The Office

It feels both inaccurate and inadequate to describe The Office as a comedy. On a superficial level, it disdains all the conventions of television sitcoms: there are no punch lines, no jokes, no laugh tracks and no cute happy endings. More profoundly, it's not what we're used to thinking of as funny. Most of the fervently devoted fan base that the programme acquired watched with a discomfortingly thrilling combination of identification and mortification. The paradox is that its best moments are almost physically unwatchable.
Set in the offices of a fictional Slough paper merchant, The Office is filmed in the style of a reality television programme. The writing is subtle and deft, the acting wonderful and the characters beautifully drawn: the cadaverous team leader Gareth, a paradigm of Andy McNab's readership; the monstrous sales rep, Chris Finch; and the decent but long-suffering everyman Tim, whose ambition and imagination have been crushed out of him by the banality of the life he dreams uselessly of escaping. The show is stolen, as it was intended to be, by insufferable office manager David Brent, played by cowriter Ricky Gervais. Brent will become a name as emblematic for a particular kind of British grotesque as Alan Partridge or Basil Fawlty, but he is a deeper character than either. Partridge and Fawlty are exaggerations of reality, and therefore safely comic figures. Brent is as appalling as only reality can be.

The second series of the award-winning BBC2 mockudrama The Office exceeded even the sky-high standards of the first. Indeed, it ventured beyond caricature and satire, touching on the very edge of darkness. Ricky Gervais was once again excruciatingly superb as David Brent, a subtly shaded modern English comic grotesque in the desperate and self-deluding tradition of Alan Partridge and Basil Fawlty.
In this series, however, Brent's to-camera assertions concerning his man-management qualities and executive capabilities are seriously challenged when the Slough and Swindon branches are merged and his former Swindon equivalent Neil takes over as area manager. To compensate Brent cultivates his pathologically mistaken image of himself as an entertainer/motivator/comedian whose stage happens to be the workplace. This culminates in a comically disastrous motivational session ending with a sing-along of Tina Turner's "Simply the Best", which is greeted, typically, with stunned, appalled silence.

Meanwhile, Tim, who can only maintain his sanity by teasing the priggish, puddingbowl-haired Gareth, continues to wrestle with his yearning for receptionist Dawn, a sympathetic character persisting with a relationship with a yobbish bloke about whom she still maintains unspoken reservations. As ever, it's the awkward, reality TV-style pauses and silences, the furtive, meaningful and unmet glances across the emotional gulf of the open-plan office, that say it all here.

As for Brent, his own breakdown is prefaced by a moment of hideous hilarity--an impromptu office dance, a mixture of "Flashdance and MC Hammer" as Brent describes it, but in reality bad beyond description. Then, when his fate is sealed, he at last reveals himself as a humiliated and broken man in a memorable finale to perhaps the greatest British sitcom, besides Fawlty Towers, ever made. All this and Keith too.

The two-part conclusion to The Office bids farewell to David Brent and his long-suffering co-workers in a surprisingly poignant not to say dignified manner. Supposedly accompanied by the fly-on-the-wall documentary crew three years after his highly undignified exit from Slough-based paper merchants Wernham Hogg, the first part reveals Brent as a travelling salesman by day and D-list "celebrity" by night, enduring humiliating club appearances organised by his clueless manager. But Brent can't keep away from his old stamping-ground in Slough, especially with the imminent prospect of the annual Christmas party. As much to spite suave rival Neil as anything else, Brent is on an agonisingly painful hunt for a date to bring along.
Back at Wernham Hogg, lovelorn Tim has to endure not only the officious behaviour of Gareth, now his manager, but also a cheerless existence bereft of Dawn, who is living in Florida with boorish fiancé Lee. Matters are brought to a head for all concerned--including Lee and Dawn, flown over specially for the occasion--when they finally gather in the office for the party.

As ever the script is full of priceless one-liners (witness big Keith's chat-up spiel, as he promises "at least one orgasm" to any woman), and the show is peppered with those direct appeals to camera (Tim's weary "I don't believe he just said that" look, Brent's desperate self-justificatory "Eh?"), as well as achingly effective silences that simultaneously enhance the fly-on-the-wall conceit and heighten the comic effect. Without descending into the sentimental or the trite, somehow The Office closes for business on a genuinely heartwarming note.