What’s happened to RTE’s Other Voices?

St. James church in Dingle, co. Kerry.

What’s going on with the once great Other Voices? The first episode in this the 16th season began exactly as you would have expected, with BBC Radio 1 dj Annie Mac delivering an intro promising music from the likes of Perfume Genius (reviewed earlier here) and Django Django, with reports and footage from festivals in Berlin, Belfast and at the Electric Picnic.

The usual heady mix then of left of field, broadly indie fare mixed with the best in Irish music, and all set against the picture postcard-perfect backdrop of a church in Dingle. But that intro, it transpired, was for the series, not for the episode at hand which was considerably less auspicious.

Ibeyi, from Paris via Cuba.

First up were Picture This, who hail from Athy. If you’ve ever passed through Athy, you’ll know that at its centre sits Shaws, the drapers where every local mother brings her son and daughter to get fitted out for their first holy communion, conformation and debs. And which famously ran an ad declaring, gloriously, “Shaws, almost nationwide!” Which is all the more delightful in its refusal of the obviously correct “nearly nationwide”.

Had it been penned by a beard in Williamsburg it would quite rightly have been hailed as a brilliantly biting deconstruction of what advertising copy is supposed to do. Let’s just assume that’s exactly what was intended by whoever came up with it here. Well, Picture This sound exactly what you’d expect a band from Athy to sound like.

Wyvern Lingo.

Next up were a couple of numbers from Sigrid, an oh so earnest Swedish would-be teen queen whose dreary synth pop is obviously going down a storm with the pre-tweens, and who was clearly as surprised to find herself on stage singing as we were to see here performing on it. No doubt she’ll have a host of hilarious stories to tell her class mates once she goes back to college to finish her degree in architecture or interior design, before settling down to bring up her kids.

After the break we had a couple of songs from Wyvern Lingo, a genuinely compelling trio from Bray who set their mellifluous melodies to glitchy indietronica, very much in the mode of Sylvan Esso – who themselves are made up of one part of Mountain Man, who Wyvern Lingo were compared to when they started out.

Katie Kim performs at the RTE Choice Music Prize 2016, by Kieran Frost

After that, we were given a haunting performance from singer songwriter Maria Kelly, and it looked as if the programme was back on track. But immediately after that it was up to Belfast, and who did they find to record there? Only Picture This. And, sure enough, after Belfast it was back to Dingle we were treated to no fewer than four further tracks from Athy’s finest, and another three from Sigrid, the very much not Stina Nordenstam.

So three quarters of the programme was devoted to a pair of young-fogey, pub-rockers from the midlands, and the least threatening Swedish chanteuse you’ll ever hear.

There’s nothing wrong with devoting three quarters of your programme to just two acts, so long as the acts in question merit that attention. If the focus had been on, say, Katie Kim (reviewed here), Lisa Hannigan, Brigid Mae Power or Rejji Snow from these shores, or, from further afield, on the likes of Cigarettes After Sex, Ibeyi (reviewed here) or Car Seat Headrest (reviewed here). Or, most obviously of all, if they’d turned the show on its head, and given three quarters of it to Wyvern Lingo and Maria Kelly, and just the 20 minutes to Picture This and Sigrid.

Car Seat Headrest’s brilliant Teens of Denial.

There’s nothing wrong with Picture This, but their debut album went to number 1 here (and there’s a prize of a Curly Wurly and a sherbet dip for anyone who can correctly guess what they called it), and there are any number of outlets where they play that sort MOR music wall to wall, night and day. The whole point about Other Voices is that the music it gives voice to is supposed to be precisely that, other.

Here’s the video for Wyvern Lingo’s Out of My Hands and the video for I Love You, Sadie also from Wyvern Lingo.

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BoJack Horseman, Netflix’s secret sleeper star

BoJack Horseman.

Season 4 of BoJack Horseman aired on Netflix this past autumn, and if you’ve yet to be pointed in its very particular direction you’re in for a treat. It’s the latest in the long line of animated, adult dramedies that stretches back to South Park (reviewed earlier here), King of the Hill, Beavis and Butthead and of course the Simpsons.

Ensconced in his hilltop, penthouse apartment in the mythical LA suburb of Hollywoo, BoJack is a washed-up hasbeen who used to the star of the squeaky-clean sitcom Horsin’ Around, who spends his days in a drug-fuelled, alcoholic haze of privileged self-pity.

