Psychobitches: back on the couch

This is what a feminist TV show looks like. I think.

In the therapy room of Rebecca Front's psychiatrist - where some of history's most iconic and eccentric women go to get their psyches soothed - will be the likes of Michelle Gomez, Kathy Burke and Samantha Spiro (back as a maddeningly annoying Audrey Hepburn); while new patients include Morgana Robinson playing Anna Nicole Smith, Meera Syal as the goddess Hera and Alexa Chung as The Girl With A Pearl Earring.

Q&A with Jeremy Dyson and Sharon Horgan

Will Psychobitches have a male spin-off in the future, Psychobastards? Writer-director Jeremy Dyson let the question hang in the air a second, revealing the suggestion has been raised as 'a semi-serious thing', before adding 'but the point of this is that it's women. Hitler's been done to death...'

Psychobitches (Sky Atlantic) finished its first series last night (following last year's pilot), and anyone who says television doesn't make inventive programmes any more should watch it.

Set in the office of a modern-day female psychiatrist, who is confronted by some of history's most famous, unusual or bonkers women, it is surreal, but gloriously different.

I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when the idea was pitched. "We'll have Eva Braun going to see the psychiatrist, and Joan of Arc, of course... Funny? Yes, of course it'll be funny! I know - we'll have Mother Theresa too. Hilarious!"
And, unlikely as it might seem, it works.

The characterisations are as inspired as they are off-the-wall. Last night, Sam Spiro gave an hilarious rendition of Jackie Kennedy as a female version of Columbo the detective, and Zawe Ashton played a madly feline Eartha Kitt. Frances Barber's over-the-top version of Catherine the Great was annoying but Harry Enfield gave a brilliant impersonation of "Mrs Alfred Hitchcock" looking disturbingly like Mr Alfred Hitchcock dressed in women's clothes. And Julia Davis was beautifully ditzy as Mary Pickford, the silent film star. "That's seven times now," she complained to the psychiatrist, "that men have tied me to railway tracks..."

The scripts (by a team of writers) are clever, but the whole thing is held together by Rebecca Front, who plays the psychiatrist with a perfect mixture of assurance and bafflement. I know that Olivia Colman has been officially anointed as the nation's new favourite actress, but for my money Rebecca Front is up there. From The Day Today through Alan Partridge, The Thick of It and Lewis to Psychobitches, she is always excellent.

Samantha Spiro interview

The actor and star of Psychobitches talks about the psychology of Lady Macbeth - and feelings of guilt closer to home.

Can the format of Psychobitches really sustain a series? While it's fair to say that returns do diminish somewhat, there are still plenty of chuckles, what with Sharon Horgan's desperate Virginia Woolf and a slatternly, pie-guzzling Diana Dors finding herself face to face with the real Marilyn Monroe. It's limited but fun, which is more than you can really say for Up the Women.

Psychobitches is a series born out of popular acclaim for last year's pilot. Rebecca Front plays an In Treatment-style shrink for famous females from history, and it was a cracking opener, right from the first moment when Rosa Parks needed a seat in the waiting room and everyone quickly jumped up.

I'm always in the market for a pastiche of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, and the one here, featuring Frances Barber as Bette Davis, and Mark Gatiss dragged up as Joan Crawford, was high-camp nirvana. Other highlights included Samantha Spiro as a fey, infuriating Audrey Hepburn, Sharon Horgan's Eva Perón, suffering from "feelings of grandiosity", and the Brontë sisters transformed into bonnet-wearing, foul-mouthed Chucky dolls.

A few of the short sketches needed to be even shorter - as in 100% shorter. On the whole, though, what a treat, to the point where I started hallucinating. It felt as though the screen was glowing, as if I were in a sci-fi movie, where an all-female (sorry, Mark Gatiss) comedy mothership suddenly appears, illuminated and throbbing, the door opening to reveal none other than Emily Wilding Davison laughing her bloomers off. But then I got over myself. It's quite enough that Psychobitches was indisputably funny.

I've seen a few things in the Playhouse Presents series. A bit like going to slightly up-its-own-arse arty theatre (only with big name stars). In my house we've chortled loudly, not because we've thought something was funny but to show we've recognised it as a joke. And in the advert break we've rushed to the kitchen to down a couple of pre-poured and now warm glasses of white wine, after which the second half has been more bearable and passed faster.

Psychobitches, though, which piloted last year, flies past, and is genuinely hilarious. The idea - famous people from history visit a modern-day therapist - isn't entirely new, I don't think (perhaps you can think of the examples: I can't). But it's written, by a vast team of writers, with such originality and wit, imagination and cojones, that it feels like a whole blast of new. In my house at half-time, and again at the end, we were comparing, and reliving - and relaughing at - favourite bits and characters. A nightmarishly needy Audrey Hepburn; Bette Davis and Joan Crawford bitching and backstabbing and bashing each other over the head with their best actress Oscars (it manages to be both clever and silly, a very attractive combo); Margot Fonteyn being very very old; Jacqueline du Pré communicating only through her cello, expressing love, childhood, adultery, coriander (a mournful downwards glissando, perhaps to signify distaste, or wilting?).

My highlight is Julia Davis's Sylvia Plath, but a Sylvia Plath who deals with all her internal strife and angst by adopting the persona of fellow poetess ... Pam Ayres. Davis as Plath as Ayres: it's a mash-up from heaven. Sharon Horgan's delusional, egocentric, megalomaniacal Eva Peron is also a joy, sipping her boobles (champagne) and naming leedle seedies in Argentina after herself, who she refers to in the third person. And the puppet-sized Brontë sisters, coarse Yorkshire slags squabbling on the sofa, mainly about (not) losing their virginity. "It's not me who's the desperate one," Charlotte squawks to Emily. "I'm not the one gagging for it that much her fanny's frothing like a beck in a storm."

So many highlights in fact, and such great performances, from the aforementioned, and from Sam Spiro, Katy Brand, Frances Barber, Sarah Solemani, Zawe Ashton, Jo Scanlon and more. Not forgetting Rebecca Front, as the kind, deadpan, calm (mostly: Audrey pushes her), but also human and very subtly arch therapist. "What do you have?" she asks politely, after Nina Simone has soulfully wailed: "Ain't got no home, ain't got no shoes, ain't got no money, ain't got no class ...". The answer? Depression of course.

They all seem to be having such a brilliant time doing it, it's impossible not to get swept along in the tide of fabulousness and sharp writing and cleverness-meets-silliness, with just a pinch of coriander lunacy. This is very funny women at their very funniest. Oh, plus one man, Mark Gatiss as Joan Crawford, also lovely.

Step up Psychobitches (Sky Arts 1), which started out as a pilot last year but has now deservedly bloomed into a full series.

The set-up is simple. Rebecca Front, understandably striking while her iron is hot, plays psychiatrist to a succession of celebrity patients - of a decidedly retro vintage - which is basically an excuse for a host of top comic talent to show off in a series of over-the-top impressions.

In the space of 25 minutes or so, everyone from the Brontë Sisters to Margot Fonteyn by way of Nina Simone had a go at hogging the ego-crazed spotlight.

The quality control is variable but when Psychobitches is good, it's very, very good, with Samantha Spiro, a world away from her mousy turn in Grandma's House, absolutely fabulous as an infuriatingly kooky Audrey Hepburn.

Even better was Julia Davis turning chirpy Pam Ayres and tormented Sylvia Plath into a poetic double act, chipper rhymes morphing into angst-ridden soul-searching in the blink of a couplet. Delightfully bonkers.