Farewell to a dead Ender

11 April 2012

Despite being a television critic by trade, I like to keep abreast of the storylines in the latest cinema releases.

Thus it was that I recently happened upon a synopsis of Rectuma by the writer-director Mark Pirro, the gentleman previously responsible for such Gothic masterpieces as Curse of the Queerwolf and Nudist Colony of the Dead.

According to the summary I read, "While vacationing in Mexico, Waldo Williams (Bill Devlin) gets raped by a poisonous toad, then tried to cure his subsequently diseased prostate by inserting a radioactive rod into his anus.

The result is that his rear end develops a mind of its own, becoming both detachable and homicidal, before ultimately growing to Godzilla-like dimensions. Contains strong language." Now that is what I call a plot.

Poor old Mark Fowler lost the plot of EastEnders (BBC1) some time ago, but he finally found one again last night, courtesy of Walford cemetery.

It's more than a year since he left Albert Square with his motorbike and his full-blown Aids, but now he's residing once again in the area he came from, albeit in a box, and henceforth will surely live up to the family name (well, he's six feet under and has kicked the breathing habit, so he's bound to get Fowler with every passing day).

Although we didn't see the corpse, the character played for so long by Todd Carty is now officially worm food, and eligible for an appearance in Halo! magazine, on account of his uncanny impersonation of a door nail, and his being urgently required by Jesus for a sunbeam.

But I hope that grieving viewers didn't turn tearfully over to ITV1 as the closing music faded away, otherwise they'd have seen him large as life on The Bill, masquerading as PC Gabriel Kent, because (as we used to say in the days before multi-channel television kicked in), he has passed over to the other side in every sense of the phrase.

Soaps have always adored funerals and weddings, and last night's episode showed us why.

Not only does the solemnity of the ceremony automatically give the drama a gravitas it hasn't necessarily earned, but the occasion also allows the characters (even a zombiefied Dr Legg) to gather together in one place and reminisce about their own collective past, when usually they're hopelessly caught up in the perpetually stormy present.

Furthermore, such episodes are a scriptwriter's dream, because most of the dialogue writes itself, from the phatic outpourings of emotion ("Mark was the best brother anyone could have ... I really loved him") to the timelessly portentous words of the religious service.

"We are gathered here today to give thanks for the life of ... The Lord giveth and The Lord taketh away ... earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, funk to funky, we know Major Tom's a junkie." That sort of thing.

Being no longer a regular visitor to Albert Square, I was reassured to see that some things have remained the same since the days when I never missed an episode.

Young men still threaten each other in a curious vocabulary purloined from the Kray Twins, the Walford accent is still more mockney than cockney (like Spanish ranches, they're all fincas, "finc-in about this ... and finc-in about that"), and Pauline Fowler (apparently now wearing Dale Winton's sloughed-off skin) still can't act, to the extent that, last night, even a PG Tips chimp could have upstaged her.

Dirty Den is back too, although his erstwhile job as landlord of the Queen Vic has now been usurped by Alfie Moon (surely the least believable name in contemporary TV fiction, just as Shane Richie is the least believable name in contemporary TV fact).

Sadly there was no sign at the funeral of Kaff from the naff caff, either. Well, she's probably still smarting after being on the receiving end of a lawyer's rough tongue in the High Court some time ago, following a much-publicised incident in a layby, when her boyfriend was on the receiving end of hers. Ah well, life sucks. As does Kaff.

With its resilient viewing figures, its impressively high production standards (thanks in part to Elstree Studio Facilities, with their crane shots and Corybantine hot-heads), and its unremittingly bleak view of human existence, EastEnders is by no means a soap on the ropes.

But at present it seems desperately lacking in the balancing humour that has always been the life-blood of Coronation Street (and that Albert Square possessed in the days when the sublime Frank and Pat Butcher were at the zenith of their partnership), and even in an episode that's based around a funeral, the Northerners would surely have found some pretext for the consolation of laughter.

Thinking of Mark's long-drawnout decline into the grave, I began wondering what's happened to Roy Horn (of Siegfried and Roy fame), because I've heard nothing about his condition since that day last October when a white tiger decided to break with tradition by making a magician disappear.

The poor beast must have had a nerve-racking time afterwards, uncertain if it was going to live or die - until the Aids test results came through, I suppose. I wonder if it now considers itself to be fully blown?

Farewell to a dead Ender

Read More