Diane, Todd and BoJack.

The show’s stiletto humour stems from two sources. On the one hand, it’s a gloriously acerbic picking apart of the media landscape as the worlds of film, television and publishing are gleefully trashed. Brilliantly barbed one liners are fired back and forth with sarcastic brio, in the way that was supposed to have been done in the, whisper it, disappointingly overrated His Girl Friday.

And on the other, half of the characters are, by the bye, animals. So Bojack is in fact an actual horse. But his stoner houseguest Todd is a 20 something guy, and Diane, his soulmate and ghost writer is a 20 something girl. She though is married to BoJack’s best frenemy Mr. Peanutbutter, who’s a golden Labrador. And his agent Princess Caroline is a cat, who later hooks up with a wealthy mouse, heir to the Stilton Hotel fortune. What all this allows for is some fantastically laboured puns and slapstick, together with a plethora of ridiculously elaborate setups that eventually produce wonderfully silly pay-offs.

The main man, Raphael Bob-Waksberg.

All of which would be enjoyable enough. But what really elevates the series is the emotional depth and complexity that they manage to reap from the soapy storylines that they hang all this on. They do this, as Emily Nussbaum writes in her piece in the New Yorker here, by expanding the show’s horizons from season 2 on, by giving each of the protagonists their own storylines, instead of just focusing on BoJack, as they do in season 1. So you end up being as invested in Todd, Diane, Princess Caroline and even Mr Peanuttbutter, as you do in BoJack.

The result is both the funniest, and the most engaging show currently being aired anywhere on television. And it’s hard not to conclude that its showrunner and chief writer Raphael Bob Waksberg is some sort of a latter day Dorothy Parker. If you’ve yet to sample its delights, then by all means begin at the beginning, with season 1. But be warned, it gets significantly better from season 2 on.

You can see the trailer for season 4 of BoJack Horseman here. And here’s a 10 minute compilation of some of the funniest bits from season 2 here.

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The Leftovers, another gem from HBO.

the Leftovers.

the Leftovers.

HBO’s the Leftovers is a deceptively high concept series. On October 14th 2011, 2% of the world’s population suddenly disappear. Which doesn’t sound terribly catastrophic until you do the maths. In a village of 100 people living in 25 houses, two of those house will have suddenly lost someone, literally into thin air, never to see them again, without ever finding out how or why.

Understandably, the suburban town we find ourselves in, in upstate New York, has been utterly devastated, as has every other corner of the country. The Departure, as it’s referred to, is effectively a What If addressed to the Evangelicals.


Father and daughter.

Evangelical Christians believe that the Rapture is imminent, by which they mean they expect it to occur within the decade. When it does, the chosen few will be spirited up to Heaven, and the rest of us will be left behind. The Leftovers asks us to imagine, what would that actually look like, in practical terms.

Except it doesn’t. Because it’s even worse than that, as no one can identify anything that might connect those who were spirited away – if that was what happened to them – any more than they can explain why they, the leftovers, were not. So nobody can be sure exactly what happened on that fateful day, and all too many characters have their own particular theory.

The result is a post-apocalyptic landscape where heightened religious fervour merges with unmanageable guilt and suspicion, so that everyone and everything, however apparently mundane, is viewed with unimaginable anxiety. Dogs have become feral, deer conversely wander in and out of houses. Messiahs materialise, cults are formed and everyone’s addicted to prescription drugs and alcohol. Smoking increases, and there’s a general sense of lawlessness. But more than anything else, families fall apart.

Oh dear.

Oh dear.

The series revolves, just about, around the figure of Justin Theroux, the local cop whose marriage fell apart around the Departure, and whose father, who was the chief before him, is currently hospitalised in an institution. But as often as not, an episode will focus on a peripheral character. A pastor, a member of a cult, a woman who lost her husband and both her children, immediately after arguing with her youngest, all of whom are connected to Theroux in differing ways.

The Leftovers was aired on HBO and is effectively the follow up to Lost for Damon Lindelof. And whatever he might say publically, he clearly has leant many a lesson from that less than satisfying experience. The principle improvement is scope. This is a far more focused affair, homing in on a much smaller group of characters.

Lyv Tyler.

