Before I sat down to watch this Channel 4 documentary, my knowledge of Rasputin was scant. In fact, this is all I knew: he was “The Mad Monk”, he had a beard and – according to Boney M, always a reliable source – he was “Russia’s greatest love machine”. This film was about the myth of Rasputin – how a Siberian peasant was able to infiltrate the hierarchy of Russian society, to the point where he was practically running the country. Somewhat of an outcast from an early age, Rasputin went from being a horse-healing oddball from the middle of nowhere, to having the Russian royalty virtually at his beck and call. The programme charted his calculated rise and inevitable fall, from impoverished beginning, to bizarre end.

It was standard C4 fare – tell the story, get in a few learned types – lecturers, professors, occult historians – add spooky music and some reconstructions and voila! It’s certainly a well trodden path, but that’s not to detract from its effectiveness and it’s hard to see how this peculiar story could have been better told. The narrative took in superstition, royalty, class politics, mysticism and the social climate of turn-of-the-century St Petersburg, all the while keeping your attention with its genuinely unsettling tone.

The film was educational in the sense that it really did inform, while the talking heads were clearly enthused about their subject. In fact, they provided an amusing and entertaining interlude between the shots of the Christopher Eccleston lookalike playing Rasputin, who did a good job of being generally unhinged. Author Colin Wilson was forthright in his opinions: “Alexandra was a silly bitch!” he spluttered while talking about the Tzarina’s shortcomings. “Those two in charge of a country?! Disastrous!”

Alex Lott, occult historian was altogether more reverent to his subject and was shot looking moody in Russian streets – but was clearly in his element when filmed looking around Rasputin’s downtown St Petersburg apartment. Far more disturbing, was Edvard Radzinsky, who resembled a crazed cherub and gleefully told how the crazy cleric encouraged all to engage in sinful (sexual) exploits with him, in order that they could repent more fully and get closer to God (“It was not sex! It was a way to God!”)

Opinions varied – to some contributors he was a “holy man” seeking a pure connection with a divine spirit, to others he was a power crazed demon who got his kicks beating women. Just as Rasputin’s own story was steeped in rumour, this film too sought to perpetuate some of those myths. That he had some unexplained powers of healing seemed to be true enough, and his hold over almost all who met him was also evident. He was the one person who could have talked Nicholas II out of entering the war, but as it was, he was recovering in hospital after an ex-prostitute with no nose ripped part of his intestines out (you couldn’t make it up).

The makers of “The Devil in the Flesh” were not seeking to uncover The Real Rasputin, or deconstruct the myth, but simply tell us a gripping story. Professor Orlando Figes was clearly spot on when he described Rasputin as a chancer who drank too much and got lucky. It was probably the most truthful approach, but had that been the end of the matter, this documentary wouldn’t have been nearly so entertaining.

After Taboo, BBC2 looks ready to set the switchboards red hot with complaints from affronted viewers about Sex Life, particularly the first instalment: “Kids”. Perched in the 10pm slot on a Sunday night, this documentary promised us a look at the growing knowledge that British kids have of sex.

The choice of a class of 11-year-old Mendip schoolchildren as a subject was not as illogical as it first appeared – the filmmakers seemed to be making the point that children’s knowledge of sexual activity was now extremely widespread, even amongst such a relatively young age group. The choice of children used as an example, and the programme itself, was almost akin to a huge neon sign proclaiming: “Look! It’s going on all over the country – even here!” The “it” that the programme seemed to be focusing on, was not so much the act itself, but the know-how the kids seemed to have of it at a frighteningly young age.

In between scenes of the children watching cringeworthy sex education videos and appearing at turns fascinated, disturbed and repelled, we were treated to some statistics read out by Sue Johnston (whose matter-of-fact narration suited the programme brilliantly). Most of the statistical information was obvious stuff: “the younger that people start having sex, the more they regret it”, “30% of boys and 24% of girls have had intercourse by the time they are 16″. They were the kind of revelations that might once have made shocking TV on – say - World in Action 20 years ago, but which today seemed somewhat hackneyed. The programme was far more interesting in its portrayal of today’s attitudes towards sex from the point of view of the kids themselves, than it was in supplying other information.

