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To succeed, the good-bad biopic must seem lifted from pages of a Ladybird book version of a historic event, and this one delivered in spades

The biopic typed by monkeys and screened at random is absolutely – and I mean this sincerely – my favourite genre of programme. It is the satsuma in my stocking, the brandy butter on my Christmas pudding. I don’t want to see anyone’s best work. I want to sit alone on the sofa, put my feet up and as the smashing story unspools, periodically roar with delight at no one – “Are you not entertained!?”

Torvill and Dean (Christmas Day, ITV) delivered in spades with the tale of Our Jayne (that’s Torvill, for readers I have just realised may not have been born when the skating pair were dominating British sporting hopes in the 80s) and Our Christopher’s (Dean) chasseing from ’umble beginnings to Olympic glory, via nothing more than chance proximity to the Nottingham ice stadium and years of unremittingly hard graft.

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from The Guardian http://bit.ly/2BEW2Wl