There’s no denying that Matthew Perry is a talented and funny actor. I watched The Whole Nine Yards the other night and was struck by his exceptional physical comedy, needing to rewatch a particularly splendid pratfall because I was laughing so much.
He obviously wanted to bring out his book to explain the demons that have pretty much plagued him all his life, almost certainly stemming from the time he flew alone from his mother in Canada to his father in LA – aged FIVE. That’s a big deal, granted. But just because he wanted to write it doesn’t mean it was the best idea to do so. There were some intriguing snippets about his Friends cohorts (although not as much as I’d have liked), especially around his lingering crush on Aniston. There were some new and interesting stories I found out about him; his former prowess as a tennis player, his friendship with Hank Azaria, his courtship with Julia Roberts. But again and again, we had to hear about the latest drugs he imbibed which should surely have killed him, or booze imbibed which should surely have killed him, or rehab he tried which nearly killed him, or relationship he fucked up which felt like it killed him. Sure, it’s his book and he can write whatever he wants. But a lot of the material comes across as quite self-entitled and whiny, dare I say it. Especially when he bemoans his sorry state and says he would switch it for a normal person's life in an instant. He got a lot of stick on Twitter for slagging off Keanu Reeves. Clearly there’s some undisclosed beef here, cos Reeves seems an unlikely object of his ire. But like dear Lady Bracknell observed, once looks like misfortune, twice carelessness. Some pages after his remark that Keanu ‘still walks among us’ when such legends as River Phoenix are dead (which you could perhaps excuse as a moment of thoughtlessness), he mentions it again. Then there’s also his insistence on how very famous he is and couldn’t then, or even now, go anywhere or do anything because of it. Sure, all six of them were mega stars and are still recognised by a lot of people. But there’s vast swathes of the world that would have no idea who he is, thanks very much, and would easily walk past him in the street. No doubt if you’re surrounded by yes men, arse-kissers and screaming multitudes at highly publicised events, you imagine you’re the stuff of gods. But he’s not. I can’t think of anyone who’s globally famous to merit that level of grandiosity. Possibly the late Queen would come close. Chandler was always my favourite ‘Friend’, in part because I’m also an only child and quite often wisecrack my way out of awkward situations and make people laugh to like me (certainly did the latter at school to avoid being bullied). I still love watching Friends, even though there’s sections that don’t fit the mood of the time now (the fat-shaming and porn references particularly). And yes, Perry did contribute substantially to the scripts and deserves credit. I, as an actor, can separate character from an actor, but it's always been apparent that the Friends characters DID resemble their real life counterparts substantially (although Perry wryly remarks on how Chandler did better in the marriage stakes). But I have to block out the stuff I learnt about him when watching. It’s not on the level of meeting heroes being a disappointment, far from it. But I’d hoped for more self-awareness from him, more to admire, truth be told.
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The latest ‘WTF will people do next in a desperate bid for their 15 minutes?’ saw this unreality show, scheduled in an almost nightly glut over a few weeks in a slot late enough to allow for the swearing. From the same stable as The Traitors, this was an altogether brassier mare, not least due to the inclusion of rightwing GB News rentagob Sophie Corcoran, recently complaining about her university education going to the dogs because of Covid disruption, yet perfectly happy to take time out herself eating dog food in a bid to win wonga.
That was just one of the challenges the ‘grafters’ had to carry out to obtain money for the eventual winner (up to £100k was the maximum, they managed to get it to around £85k). Others included nearly electrocuting themselves, sitting in an ice bath and licking a whole load of crockery. They were parked down in the basement of a building somewhere on The Thames, although they wouldn’t know it because they never saw daylight. The ‘rulers’ did however. They had a glorious view over London and Sheryl, saucer-eyed as she surveyed the Houses of Parliament, exclaimed (in a voice that went up to eleven) they should let her into there to ‘sort things out.’ She was just one in a number of characters, for long gone are the days we are permitted to be entertained by ordinary folk. There was Ramona, whose protrusions entered a room a few seconds before she did. I know it’s unsisterly to comment on it, but her preferred attire, of suit jackets and no shirt thereby displaying her bra, barely contained said items. Anyway, she was as loud as Sheryl and continually referred to herself in the third person as ‘lady boss’ which is a hard pass from me. There was also builder Jack, for whom the term Jack the Lad was invented; Sydney, who he engaged with in what I learn is a ‘showmance’ (as in a romance purely for the purposes of a show); Marina, the unnervingly over-confident 18-year-old, all bluster and bravado unmatched by performance. The same was true at the other end of the spectrum with 69-year-old Jeff, boring everyone rigid with how many years (417 at the last count) he’d run businesses for; slightly unhinged Joas, who engaged in a spat with Sophie and got himself evicted on the spot; enthusiastic Isaak, Ali (who sensibly left after a day); thoroughly nice Joanna and so many more. I got a bit confused in the end with all the comings and goings. People would be evicted from the penthouse only to pop up again in the basement, and each time there was a ‘rise vote’ (whereby a grafter got their chance to go up to the penthouse), the rejected potentials would be sent back down. That lift saw more action than a whore’s drawers. As many a comment on Twitter said, it seemed like the rules of the show had been made up the night before in the pub. It was flawed from the start; whereby the original six rulers were selected by the group when they’d only just met each other, or in the case of Rachel and Sheryl ignoring that and just charging into the lift; to the end when the winner was chosen by a trio of rejectees rather than the group as a whole. Alliances were formed and quickly cast aside, contestants were accused of being snakes or bad leaders and therefore needing to be ejected from the Red Room. The ‘good ruler’ accolade was probably the most nonsensical part. All any of them did was decide on how many shifts the basement dwellers did, bicker and backstab. A better leadership challenge would have been planning and executing a task a la The Apprentice, or mediating a dispute, rather than exacerbating it. The grafters meanwhile, talked as if they had spent all day down t’pit slaving on their 'work shifts', rather than the (admittedly unpleasant) challenges which lasted no more than twenty minutes. The rulers certainly dressed themselves as if they were on The Apprentice though. The shoulder pads and lip gloss could rival Dallas, as they walked in slow-mo down one of the corridors of power, their stomachs groaning under the weight of the mega buffet they’d just gorged on. The grafters had to exist on soup and bread that they made themselves, cold showers, a dorm of uncomfortable beds and jumpsuits in mostly unflattering colours. In the end the final two were Eddy; a man from a privileged background, whose family lived in a stately home, yet had apparently fallen on hard times; and single mum Sydney, who worked as a delivery driver. Of course Eddy won. This is capitalist Britain, how could he not? And after all, he’d done all the grafting and motivating and baking in his time in the basement, whereas Sydney had been part of a tense standoff when selected to the penthouse that saw the team lose £14k. I didn’t particularly mind Eddy winning, but by that point, nobody really cared. It seems unlikely it will return for another series, like the equally bizarre The Love Trap Channel 4 foisted on us a couple of years back, also fronted by a kinda smarmy, sardonic, smirking presenter. Nor is it likely any of the participants will emerge as bona fide ‘slebs’, a view not shared by them as a number have recently eagerly created Twitter accounts, with an ‘all enquiries to my agent’ type bio. Of course, there’s often a vacancy in The Cabinet, maybe they’ll end up there. |
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