Holey private: dreams of health for loadsamoney. Photo: BBC
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Theatres of the absurd: the unadulterated horror of Harley Street

Six months of treatment for cancer? A mere £30,000 at London's most exclusive clinics.

Inside Harley Street
BBC2

Don’t be misled by the outwardly jaunty tone: in her new films about Harley Street (Mondays, 9pm), the documentary-maker Vanessa Engle has opened a vein of unadulterated horror. How desperate people are, and how deluded. I suppose we all know that human beings will cough up almost any amount of cash in pursuit of hope. But it’s surprising and rather devastating to find that they also write vast cheques in exchange for hugs, handshakes and empty blandishments. “You look great!” trills a plastic surgeon to her seventysomething-year-old patient as she arrives at her consulting room post-facelift, looking like something out of a Channel 4 drama about domestic violence. Beneath her gaze, the patient, bruised and battered, blooms like a flower. It seems not to occur to her that the doctor is merely praising her own (very expensive) handiwork.

Engle (Jews, Women, Welcome to the World of Weight Loss) has a satirical eye and is known for asking her interviewees blunt questions (“What’s your worst fear? That he might die from cancer?”). But what I like best about her technique is her swift, minimalist way with folly. So deftly does she lay it out – she is the surgeon here – that we’ve no option but to fall into line in the matter of judgement. Will a hair transplant change a young man’s life? It seems unlikely, and perhaps his mother is weeping because she already knows that it won’t. Will a husband appreciate, or even notice, his wife’s umpteenth cosmetic procedure? Well, anything for a quiet life; but no. Is it really possible to believe that, as a doctor, you were put on the earth to perform liposuction on sad young women? Definitely not, for all that you might well have a carefully prepared line about making people “feel” better.

Engle’s series is in three parts. The first film focuses on those who visit Harley Street because they are sick and the doctors who treat them. The second (airs 20 April) is about plastic surgery (I watched a preview because once I’d seen the first film I couldn’t bear not to). The third is about complementary therapies (ditto). The last two films are, I think, better than the first, and you should certainly try to catch them; I can’t remember a bit of observational TV that made me feel more disapprovingly Protestant, feminist and, above all, rationalist. But the first film had its moments, too. I do see that if you have cancer, and enough money, you might want to opt out of the NHS. Then again, if the highly qualified professional I was paying hundreds of quid an hour addressed my mother with the words “Hello, Mum!” I think my fear would temporarily shade into indignation. Equally mystifying was the young woman who wanted to be treated for breast cancer by the same clinic that had cared for her father. She wanted, she said, to share the same cancer “journey”. This dear dad, by the way, had since died.

The sums involved made your eyes pop. Six months of treatment for cancer? A mere £30,000. I tried to unpick the complicated mathematics of risk, faith and profit, but it was tricky. All the doctors involved confessed to having private insurance. Then again, the leading urologist Professor Roger Kirby admitted that the NHS had the same equipment as his clinic; the difference is that he offers a more personalised service (for instance: making the effort to learn the Norwegian word for “cured” while treating a patient from Oslo). How did they feel about working in the private sector? Not too conflicted, I would say. Only one, Professor Justin Stebbing, who runs a cancer research unit in the NHS alongside his Harley Street practice, said it sat “badly” with him.

And how did the patients feel about handing over their credit cards? Pretty good. One woman, pterodactyl-like behind glasses as big as television screens, had no idea how much her medical bills came to. “This is like asking Cameron how much a bottle of milk is,” she said, en route to her Bentley. Still, in the matter of serious illness (as opposed to the chap who rings his private GP at 2am and demands to have his blood pressure checked on returning from the casino), pity usually trumps politics, or so I find. Save your outrage for the next two films, which are Engle at her very best – and that’s really saying something.

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 17 April 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Election Special

Marvel Studios
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In Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2, every other line reeks of a self-help manual

This lame sequel suggests the makers have largely forgotten why the original was so refreshing.

The 2014 romp Guardians of the Galaxy boasted the budget of a blockbuster and the soul of a B-movie. What that meant in practice was that audiences had to endure the same biff-pow battle scenes and retina-blistering effects as any space adventure, but they were rewarded with eccentric characters and tomfoolery for its own sake.

Despite the Marvel Studios imprimatur, the film showed the forces of intergalactic evil being fought not by superheroes, but by a ragtag band of bickering goofballs: Peter Quill (Chris Pratt), aka Star-Lord, a self-regarding rogue in the Han Solo mould; the green-faced alien Gamora (Zoe Saldana); Drax (Dave Bautista), a literal-minded hulk; Rocket, a racoon-like warrior (voiced by Bradley Cooper); and Groot, a piece of bark that says “I am Groot” over and over in the dulcet tones of Vin Diesel. Movies this odd don’t usually become $770m smash hits but this one did – deservedly.

Those characters return in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 (the “Vol 2” reflects Peter’s love of mix-tapes) but the new film suggests the makers have largely forgotten why the original was so refreshing. Gags are rehashed; several sequences (including an interminable slow-motion section involving a laser-powered arrow) are dragged way beyond their desirable lifespan. Late in the day, Rocket tells his shipmates that they have too many issues, which rather pinpoints the problem with the screenplay by the director, James Gunn. Gunn has saddled his characters with unreasonable baggage, all of it relating to family and belonging. No matter how far into space they travel, all roads lead back to the therapist’s couch.

Peter, raised by his late mother, is delighted when Ego (Kurt Russell) materialises claiming to be the father he never knew. The old man makes grand pronouncements, only to undercut them within seconds (“’Scuse me, gotta take a whizz”) but, on the plus side, he has his own planet and pulls the whole “One day, son, all this will be yours” shtick. Gamora also has family business to contend with. Her blue-skinned sister, Nebula (Karen Gillan), wants to kill her: Nebula has never quite got over Gamora being Daddy’s favourite. To be fair, though, he did force them to fight one another, replacing parts of Nebula’s body with metal whenever she lost, so it’s not like we’re talking about only one sister being allowed to watch Top of the Pops.

The more Peter gets to know Ego, the less admirable he seems as a father, and soon we are in the familiar territory of having parenting lessons administered by a Hollywood blockbuster. The reason for this became obvious decades ago: the film industry is populated by overworked executives who never get to see their children, or don’t want to, and so compensate by greenlighting movies about what it means to be a good parent. Every other line here reeks of the self-help manual. “Please give me the chance to be the father your mother wanted me to be,” Ego pleads. Even a minor character gets to pause the action to say: “I ain’t done nothing right my whole life.” It’s dispiriting to settle down for a Guardians of the Galaxy picture only to find you’re watching Field of Dreams with added asteroids.

Vol 2 gets by for an hour or so on some batty gags (Gamora misremembering the plot and star of Knight Rider is an especially juicy one) and on the energising power of Scott Chambliss’s glorious production design. The combination of the hi-tech and the trashy gives the film the appearance of a multimillion-dollar carnival taking place in a junkyard. Spectacular battles are shot through scuffed and scratched windscreens, and there are spacesuits cobbled together from tin pots and bubble-wrap. This is consistent with the kitschfests that inspired the Guardians aesthetic: 1980s science-fiction delights such as Flash Gordon, Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension.

If only Vol 2 had mimicked their levity and brevity. Gunn ends his overlong movie with a bomb being attached to a giant brain, but this is wishful thinking on his part. He hasn’t blown our minds at all. It’s just a mild case of concussion. 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

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