Saturday Edition on BBC Radio 5 Live: A complete waste of space

The programme took a good three hours to tell us why commercial space travel has been nothing but a disappointment.

Saturday Edition
BBC Radio 5 Live

A humans-in-space special (22 June, 7pm) devoted three hours to previewing what it will be like for travellers on the first commercial flights into the void between celestial bodies next year. Thus far, it was roundly agreed, things have been a bit duff. “We were promised space stations,” grumbled someone from the Jodrell Bank Observatory. “We were promised jet-packed lunar whatsits.”

The star of the show was an Italian astronaut, Paolo Nespoli, speaking down the line from Planet Earth, although the connection was very bad. Nobody thought to explain why – it was as if all phone calls from astronauts, whatever their location, necessarily sound this crackly. Paolo trained for ten years for a spacewalk that “never happened”, because there was “never any emergency to deal with”, and spent much of his 12 months up at the International Space Station taking 26,000 photographs of the Great Wall of China.

“Speak English good . . . Health status Superman,” communicated Paolo, mysteriously. “Hmm, hmm,” keened Chris Warburton in the studio. Did Paolo ever get a migraine? “Pretty good . . . Pharmacy on-board,” crackled Paolo. Now you’re talking. But immediately it switches to Richard Branson yelling, “To be perfectly honest, I think it would be sad for someone to not want to go to space!” in an advert for Virgin Galactic. Six hundred people have already bought tickets at $250,000 each. For this, they will train for three days and then take “the slow walk over the tarmac” towards the craft.

This branch of tourism is entirely dependent on this one image: the slo-mo stride in white suits. However, those still hoping for space stations are doomed to further disappointment. With engines so powerful that the jets can eject from pretty much anywhere, travellers will presumably be leaving from Heathrow. The flight lasts two hours – four minutes to reach space, five minutes experiencing weightlessness and oodles of time to take photos of the Great Wall. Never has the banality of the project been so baldly put. Nobody pointed out that surely space travel will become less successful the more people do it. Once you are the third oligarch around the dinner table parading your photos of the pyramids, the price will come crashing down. Eventually, the whole thing will die away out of sheer tedium.

"The star of the show was Paolo Nespoli, speaking down the line from Planet Earth, although the connection was very bad." Photograph: Getty Images.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Brazil erupts

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Netflix's Ozark is overstuffed – not to mention tonally weird

Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

The main reason why Ozark, the new Netflix series, feels so underpowered has to do with its star, Jason Bateman (who also directs): a good actor who badly wants for charisma, he simply can’t carry it alone. Watching the first few episodes, I kept thinking of Jon Hamm in Mad Men and (a better example here) Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, both of whom played, as does Bateman, characters around which the plots of their respective series turned. When they were on screen, which was often, it was all but impossible to tear your eyes from them; when they were off it, you felt like you were only biding your time until they returned. But when Bateman disappears from view, you hardly notice. In fact, it feels like a plus: at least now you might get to see a bit more of the deft and adorable Laura Linney.

In Ozark, Bateman is Marty, an outwardly square guy whose big secret is that he is a money launderer for the second biggest drugs cartel in Mexico. When the series opens, he and his wife Wendy (Linney) and their two children are living in Chicago, where he nominally works as a financial advisor.

By the end of the first episode, however, they’re on their way to the Lake of the Ozarks in rural Missouri. Marty’s partner, Bruce, has been on the fiddle, and the cartel, having summarily executed him, now wants Marty both to pay back the cash, and to establish a few new businesses in which future income may be cleaned far from the prying eyes of the law enforcement agencies. If this sounds derivative, it is. We’re in the realm of Breaking Bad, only where that show gave us out-of-control Bunsen burners and flesh-eating chemicals, this one is more preoccupied with percentages and margins.

Where’s the friction? Well, not only is the FBI on Marty’s tail, his wife has been cheating on him, with the result that their marriage is now just another of his business arrangements. The locals (think Trump supporters with beards as big as pine trees) have proved thus far to be on the unfriendly side, and having paid off their debts, the only house Marty can afford has a cliché – sorry, crotchety old guy – living in the basement. On paper, admittedly, this all sounds moderately promising. But hilarity does not ensue. As dull as the Lake of the Ozarks when the tourist season is over, not even Linney can make Bill Dubuque’s dialogue come alive. Her character should be traumatised: before they left Chicago, the cartel, for reasons I do not completely understand, pushed her podgy lover – splat! – off his balcony. Instead, she’s fussing about the crotchety old guy’s sexism.

Ozark is overstuffed and tonally weird, so I won’t be binge-watching this one. This completes rather a bad run for me and Netflix; after the lame new series of House of Cards and the egregious Gypsy, this is the third of its shows on the trot to bore me rigid. Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

And now to The Sweet Makers: A Tudor Treat (19 July, 8pm), in which we hear the sound of the “living history” barrel being scraped so loudly, those attending the meeting at which it was commissioned must surely have worn ear defenders. Basically, this is a series in which four confectioners “go back in time” to discover how their forebears used sugar (first, the Tudors; next week, the Georgians).

What it means in practice is lots of Generation Game-style faffing with candied roses and coriander comfits by people in long skirts and silly hats – a hey-nonny-nonny fiesta of pointlessness that is itself a sugar coating for those nasty things called facts (ie a bit of tokenism about slavery and our ancestors’ trouble with their teeth).

Resident expert, food historian Dr Annie Gray, strained to give the proceedings urgency, sternly reminding the confectioners that the sugar house they’d spent hours building did not yet have a roof. But who cared if it didn’t? Destined to be eaten by fake Tudor guests at a fake Tudor banquet, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to lose their head for it – not even, alas, at Broadcasting House. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder

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