While a class of children about to leave the relatively “safe” environment of their primary school for the big wide world of secondary education may seem a strange group on which to base a documentary, this film spoke volumes about peer pressure, gender roles and the sheer awkwardness of growing up. At this primary school, as in the outside world, there were two camps – those who were popular and those who were not. Robert was so popular that he should really have thought about carrying a big stick around with which to beat away his numerous female admirers. According to Robert, all a wannabe popular boy needed to be part of the élite, was to be “tough and daring”. He seemed to have missed out “an irrational liking of Limp Bizkit” which blared out at every available opportunity.

As Robert and his cronies gave a particularly poor performance of the aforementioned Bizkit’s Rollin’ in the school playground, the far more sensible girls fought back with a rendition of Here and Now by Steps. This juxtaposition of kids emulating adults (with the exception of H of course), only served to highlight their sheer smallness, and struck a poignant note. Helena (not popular), once lambasted in a sex education lesson by Robert as “boring … ‘cos you don’t want to do nothing [sexually]“, started off the programme as a beacon of sanity. By the end of it she had acquired Harry as a boyfriend – it was a little hard to believe that she actually wanted to go out with him though, as he looked about six years old. In the end, the pairing provided them both with some kind of status – they were still uncool, but they were “going out”.

These statistics which cropped up every now and then against a red background – red for sex, obviously – were actually a little perfunctory and the film would not have suffered as a result of their removal, yet they clearly served a purpose in the eyes of the programme makers who seemed to include them in an attempt to make the programme appear more respectable or factually based. Overall this was insightful and at times unsettling television which gave the unflinching and honest views of children, without seeking to question them as so many other programmes might.

Those expecting the ususal fawning, “it’s a tragedy he’s dead” style tribute to fashion designer Gianni Versace, would have been in for a surprise had they watched this excellent film from James Kent. This was no documentary about the merits of Versace’s work or of how sorely he will be missed by fashion’s glitterati, and it was far from the kind of clichéd offering that ITV or Channel 5 may have given us on the subject. There was no “kiss and tell”, no “who shot Versace?” attempt at investigation. Here was a quality programme which was well researched, including rare footage of the designer’s last show before he was killed. It was an intelligent and subtle film which slowly but surely gathered momentum as it progressed.

During the course of the film, we were given background information on how the Versace family created its own heritage, belying the truth that Gianni, his sister Donatella and brother Santo, were really the offspring of shop keepers and not the Italian aristocrats they portrayed themselves to be. In the world of fashion, it came as no shock to realise that nothing was as it seemed and with a “marketing” budget of $70m, celebrities ad supermodels were easily bought. As the film showed, millions were spent on encouraging celebs to attend Versace shows and parties, with no whim considered too extravagant, to ensure that the Versace brand remained high profile and visible at all times.

The programme benefited from some candid and revealing interviews with such “talking heads” as Joan Buck, Editor of French Vogue, who declared that in a world of aspiration and consumerism, fashion magazines should be renamed “longing magazines”. Other fashion designers were also featured, including a frank and affable Alexander McQueen and John Galliano who was trying just a little bit too hard to appear the Eccentric English Gent and instead appeared the sycophantic queen. How could we take a man wearing a fedora hat and hair clips seriously? Especially when all he had to offer was that Donatella (who looks more like a mutant turtle every day), was “a lovely woman”? Malcolm Mclaren also made an appearance, and his dramatic and witty descriptions of the Versace family and their orgiastic lifestyle suited the film perfectly.

The film highlighted a significant cultural fact: that the world of glamour, sex and celebrity once generated and maintained by Hollywood, was no longer the domain of the film star, but was now dominated by fashion, models and celebrities who wanted to appear fashionable but had no style.

Versace’s killer Andrew Cunanan was portrayed as as a desperate individual whose sense of self depended on material possessions and an image he had created for himself as a rich gigolo who became a celebrity by proxy. As Versace’s clothes were about theatre, sex, escape and entertainment, it somehow made a sick kind of sense that oddball drop-out Cunanan would be attracted to such a figure. If Versace himself hadn’t mistaken his killer for a young acquaintance, and if Cunanan hadn’t kept up the pretence by meeting him on several occasions, the designer might still be alive today. But in our celebrity-sick times, and in the strange world of Andrew Cunanan, one sure way for a nobody to become a somebody is by killing a famous person. With Versace now a world famous brand, Cunanan chose his victim for maximum media exposure. It was in this way, like Mark Chapman before him, that he made his pathetic mark on the world. The real “fashion victim” of the story was not Versace himself, but his long term partner Antonio D’Amico who was effectively banished from “the family” after his death.