Lyv Tyler.

Ironically, what this allows for is a far more experimental approach to storytelling. The Leftovers is surprisingly fluid and nebulous, which only adds to its sense of eerie dread. None of us know what’s going to happen next any more than any of the characters do. There’s a particularly memorable dream sequence – almost impossible after David Lynch – where you only realise that what you’ve been watching is in fact a dream at exactly the same moment as the character does, as they wake up out of it in a panic. Which is staggering hard to pull off.

Apparently, season 2 and 3 are, if anything, even better. And, best of all, and he clearly did learn this from his Lost experience, there only a total of 3 series.

You can see the excellent trailer for the Leftovers here

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“Heimat”, the original box set.



Heimat, a Chronicle of Germany, comprising of 3 seasons and a prequel and made up of 32 individual films that last for more than 53 hours, is one of the most ambitious and brilliant series ever broadcast. Season 1 has eleven episodes that cover the years 1919 to 1982 and was first broadcast in 1984.

The whole saga centres on the Simon family in the fictional village of Schabbach in the Hunsruck, in the heart of rural Germany. Specifically on Maria, and the two sons she has with Paul, and with Hermann, the son she later has with Otto. What Edgar Reitz, who writes and directs them all, does then is to concentrate on the things that matter most to all communities, big and small, rural and urban. Family life, love and loss, triumph and despair and on all those who leave the fold never to return, and on those who stay behind.


Marita Breuer as Maria.

Each of the decades from the 20s to the 70s get about a couple of episodes each in season 1, so all of those defining events that Germany was subject to through the course of those years are seen through the prism of village life, where everybody knows everybody and practically everyone is related to one another in some shape or form.

So instead of being the fulcrum around which everything else pivots, the rise and fall of the Nazis is just one of the many backdrops against which village life proceeds. It’s not remotely surprising then when Lucie, Maria’s sister in law, cosies up to the Nazis in the 30s and early 40s, only to completely switch sides in the late 40s and 50s as she sidles up to the Americans, who effectively replace them in the wake of the second World War.

Season 2 of Heimat was made in 1992, and the 13 episodes cover the 60s.

Season 2 of Heimat was shown in 1992, and the 13 episodes cover the 60s.

There is nothing immoral about her denial. It’s entirely amoral. You do what you have to, to survive. The second world war, like the first before it, the great depression, the swinging 60s and the fall of the Berlin wall to come, all look very different when viewed from the purblind confines of village life, buried deep in the heart of nowhere.

What Reitz does so brilliantly is to make a succession of individual, stand-alone films that each focus on one or two  characters. So that the rhythm, pace and feel is not that of a succession of episodes, but of individual, 70-80 minute European art house films.

Season 3 of Heimat was screened in 2004 and covers post 1989 in 6 episodes.

Season 3 of Heimat was screened in 2004 and covers the post 1989 period in 6 episodes.

Every frame is carefully and precisely composed, and you’re deliberately given the time to take in its composition. Music is used but sparingly, and in its place tactile sounds resonate; film being loaded into a very early camera, the soles of worn, leather boots scrunching on a dirt track, the chopping of vegetables being readied for a soup. And all the while, Reitz slips in and out of the predominant black and white and into occasional bursts of colour, as his very personal aesthetic dictates.

History unfolds in the distant background as village life is brought to a standstill by the defining events that shape their lives; the laying down of the first tarmacadam road, the arrival of the very first telephone, the opening of that first industrial factory in the post war years, those gorgeous, curvaceous, open-top Mercedes’ that they manufactured so triumphantly in the 60s, and the erosion of their very specifically German, and rural German culture, that all that late 20th century progress destroyed so methodically as it made its way inexorably onwards.

The 2013 Heimat prequel covering the 1840s.

The 2013 Heimat prequel covering the 1840s.

Like Syberberg’s equally magisterial Hitler: A Film From Germany from 1977 (over 7 hours and in 4 parts) and the work of W. G. Sebald (specifically his almost unbearably moving novel Austerlitz), Heimat is a nuanced and measured exploration into how what happened in Germany could have happened there, and what it means therefore to be German. Like the people it deals with, it’s a serous work that demands to be seen.

