She died too young
Thanks to Paramount, it is currently possible to gorge daily on classic episodes of Man About The House (1973-6) and George & Mildred (1976-9), and if one thing shines from this unashamed wallow in sitcom's glory years, it's Yootha Joyce. A tragic figure, which is doubtless why Morrissey immortalised her on the sleeve of Ask, she died aged just 53, in 1980, of hepatitis, linked to her ongoing battle with the booze. I don't have any more details of her illness, so let's not dwell on the rumours - needless to say, she was a comic genius, and her onscreen partnership with Brian Murphy (who's still with us, and was apparently at her bedside when she died) remains one of the all-time greats. And any tribute would not be complete without a salute to Johnnie Mortimer and Brian Cooke, who wrote every single episode of both series - and a large portion of Robin's Nest (1977-81), which ran concurrently with G&M. Astonishing. Especially after having slaved over six episodes of a gag-based audience sitcom and nearly perished under the weight of it. To those that served: a sherry, a new hat and one of Mildred's pursed-lipped glares.

Bond goes to the gym
I was, like the rest of the world (barring some purists), looking forward to Casino Royale. Saw it last night at a special Radio Times screening, and all round, it's a tremendously well-made series of action sequences. And a game of cards. I'd be interested to know from poker players how realistic this long, drawn-out section was. I admire the filmmakers for taking Bond in a new direction, rather than just attempting to recapture old glories with a new actor. Directed by Martin Campbell (who made such a regenerative job of Goldeneye), whose handling of the bit on the cranes in Uganda is impeccable, this is a brutal kind of Bond movie, with a lot of blood and some really tactile punch-ups. Daniel Craig's Bond is a right bruiser. He is seen with cut knuckles and scars all over his face, not to mention blood all down his evening wear. There are very few witticims or stingers. No sign of John Cleese as Q. (That was a brief fling, it seems.) And without spoiling anything, there's a homoerotic torture scene that takes the 12A certificate to new levels of violence that I'm not too sure about. The female lead, Eva Green, is charismatic and sexy, but she's not there to provide the eye candy.

That'll be Daniel Craig. He's been pumped up to a ridiculous degree, as seen now iconically emerging from the surf in his powder blue trunks, and ogled in the way Ursula Andress and Halle Berry were there to be ogled. Does this make this the first gay Bond movie? If so that would be very modern. But I fear that Daniel Craig might be the potential weak link. He looks tough, brooding and armour-plated, with a touch of enigmatic in his blue eyes, and his repeated penchant for married women ("You're not my type" "Smart?" "No, single") increases the roguishness. But would it be disloyal of me to say that looking like a body builder at worst, and a window cleaner in a Diet Coke advert at best, does not become the international superspy? For a start, how is he to blend in like that? He's bursting out of his shirt!

I still enjoyed the film. But we shall have to see whether another performance like this can carry the franchise. I've always liked Craig as an actor, ever since Our Friends In The North, and he's lent class to many a Hollywood film (if not the terminal Tomb Raider). I applauded his casting as 007 - although I preferred the idea of Clive Owen - and have no problems with him being different. I am no Fleming or even Connery purist. I'm just not 100% sure we're on the right track yet.

Oh, and the film's 20 minutes too long. But aren't they all?

Doherty gets bottled
Put the hype down! The Arena bottle was bound to wash up on the litter-strewn shores of Pete Doherty at some point. Ashtar Alkhisiran spent six months on the road with Britain's most famous junkie poet and this film - premiered at the Electric Proms, because home video footage of Doherty mumbling and smoking really needs to be experienced on a big screen - is the dog-eared result. I was unconvinced of Doherty's genius before watching it, and I am equally unconvinced after watching it. Rarely has a film been so in thrall to its subject. From experience (cf: the humiliation of Max Carlish) we know that Doherty is a volatile and fickle soul, so the only way to get close enough to him to stick a camera in his face is to blend in with his unquestioning entourage. This, Ashtar Alkhisiran seems to have done. The result, as well as the seemingly endless rambling, incoherent monologues from Pete Doherty about Being Pete Doherty, is the occasional glimpse of something warmer and more "private" (and I use the word in context of being filmed round-the-clock): Doherty the unfit father with his three-year-old son Astile, holding him upside down like other fathers do, then leaving to go on tour with Babyshambles while Lisa Moorish, the mother, implores him to get clean. One wonders if his current girlfriend is as insistent on these matters.

Clean is not a word you'd apply to this lost soul. His flat is a disgraceful, graffitied hovel. Ah, the romance of being unwashed, something most people grow out of when they leave college. But then, Pete is the type of 27-year-old who draws pictures with a syringe of his own blood, another strangely teenage act. His wide baby face simply adds to the impression of a boy dressed in an old man's hat and an old man's string vest. So what insights did this meandering, absorbed film offer? That Doherty is a bit useless, onstage and off. That Doherty wishes his dad liked him. That Doherty's drummer seems to hold the band's itinerary together singlehandedly (they have no management) and is thus an example to all drummers. That there is a journalist called Tanya Gold, who seems to think she knows an awful lot about Doherty, despite or perhaps because of the fact that she sounds fresh out of a girls' boarding school adventure. Oh, and that Doherty knows some bits of poetry.



The film began with a quote from Baudelaire, smeared across the screen as if in marker pen (yeah, punk rock!), and used this as a linking device with further gobbets from Byron and Dickinson. There's no doubt that Doherty is an intelligent, sensitive fellow (he's got 11 O-levels and 4 A-levels), and wrote some bracing songs with Carl Barat in the Libertines, but at the end of the day, the creative spark has been put out by drugs. Why do we continue to adore this man? The adoration is what keeps him on drugs. Would we still be making documentaries about him if he hadn't taken up with the most photographed woman in the world? (We saw Kate, side of stage, at one point, occasionally getting up to squeak into a microphone. What a surreal life she leads.) What this film, or any film, needs is some explanation as to why we are still here. Tanya Gold, the only media commentator on offer, couldn't quite nail it, beyond the fact that the tabloids are waiting for Doherty to die, like Truman Capote apparently, even though Capote's reasons for wishing execution on Smith and Hickock were far more complicated than the Sun's death wish.

In opting to step back and allow Doherty to explain himself, slurred and confused, Arena has merely added to the baffling myth. It's porn for Babyshambles fans, of which I accept there are many, although most of them under 25, which has to be key. (A generation in search of a figurehead.) Some of his followers should have been given a voice. You had to clutch your head and stick it out till the end to see anything truly joyful - Doherty and his de facto female tour manager singing along to High And Dry by Radiohead as they were driven away from a triumphant (ie. he turned up) Brixton show. A genuinely arresting sequence, held in camera for too long, and therefore just long enough to see some light in this condemned boy's soul. Also, at least we had a decent song at last.