With taut direction, excellent photography, a fitting soundtrack and understated narration, this was just the kind of quality film we have come to expect from BBC2′s Storyville.

Tuesday night brought nominations. Who would be out this week? Would Paul be up for eviction for the third week running? Elizabeth and Dean’s insipid Tai Chi routines in the garden would surely be enough to push at least some of the housemates over the edge? In between all the questions, Elizabeth and the rest of the group staged a fake hypnosis session to fool Paul, Helen and Brian (i.e. the most gullible amongst them). Unfortunately, even pretending to be terrified of the chickens and saying there were demons behind the mirrors, failed to make Josh interesting this week.

The nominations threw up a few surprises ­ every housemate excluding Helen, voted for Paul, and Bubble had three nominations.

A word here about the “romance” which is supposedly taking place between Paul and Helen. It is surely no more than flirtation brought about by boredom and the need for attention which both of them seem to crave. Far more interesting would be some kind of dalliance between Brian and Josh – and although they have both asserted that this will not happen, there is more electricity between these two in their play fights and knowing looks than Helen and Paul can muster with their so-called intimacy.

Meanwhile, this week’s record breaking task seemed set to be entered into The Guinness Book of Records as a record in its own right: the world’s most boring televisual event.

Elizabeth’s birthday brought her the choice of a running machine for a week, or a “pampering party” for everybody. Of course, it was really no choice at all, and Elizabeth, ever aware that she must preserve the image of selflessness, plumped for the latter. Paul became mildly interesting for a brief moment, when it was revealed that his sleep-talking antics had now progressed to singing; American Pie, to be precise.

As Helen squealed in delight at the luxurious cosmetics supplied by Big Brother for the party, it was up to Dean, ever the dullard to chide: “Remember who it’s for!”

The contestants perked up a bit as the evening went on – it began with them sat about in white robes like inmates from Champneys and ended with a naked Elizabeth, Helen and Amma writhing around in the bath and teasing a clearly stunned Paul. While Helen and Amma seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves, Elizabeth appeared about as outrageous as usual, i.e.; not very.

Some sparks of personality did shine through this week – Bubble’s ingenious use of pebbles to spell out a poem on the lawn, and Brian’s wail of :”I’m so bored, I could cry!” We sympathise.

The contestants are certainly more media savvy than last year’s. There is lots of talk amongst them of “how will this look?” and an understanding of the manner in which TV can manipulate and interpret events to its own means. There are of course, already rumblings that the more interesting housemates are leaving – certainly Penny’s kookiness made for compelling viewing, but who can say they really miss Stuart’s po-faced stomach crunching and Narinder’s constant moaning?

This week’s eviction however, came as a bit of a surprise – surely Paul’s number would be up this time? But no – the public had voted and as Davina proclaimed: “The nation has removed the joker from the pack.”

No doubt Bubble’s eviction had something – if not a lot – to do with the spat that broke out between the tabloids this week, with The Mirror backing Paul and The Sun behind Bubble. In the end, it was the closest vote of the series so far, with only 6% deciding Bubble’s fate.

This was another of those episodes where you wished the broadcast had stayed on the house live in the 90 minutes between Bubble being told, and him leaving the house. Later, we saw him break down in tears in front of Elizabeth, worried that he had let his daughter down. This was raw emotion from a character that had readily admitted he was “only in here for the money” – a comment that Paul had slyly been informing the other housemates about all week – and one that may have been Bubble’s downfall. It was a rather sad exit and appeared to leave the other group members truly surprised and dejected.

