the times | Saturday November 14 2020 1GR saturday review 7

W

ho among
us middle-aged
crocks would
want to be young
again? I mean,
really and truly, if
we had a choice,
would you swap the paunch, the thinning
hair, creaking cartilages and (so I am told)
waning sexual prowess for the terrifying
uncertainty of having to make your way in
the world all over again? Would the con-
stant promise of erotic possibility and high
energy levels be enough? Or would you
rather be wiser, cynical and that bit closer
to paying off your mortgage?
Give me middle-age sag any day of the
week. For my money there was no greater
affirmation of this conviction than the
opening episode of Industry, the moreish
new drama following five graduates start-
ing work at Pierpoint & Co, a fictional in-
vestment bank. As the newbies sat meekly
in an airless auditorium for their induc-
tion, their boss told them that “young
people are our capital”, adding that in six
months half of them would be getting their
P45s. Capital being an easily spent com-
modity in an institution that, with a minor
spelling adjustment, shares its name with
Britain’s most famous hangman.
One of the few weapons the young have
is the authority of woke certainty, that im-
possible-to-argue-with joker in the pack
that can be smugly and rebelliously waved
at us grandads. But these young Turks
didn’t even have that, with all societal and
HR norms washed away in a tsunami of
wine bar Bolly, coke, casual sex and winc-
ing workplace bants.
Hari (Nabhaan Rizwan) and Robert
(Harry Lawtey) were the state-school kids
who got mercilessly mocked by the apple-
cheeked Sebastians for their eagerness
and cheap suits. Harper (Myha’la Her-
rold), a mixed-race American, couldn’t
even go to the loo without being insulted,
overhearing a Sloaney pony in a power
blouse suggesting that she was hired solely
because of positive discrimination (“tick,
tick” was the bray). A successful dinner
ended with high-rolling financier Nicole
(Sarah Parish) feeling up Harper’s privates
in a black cab. When this unorthodox con-
nection led to a lucrative deal that im-
pressed Harper’s mentor Eric (Ken
Leung), he tempered his praise by pointing
out her nose ring: “What are you, cattle?”
And he’s one of the nicer ones.
Still, Gus (David Jonsson), who is black
and gay, seemed to have no problem navi-
gating the choppy waters of eye-watering
crassness and casual cruelty, but then he
did go to Eton. Because with half a billion

at stake in one phone call, to quote the lib-

ertarian right, who gives a you-know-what

about your feelings? By the end that classic

TV drama trick of killing a lead character

in the first episode was put to work (spoiler

ahead) and the famous five became the

forlorn four. Poor Hari, who popped up-

pers and Red Bull three days running, died

in the lavs when his ticker gave out. His last

sight was a graffito urging him to look up,

whereupon he saw the word “wanker”

scrawled in biro. You’d be hard pressed to

see anything crueller on telly this year.

TV drama tends to get professions

wrong — medics are among the biggest

complainers and I have never seen a news-

paper newsroom accurately rendered. But

that didn’t feel like a problem here. The

young people led what seem to be convin-

cing lives, which is no surprise, given that

the Girls creator, Lena Dunham, directed

the opener. The writers, Mickey Down and

Konrad Kay, have worked for financial in-

stitutions, and the stream of acronyms —

WACs, DCFs, Beeps, half-yards — be-

stowed a sheen of believability. But are

finance people (especially the older ones)

really this horrific?

One sensed that this was an anthology

of the worst stories harvested in the writ-

ers’ banking years rolled into one horror

show, and it was this relentless inhumanity

that felt slightly inauthentic and jarring.

Or at least I would hope so. Still, I’m gonna

stick with it. I did say it was moreish.

There was plenty of murkiness in His

Dark Materials, which continues to look

absolutely fabulous for its second series.

Jack Thorne’s scriptwriting remains tack-

James May, erstwhile Top Gear amigo, the

id to Richard Hammond’s ego (with no

prizes for guessing who the super-ego

might be in this formulation).

You know where you are with May. Even

when we find him in unusual surroundings

(the kitchen), it’s reassuring to think that

he has probably only made James May: Oh,

Cook! to make a play on what may well be

his favourite word for willy. Just the ticket.

“I’m James May and I can’t cook... wel-

come to my cookery show,” he snickers at

the start. But, actually, he can cook, sur-

prisingly well, rustling up quite decent pies

and lasagnes. And then, in case we get the

wrong idea, he makes tinned alphabet spa-

ghetti on toast, explaining that the final

ingredient is made “in the toaster”.

It didn’t take long to realise that this was

an extended piss-take of Jamie, Nigella,

Nigel, Delia et al, and quite a good one. De-

liberately, defiantly, overwhelmingly low-

wattage May shows how easy it is to make

decent grub with bonus asides on Fellini,

Philip Larkin and William Blake, which

you certainly don’t get with The Hairy Bik-

ers. But should he be doing this?

When he deployed a rotary cheese

grinder, it wasn’t just the fact that this

utensil has been in his life for decades that

struck me, it was the fact that he has for-

gotten how many times he has taken this

thing apart and reassembled it. Yep, just

like a car.

He’s a very good broadcaster, but he

needs to be in a garage or cracking gags

about Teslas and Lamborghinis with his

amigos, not doing this flambéing lark,

which, as far as he’s concerned, is clearly a

load of old cook.

sharp, and there was none of that B-stan-

dard stage-school acting you often get

from middle-class English kids.

Dafne Keen, who is 15, brought renewed

depth and piquancy to the role of the hero-

ine Lyra as she and her daemon (an animal

companion, to the uninitiated) continued

to be pursued in strange new surroundings

by Ruth Wilson’s deliciously wicked Mrs

Coulter. This has all the architecture and

flavour of a deluxe fantasy fable, and

Thorne made sure there was enough light-

ness, the best moment coming when Lyra,

who doesn’t know what an egg is, tries to

make an omelette without breaking any.

My only gripe is very personal. Philip

Pullman’s books may be packed with flying

witches, talking hares and castles in the

sky, but I have always found his universe

strangely unmagical. I’m no believer, but

the malicious Magisterium he has created,

for which read Vatican officialdom, feels

blunt, whatever Roman Catholicism’s

many, many faults. It’s all a bit Dan Brown,

reducing religious faith to cartoonish vil-

lainy and wicked secrecy, seeing belief as

an implacable enemy of truth, reason and

human endeavour, and nothing else.

I know many people love his books, and

all power to them. But, I would suggest, to

properly critique a faith you need to un-

derstand it as well as a believer, so much so

that you are able to explain it back to ad-

herents at least in terms they would recog-

nise. And I don’t think Pullman is capable

of doing that. No doubt it’s a grave failing

on my part, but give me CS Lewis any day.

This was a week that urgently needed

light relief, so cometh the hour, cometh the

State-school

kids get

mercilessly

mocked

by the

apple-

cheeked

Sebastians

trading places

David Jonsson, Ben

Lloyd-Hughes, Myha’la

Herrold, Harry Lawtey

and Sagar Radia

in Industry

Industry

(BBC Two)

His Dark Materials

(BBC One)

James May: Oh Cook!

(Amazon)

Bants, Bollinger and banking:

welcome to a City horror show

AMANDA SEARLE/BAD WOLF PRODUCTIONS/BBC

Ben Dowell on TV