When a book on quantum gravity came on air, it sounded like a brief return to something that has declined so much over our lifetimes – knowledge as part of a function of a media flow.
The plot reared up and hissed like a snake. Improbabilities. Coincidences. Unlikely connections. A frenzied cheesiness suddenly infected the storytelling.
Antonia Quirke on radio.
Videos made by the candidates fail to go viral.
Having listened to the show for three weeks, I am repeatedly struck by its unusually fluctuating tone.
Cruickshank seems unable to speak in anything other than an urgent whisper while Graham-Dixon has the kind of face that looks particularly good rounding the top of a stone spiral staircase on a cold March morning.
An interesting tension exists in the film between that grunginess and passages of intense beauty. It is a compliment commonly paid to well-shot films to say that any one of their frames could be hung in a gallery. This is unmistakably the case here.
No thanks – I really don’t want to take part in the “Identity Parade” on Never Mind the Buzzcocks.
Horror ensues as the candidates attempt to make and sell scented candles.
With its 1990s Cher wigs, glossy modern make-up and Disneyfied London, even a lustful Samuel Pepys can’t save ITV’s The Great Fire.
From baseball to the Roosevelts, the film-maker Ken Burns has devoted a career to resurrecting America’s history.
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