Having watched E4′s coverage quite extensively, it becomes even more obvious this year, that the “edited highlights” which make up the Channel 4 programme exist to portray the housemates as characters in a living soap – although perhaps those characters are less clear cut this year than last. E4′s coverage lurches at times from the sublime to the ridiculous (it begins at 6am whereby you can watch enthralled, as the housemates sleep until around 10am), but it does give a whole other perspective on the events and personalities in the house. If you really want to know what’s happening in the Big Brother house, catch E4′s live coverage, but if you’re happy with another episode of the living soap, then tune in to Channel 4.

And if Paul goes on to win the prize money, I’ll eat my own thumbs.

Viewers watching this episode of the Channel 4 documentary series Witness could have been forgiven for thinking that the whole thing was a glorious April Fool’s Day joke; rotund, American woman writes a self-help book for women who want to save their relationship, the crux of which, dictates that the woman should surrender completely to the whims and wishes of her partner. But no, this was for real, and what followed was a funny and telling film which said more about America’s obsession with self-help and the role of women, than any serious study could have hoped.

The film featured three couples who had turned to Laura Doyle’s book The Surrendered Wife in an attempt to save their relationship. Looking at the first couple, it was clear that they needed help, when it became apparent that their pet parrot was more interesting than themselves. Merilee and John were both advocates of helping oneself and agreed that Merilee should follow the rules of Doyle’s philosophy and surrender to John’s wishes. Poor Merilee was, we were told, an advocate of self-help and positive thinking, but when at a support group meeting of fellow “surrendees” she was asked by Doyle to name an asset of hers that was attractive, she was stumped and descended into tears.

Connie – another of the women featured – had no such trouble naming her best assets (and they weren’t her eyes, lovely though they were). Connie was dating Ted, a die-hard Republican whose idea of leisure was time spent at the shooting range. Connie wept as she explained in a phone call to Doyle that she couldn’t cope with Ted’s political views and personality traits – while Doyle smiled smugly and affirmed that Connie just needed “to let go” – of her sanity, presumably. Connie was a tired woman, tired of dating a man who made a romantic gift of a carpet, tired of all the effort needed to maintain her relationship and her tan, but somehow carrying on with it all regardless.

The third couple were Tammy and Tom. Tammy and Tom’s relationship had reached a point where they no longer cared what they said to each other. Tammy spoke candidly to camera about the repulsion she felt for her husband’s rapidly expanding waistline. Her husband looked on forlornly and tucked into another bowl of desert. Tom’s stomach was certainly a turn off, but that did not prevent it from having a starring role in the programme and wobbling about beside the pool at every opportunity.

One of the funniest scenes in the film occurred when, as part of Doyle’s programme, the male partners arranged a date on which the wives were obliged to go. John took Merilee to see a film. When we saw her distraught and almost speechless afterwards in the cinema car park, we may have been under the impression that John had dragged her off to view The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or some other bloodfest (“violence … blood …” she mumbled dramatically). Merilee however, had been traumatised by Ridley Scott’s Gladiator, and was incredulous that her partner could have chosen such a film. Well, they do say you never really know someone. She should have thought herself lucky; Tammy was treated to a tour of a mind-numbingly bizarre museum dedicated to The Wild West, with a venue straight out of an episode of The Simpsons. Tammy gaped open mouthed at a feeble mannequin dressed in Indian garb and gasped: “Well … you can’t imagine living like that … with no shampoo and hairspray?” Judging by her own permed ’80s barnet, the thought was too much to bear.

Laura Doyle herself was the most interesting character in the programme, but while she was happy to appear with her own husband, and espouse the virtues of subservience and passivity, her sweet smiles and coy looks were fooling no-one. It would have been easy for the programme makers to portray these women as stupid and subservient, yet somehow this intelligent and revealing film didn’t take cheap shots – delicate prompting from the director showed that all three had experienced traumatic episodes in their past which had somehow impacted on their present lives. The women all appeared to suffer from a lack of self esteem – why else would they choose to turn themselves into servile idiots on Doyle’s recommendations? But stupid they were not.

“Surrendered Wives” would have been a far more gutsy programme, had it featured more feisty subjects (both male and female), yet it still managed to convey the futility of Doyle’s “rules” and highlight the holes in her logic. The film offered a snapshot of the confusion surrounding gender roles in 21st century America, while keeping it’s tongue firmly in it’s cheek. A British version would be a sure winner.