IT'S SO MUCH EASIER WHEN CHAR-acters introduce themselves properly, don't you think? "You're the shiny new renewables girl." "And you're the sexist dinosaur oil lobbyist, right?" No, he's Josh from The West Wing and she's Neve Campbell from the Screa
m movies, but pleased to meet you anyway. And who's this? Why, it's Marc Warren, who's "looking for love, scared of commitment" although, as he says, "I sometimes wonder whether my colourful socks make people underestimate me."
Sadly, nominal hero Rupert Penry-Jones doesn't get as good an opening line as Neve or Josh, and therein lies the problem with this big-budget drama series about big oil, global warming and the search for a decent script. A workmanlike leading man, Penry-Jones is saddled with a character, Tom, who is supposedly the CEO of a huge multinational oil corporation, yet is incredibly naïve and a bit of a drip.
He's shocked to hear that oil and gas might have some kind of environmental impact when an Inuit activist accosts him at a party. And he's stunned when his lobbyist chum stitches up an environmental scientist at an important public hearing.
Why, maybe he should listen to shiny Holly (Campbell), after all, with her crazy wind-power ideas? But oh dear, it seems that perhaps not all Tom's colleagues are quite as decent as he is, and so off they go on the run.
I suspect that Burn Up wants to be a serious, cynical thriller about the oil crisis, something in the vein of Edge Of Darkness or State Of Play, even having Warren more or less reprise his character from the latter (though without the infamous sheepskin coat). But it's a sadly predictable drama. Since Penry-Jones and Campbell are the leads, they have to hook up, so Tom's wife has to be presented as a bitch who doesn't even know where her daughter's inhaler is, until Holly saves her by rustling up a recyclable solar-powered one. And the tragic brave Inuit character is a tired stereotype.
It's saved, ironically, by the villain, Bradley Whitford playing against his right-on West Wing character as the hard-bitten oil lobbyist. As a world expert in pedeconferencing (talking while walking), he conducts a bunch of Machiavellian conversations on the move. Whitford's savvy performance lights up his scenes, but sadly there aren't enough of them and everyone else is on energy-saving mode.
Having finally found the second series of High Times, their Bafta award-winning comedy drama from a couple of years ago, STV realised that they'd best rerun the first series again to remind everyone of its existence. That done, the "new" episodes start this week, slightly dusty from having been down the back of a Cowcaddens sofa for nearly three years (presumably).
It's usually a bad sign if a programme's transmission is delayed for that long, but in this case, those who enjoyed the original's mix of stoner humour and marital disharmony should still be happy. Initially, at any rate, there's a bit less of the dopey dole-ites Rab and Jake, but their debate about why vampires don't have beards is a good one.
Perhaps the show was shelved because the humour's not too broad, yet the drama is fairly low-key – it's not as cartoonish as Shameless, which High Times' creator John Rooney is supposedly now working on. But with so few home-grown dramas (and even fewer without murrdurrs), it's good to see it back.
Someone who will never be in any danger of being off the air is John Barrowman. Just in case anyone feared Barrowman deprivation with Doctor Who, Torchwood, I'll Do Anything and The Kids Are All Right finished for the moment, the BBC have stepped into the breach by sending him off to check if he's gay (spoiler warning: he is).
In The Making Of Me, JB is anxious to have scientists confirm that his sexuality is innate, nature rather than nurture, or choice. He charms every researcher and interviewee he meets on his journey, which involves DNA and psychological testing, as well as a visit to see his parents (with the usual disconcerting Scottish accent re-emerging). When John came out of the closet, we discover, he left inside it his collection of Barbie dolls.
Barrowman always reminds me of a big friendly puppy, bounding up to strangers (and possibly humping their legs). But even he has limits about what he'll put on screen. We see him hooked to a machine that measures arousal when he's shown sexy images, but not the, er, evidence. Don't be surprised, though, if the Big Brother producers snap up that machine and make it the focus of the next series.
The full article contains 814 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
