Anal fissures, man boobs and domestic violence - it's Men's Hour on Radio 5 Live

Reviewed: Men's Hour.

Men’s Hour
Radio 5 Live

The first edition of a new series of Men’s Hour (Sundays, 9pm) promised “a Brighton man on his third jaw implant and a cosmetic surgeon who outlines just what steps presenter Tim Samuels needs to take to improve his looks”.

Possibly the third jaw implant was still too accentuated by rows of pus-yellow stitches to make it into the studio, because on the day of the programme Samuels was joined instead by Tristan, who solemnly admitted to having the soundly less exciting Botox and fillers but was opposed to the whole boiled egg look in general. “I’m not a wax candle. That’s key.”

The cosmetic surgery segment was pointedly non-judgemental. There can be absolutely no place for scorn or incredulity on Men’s Hour. No Jenni Murray shading her voice with bottomless pity or helping herself to calves liver and fried sage while the latest dolled-up sharpie of a TV chef frantically paws for answers.

(I once, years ago, saw Nigella sitting outside the Woman’s Hour studio patiently waiting to be interviewed on air, holding an enormous, seething baking tray packed with chicken legs and wings emitting clouds of crisp BBQ smoke. This was 10am. But what Jenni wants, Jenni – quite rightly – gets.)

Samuels is too keen to be liked and lets his guests get away with murder. “I did feel I just wanted to have the injections because I just wanted to have the look,” concluded one guy, after zero thought.

Samuels nodded at this pearl and let it pass, in that slow-blooded way of his, as though he left home for a short walk once and just lost track of time, which is, I guess, how many of us feel about life, but now and again one wishes Samuels might get excited about something.

Anal fissures, man boobs, domestic violence – it was all discussed in the underpowered tones of a hairdresser who’s letting you sit with a post-shampoo towel on your head while they distractedly gather their tools. I’m not saying that presenters continually need to sound like inmates of the gulag stunned by the goings on in the remote libertarian hinterlands (you injected your face with a mixture of your own blood and a numbing agent? Tell me again!) but give it some welly, Tim. Give it some Jenni.

Filler night. Photo: 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.

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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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