When I’m feeling cheap, which has happened a lot lately, I shop at Asda. (I know, I know, but they’re all bad in their own ways.) The most pleasant way there, not that there is a great deal of choice in routes, is down Clive Lane, which is marked on maps, though it’s really a back alley between Clive Street and the railway, and its few doors open to pocket gardens and garages. Maybe it justifies having a name because a handful of these appear to be commercial, not that they stretch to anything as dignified as name signs. A few weeks ago, I was walking down there and the way was blocked with vehicles. This doesn’t usually happen as it’s not neighbourly to bar egress to someone’s house. As I approached I realised that the main culprit was an ancient, almost antique car, which four people started to push out of the way. Once I got through, I found I’d strayed onto a film set centred round a lock up which could give a bad name to dilapidation. The car was heaved into a side street (not for my benefit; they’d clearly done with it), people stood behind cameras and lights, and others sat in folding chairs. The nearest one said something – he had an American accent and I recognised him. The last time I’d seen him was on a YouTube video where he sang Springtime for Hitler. I thought about mentioning this, but I realised that it was probably a lot more recent for me than for him. So I said nothing, looked about a bit and went on.

He was, of course, John Barrowman, and he seems like a very nice guy. So it pains and embarrasses to totally agree with Justin: Torchwood sucks. It sucks in lots of ways. Russell T Davies and co-writers may be willing you to suspend your disbelief, but they aren’t helping at all. Their opening episode had ‘opening episode’ all over it; so much for starting in media res. Yet while explaining some things, the interesting thing, the thing most viewers wanted to know wasn’t explained at all. How did Captain Jack Harkness, last seen being killed by a Dalek, travel back to the 21st century and wind up heading a secret British organisation? How did he find his retro RAF overcoat again? More interestingly, why has he retained that superficial charm which fitted him as a conman and a Doctor Who travelling companion, but not as a whatever the hell he is. I know people in call centres who are less stressed than a guy whose job is being target practice for homicidal aliens.
Apparently, having died once, Harkness can’t die again. It’s remarkable just how much that statement bores me. If he can’t die, well, he’s going to get shot or crushed or something every week and he survivies. Captain Scarlett couldn’t die either. On the other hand, he was for five-year-olds. I like my science fiction to be as materialist as me; and that’s very. When he rose up after being shot in the head, my first thought, honestly, was So how does he remember stuff, because memory is physical reorganisation of the brain, just like a bullet but on a more subtle scale.
The conceit that aliens arrive on Earth as single spies, generally with advanced arthritis and emphysema so they wheeze and creak through the city of London like your 60-a-day great uncle (though unlike him, they’re also bullet proof, not that you’ve ever thought of that particular experiment) until they’re outwitted by the Doctor works in a kids’ show. But Torchwood is Adult. That means just like a kids’ show, but with sex bolted on. Having character in Torchwood seems to mean being an immature dick. The writing team has a low opinion of their creations integrity; three out of six are office thieves. And not only are aliens regular visitors and unsuccessful in their dastardliness, they also forget their tech, leaving behind nick-nacks which look like the accessories which always seem to be on sale in Next.
I liked John Barrowman when he was with Christopher Ecclestone and Billie Piper, however when they filmed a pointless onanistic shot of him astride the yuppie flats on Bute Terrace for no discenable reason, I changed my mind. Cardiff isn’t a good looking city. Most of the highlights of it are cruelly treated Victorian architecture, and the rest is crude post Victorian drabbery and high tech ugliness trying to bed in.
As Justin says, this is a Frankenstein creation of the best elements from other shows (as I typed that, I realise that it’s not a bad description of Cardiff: I’d rather live in Cardiff than Vegas, but Vegas, its neon stips and empty factory suburbs films much better). It’s just that none of them seem to be the bits which are in touch with reality. In CSI (Grissom edition anyway, the only watchable one), the problems are real; Sarah’s alcoholism, Willard’s gambling, Grissom’s deafness. A programme for adults should at least understand how the British state works, and Torchwood doesn’t. Everything works by magic. I haven’t seen a worse script committed to film since Sophia Coppola’s dreadful contribution to New York Stories.
I know some people think the show has teething problems, but I’m going to follow the advice of the raven, Nevermore.