'Rome' Is Burning Bright

Sparks fly, enemies are throttled, sinister plots are hatched. Director Tim Van Patten has his finest moments beginning with the lighting of Caesar's funeral pyre; fire illuminates the faces of the conspiring survivors gathered in a darkened room, but suddenly the doors are flung open to the harsh glare of day -- and the eyes of the public. There's considerable talk about what "the people" will think, and how things will play with the populace. "Rome" dramatizes, among other things, the birth of politics as usual -- and dramatizes it with the flourish of high drama and the urgency of tonight's headlines.

Most of the actors playing Romans sound very very British (one member of the riffraff, ranting in a bar, affects a Cockney accent, consistent with the internal logic of the piece). That isn't the case merely because "Rome" is an HBO-BBC co-production; it's just the way things have always been done in epics of epoch.

American viewers might wish that some of them spoke their British English more slowly, but most of the actors are models of clarity compared with the cast of "Extras," the sitcom -- really too tacky a term for it -- about life in show business's lower depths.

Ricky Gervais, creator of "The Office," returns in the role of Andy Millman, a chap born to be a nobody and, during the first season of "Extras," making his living as an extra in the movies -- not so much a performer as a part of the scenery, the ambiance, the atmosphere. Fortunately, Gervais, who executive-produces with longtime ally Stephen Merchant, has brought back Ashley Jensen as Maggie Jacobs, his platonic girlfriend and, to an even greater degree than Millman, veritably imposing in her doltishness.

But what's this -- Millman as the center of attention? Millman speaking lines? Millman being given rather a large degree of responsibility? In the season premiere, we discover that Millman has somehow landed a BBC sitcom of his own, "When the Whistle Blows," which is set in a workplace as his "Office" was, but grovels far more obviously and desperately for laughs. "Sheer idiocy" would fairly accurately describe it.

As in the first season, Gervais and Merchant (who plays Millman's slimy and lazy agent -- slimy and lazy even for an agent) have managed to entice an eclectic array of sparkling guest stars to appear as themselves. They don't get to be glamorized versions of themselves, either; instead, the portrayals tend to be either moderately or incredibly unflattering.

Orlando Bloom is tonight's guest victim, and he gets off fairly easily, playing a vain and needy egomaniac, the kind one expects actors to be. He's so insecure under a facade of security that it drives him up the wall when Maggie resists his romantic overtures, such as they are. It's not that she doesn't find him attractive; she's just so hopelessly obtuse that she fails to notice, first, that he's cute and second, that he's willing and eager to give her a tumble.

Millman, meanwhile, should be jumping for joy at the opportunity he's been handed, but he's too dense and neurotic for that. Instead, he whines and worries about stooping low and pandering. That involves wearing a curly wig and oversize glasses and spouting the would-be catchphrase (which he keeps denying is a catchphrase) "Are you 'avin' a laugh?"

The studio audience does 'av a laugh when it hears this, responding in the Pavlovian way, giving Millman the opportunity to make a transparent noble speech about compromise and integrity -- the sort of drivel that directors and writers spew on talk shows. Somehow, integrity is no match for cash.

In the second episode, Millman continues to wrestle with his conscience, and his conscience keeps losing without much of a fight. Although critics assail the character's series as "the worst sitcom of all time" and something that "makes you want to gouge out your own eyes," it lures more than 6 million viewers, an unhealthfully healthy showing.

At first delighted to be famous, then aghast, Millman is delighted again when he's admitted to a club's VIP section and seated within elbow-rubbing distance of David Bowie. But he has good cause to be aghast again; inspired by a brief chat with Millman, Bowie rushes to the piano and creates a song with lyrics that refer to a "chubby little loser," a "rotund joke," a "pathetic little fat man" and "the clown that no one laughs at" because "they all just wish he'd die."

The humor is cruel, but crueler to the Gervais character than to anyone else. In the third episode, "Extras" hits a mad and hilarious pinnacle -- actually more like twin peaks, with one plot involving Millman's altercation with a mentally retarded boy and his mother at a restaurant. The other plot has Daniel Radcliffe, who plays Harry Potter in the movies, attempting with awesome awkwardness to prove he's a man, even to the point of displaying a very saggy and baggy prophylactic hither and thither. The great Diana Rigg figures in this, hilariously.

Gervais rides "the edge" precariously but assuredly throughout this episode, taking even wilder risks than usual.

"Extras" lives up to expectations and to its own lunatic traditions. It is a pity that some of the dialogue is unintelligible because of the thick British accents and an unfortunate tendency to mumble -- with some cast members on the verge of ventriloquism, without appearing to move their lips.

One can't help but think of the Henry Higgins lament in "My Fair Lady": "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?" But even this seeming drawback could be an advantage; it gives you an excuse to watch the episodes more than once.

No excuse, though, is needed. "Extras" remains a sneak attack on one's defenses and yet another roguish triumph for Gervais and his witting accomplices.

Rome (one hour) airs tonight at 9 on HBO, followed by Extras (30 minutes) at 10.