To describe a comedy as "dark" is virtually a compliment in itself these days. That unexpected wrench into tragedy, exemplified by the coronary suffered by Beverley's husband in Abigail's Party, defies you to dismiss the comic voice as trivial. But the greater talent is to make a light and airy comedy that works, the perfect souffle being the hardest culinary miracle of all.
Victoria Wood's Dinnerladies (BBC1, Thursday, 9.30pm) rises magnificently, if not as yet quite effortlessly. In last week's debut episode you could just sense the sweat behind the ingenuity with which Wood introduced nine characters to us, five of them dressed identically in their catering tunics. The characters were immediately distinct, even if each had a voice we already know from Wood's sketch shows and even if their repartee suggested they had spent too many evenings at her one-woman shows. Now we have reached the second episode and, rounded out in performance, they already seem to be speaking, as it were, their own lines.
Wood writes, produces and stars as Bren, a single, childless woman who lives for her job. Bren's pleasures are watching movies on TV and removing the labels from her tins because that way she doesn't know what she is having for her tea. Wood has chosen an equally happy environment for herself, too. If your strength is a weakness for product names and the respectable but struggling working classes, then a works canteen in northern England is your ideal habitat. Like Bren, Wood is happily wed to the mundane, because the mundane, like many an unlikely groom, makes the lady laugh.
The dialogue is Wood at her most highly varnished. "You haven't got your granary torpedoes," said Tony, the manager, in episode one. "I've given you loaves in lieu." It is, of course, the juxtaposition of the bakery and the military, plain English and legalistic French, that is funny, but Wood revels also in the metric equivalences and the alliterations - those and the filthiness of her little follow-up joke about "crusty bloomers".
Wood's virtuosity is such that it is hard to predict quite what kind of show Dinnerladies will end up as. So far, to adapt Churchill, it is a souffle without a theme. The cast is dominated by women but its two men, the innuendo-driving manager Tony (Andrew Dunn) and the technocratic repairman Stan (Duncan Preston), are neither objects of hate nor ridicule. You would expect class antagonism to be aimed at Celia Imrie's human resources manager, Philippa (from Surrey, you know), but she is humoured rather than feared by the dinner ladies. The series may yet need to find itself a baddy. Perhaps Twinkle, the disgruntled young worker who paraphrases Philippa's suggestion that they "toss ideas into the pot" as "toss pot", will get an ever bigger mouth.
As it is, the only truly discordant figure is Bren's dishevelled, kleptomaniac mum, played by Julie Walters. Petula, who, the production notes reveal, had Bren as a teenager, consigned her to an orphanage and then lost the address, seems to have wandered into Dinnerladies from somewhere else, the great hinterland of sadness even canteens have. She will either prove pivotal or be quietly written out.
Wood burnishes cliches until we see ourselves reflected in them. I wish I knew what writer Bryan Elsley thought he was doing with them in The Young Person's Guide to Becoming a Rock Star, a comedy drama on Channel 4 (Tuesday, 10pm) as clumsy as its title. Told in the first person by Jez (Ciaran McMenamin), it is the cartoonish history of an imaginary teenage rock band. Stylistically, it is a little like Trainspotting, if you can imagine the naughtiest thing in Trainspotting being Ewan McGregor caught with a microphone down his jeans. In this week's second episode Jez told us confidently: "Never be afraid of turning rock cliches to your advantage; in the case of the rock'n'roll punch-up it never fails to impress." Don't be so sure, mate.
And what charitable to say about Sermon from St Albion's (ITV, Sunday, 10.30pm)? This is Ian Hislop's adaptation of the Private Eye column starring Harry Enfield as the Rev Blair smarming from the pulpit before an eerily silent congregation (he should hire the claques who manage to laugh at Clarkson). There's light humour and there's dark humour. Sermon identifies a third category: funereal.
Andrew Billen is a staff writer on the London "Evening Standard"