From the TWU archives, Sean Alexander looks at the series Spaced. First published in the print zine in (gasp) 2004.
British TV comedy experienced
something of a renaissance in the late Nineties.
Reeves and Mortimer, Alan Partridge and The League of
Gentleman have all left a rich legacy for future historians to analyse and
deconstruct in years to come. But
arguably even the overwhelming success of ‘modern’ sitcom The Office
papers over today’s comedies’ credentials for inheriting the classic sitcom
mantle. Because the nineties were when
sitcoms grew up, becoming more comedy drama than broad situational farces. The evidence of The Vicar of Dibley’s
sole inclusion underlines this. While
comedy, by nature, has always run a fine line between the funny and the sad,
modern shows like Little Britain and Nighty Night are continuing
the nineties trend for tragic comedy. However, there was one sitcom
made in the past five years that did uphold the cosy traditions of
halcyon days. With a twist. It depicted an eclectic group of friends and
their struggles to find happiness and meaning in an increasingly hostile
world. But it added a post-modern,
pop-culturally obsessive and occasionally surreal style to its familiar
template.
Its name? Spaced. It ran on Channel 4 for two series between 1999 and
2001. Written by comedians Simon Pegg
(previously best known for the slightly dark and twisted sketch show Big
Train) and Jessica Stevenson (hitherto the downtrodden - and eternally
weight-conscious - Cheryl in The Royle Family) it tells the story of
twenty-somethings Tim Bisley and Daisy Steiner’s attempts to find purpose and
fulfilment in the occasionally scary world of pre-Millennium North London. Posing as a ‘professional’ couple, they are
joined in their illicit co-habitation by a variety of colourful
housemates. There is their landlady,
Marsha, a woman for whom the pursuit of the opposite sex is matched only by her
capacity for a bottle of red or three.
Downstairs is tortured artist Brian, forever carrying the pain - and the
paint - of his endeavours on his sinewy torso.
Elsewhere, Mike is Tim’s gun-loving, ex-territorial army best friend, as
likely to bring some small arms to any house party as any beverage. While Daisy’s best friend, Twist - with her
lisping voice and day-glo ensembles - is as terminally vacuous as she is
self-absorbed.
I Feel Love is a
study in contrasting performance styles.
Jimmy Somerville is a natural on stage. He dances like a club veteran
and looks at home and completely unselfconscious. Marc Almond looks more awkward,
and dances like... well, like me. Fair play to Marc. He's doing his best but
he's got the wry self-conscious smirk of a man out of his element. Clearly he
would rather be back in suburbia writing poetry about how ghastly it is to live
in the suffocating bourgeois embrace of the provinces where no one understands
him, and all his real talents go unappreciated. Marc Almond is wearing a small
gold star pinned to his blazer lapel. Is it his badge for mathematical
excellence? This is an oddly structured song with two false endings, put there
to frustrate any DJ with the temerity to play the song on the radio. The first
one shifts abruptly from I Feel Love to Johnny Remember Me. The pair continue
to sing as Lighting Director Fred Wright uses this moment to cut the main
studio lights leaving the stage lit by a spotlight, against a backdrop of neon
tubes. The studio lights are then slowly raised again as the song builds. It
looks great. Both false endings get big cheers from the studio audience.
