Jack: he’s nimble, he’s quick, he couldn’t be arsed to turn up for the recording of the DVD extras....
Shame that Kiefer didn’t get out of bed, particularly when he would have led such a frothy brew of tech-lust and cast insight: here’s sad-eyed Edgar, sighing about how he just loves to get into his car and drive; there’s tweedy old Bill Buchanan, swooning over his yoga... And check out frosty geek-gal Chloe – who, despite a scowl to stop a thousand clocks, apparently gets her spare-time kicks doing stand-up freakin’ comedy!
Could have done without the sickbag swell of the constant muzak, mind. But it’s still a darn sight warmer than an interminable, knuckle-gnawing doc about the camera guys (mostly called Eric) and what kind of cameras they use and where they position their cameras and why... Why, why, why?
Oh, yeah. The show. Well, it’s still the slickest, stupidest, most wonderful and woeful load of old rubbish-brilliance on telly. Risky business as usual: torture and terror and deadly nerve gas and a new bad guy every five minutes... And Sutherland’s husky star quality to soften the effect of an airport novel apparently filmed by a gang of Ritalin-deprived chimps.