacuating our living rooms, it's hard to see how our American cousins can ever make us laugh again. Unless they re-elect Bush. But that'd be very hollow laughter indeed.