Season 1 was screened over the summer on Sky Arts, so there’s every chance it’ll be repeated there. While the recent prequel Home from Home, which Reitz made in 2013 and which covers the 1840s, was  screened recently on BBC4, so keep an eye out for it there. All four hours of which are every bit as captivating as the very first episode of season 1, first broadcast over a quarter of century ago.

You can see the trailer to Home from Home here.

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Is this a golden age of TV ads?

Bank of Ireland's delightfully playful ad.

A singing lavatory seat. Delightful.

Say what you like about the Carlsberg wrong number ad here, or Guinness’ perennial Christmas ad here, but there are a plethora of TV ads currently doing the rounds that could give anything from the proud history of advertising a run for its money. And most of them have been made for our banks.

Where to begin. Well, for starters there’s that trio of stellar ads from AIB. In the first, we see a cosmopolitan hued mother with her child, as she gets given her new car by her, let’s call him partner – obviously they’re not married, they’re far too modern for that – although it was still up to him to organize the finance. But here’s the genius of the ad; they use actual footage.

Look at that, cosmopolitan or what!

Look at that, cosmopolitan or what.

Normally with an ad like that, you’d have to get a camera crew, a director and hire a couple of actors and the whole thing would look horribly staged. But this actually happened! The camerawork’s all over the place and it’s all horrendously shaky. Clearly, he took the footage himself, managing to capture her reaction almost by accident! It’s priceless. And here’s the amazing thing; it’s not the only footage that AIB got their hands on either.

There’s that second ad, with this mum – a normal one this time, you know, Irish – who gives her three kids the tree-house they’ve always dreamt of. And she manages to capture their reactions as well, on camera! It’s heart-warming, genuinely.

Fair play to you, Mick And Kate.

Fair play to you, Mick And Kate.

But the piece de resistance is their ad with that elderly couple explaining how they’ve finally managed to pay off their mortgage. The whole thing could have come across as unspeakably smug and been literally painful to watch, were it not for the fact that technically, it’s both brilliant and daringly innovative.

First, part of it is shot in glorious slo-mo. Which gives the ad that touch of class – and frankly, I’m very surprised that more ads don’t make use of this. And second, part if it uses actual home videos which were never meant for public viewing, but which the couple obviously gave AIB access to. You simply can’t fake that sort of footage, and it gives the ad an emotional depth that’s genuinely moving.

Look, a hipster! Well spotted KBC!

Look, a hipster! Well spotted KBC.

Not to be outdone, KBC have produced their own little gem. There’s this girl and her hipster boyfriend – you can tell he’s a hipster because he’s got a beard, and by the bye, I predict beards are going to come back in fashion – don’t’ laugh – any day now. And flares, and maybe even disco. Also, anything vintage. Mark my words, you heard it here first.

They’re dancing up and down in their living room, mindlessly celebrating the deal they’ve just been offered by their bank. Which, needless to say, would all be unimaginably tedious and frankly unwatchable, were if not for the brilliant, not to say daring innovation at the heart of the ad; it’s shot in glorious slo-mo.

A still worthy of the ads themselves.

A still worthy of the ads themselves.

And there’s more. What about Bank Of Ireland’s hilarious singing lavatory seat. Which is both brilliantly funny and clever. Because the music that they use is actually a subtle commentary on the ad’s message. “Don’t stop believing” they sing, which actually has a double meaning, when you think about it – and ditto cheesy, retro music loudly placed in a knowing po-mo manner in ads and TV series, that’s another one you can add to my list of predictions above.

The ghost of Christmas past.

The ghost of Christmas past.

Best of all though are those hilarious set of ads with those D4 lads, who sit chatting on that couch in those charming AIG ads. Imagine how proud those All Black players must have been to have had the chance to star in a TV spot with that pair of jokers.

And nor do we have a monopoly on those kinds of heart-warming if technically daring ads here in Ireland. Have you seen that wonderfully emotional set of ads all those renowned poets have done for Nationwide over in Britain? As we all know, financial institutions were probably the people most seriously affected by the downturn in 2008, so it’s really great to see so many established poets in Britain doing their bit to try and help them get back into profit again.

A suitably lofty use of his poetic gifts. Well done sir!

A suitably lofty use of his poetic gifts. Well done sir.

You can read my extensive analysis of each of those, and indeed all of the above, in my 734 page epamphlet which you can download (for free) here.

What an age to be alive.

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