Diane Morgan's Cunk on Cinema: glorious stupidity, expertly built

Philomena Cunk returns to BBC Two in Cunk on Cinema, a three-part history of film written with Charlie Brooker's longtime collaborators and performed by Diane Morgan in her signature deadpan Bolton tones. The Guardian's review calls it "a vehicle for some of the stupidest jokes ever written" — and means it as praise.

The series announces itself within the first 12 seconds, according to the reviewer, who notes that "in a world of slow-burn, jargon-littered dramas, there's something to be said for the TV programme that sets out its stall" that fast. Cunk opens by reeling off humanity's greatest achievements: "conquering the landscape, growing the great wall of Chinese, discovering Mona Lisa and inventing global warming."

That sentence is the show's entire contract. If malapropism of that stripe makes you laugh, the review suggests, you will enjoy what follows — from a crude Mary Poppins gag to segments in which Cunk confuses Michael Bay. If you find such misapprehension childish, the reviewer's advice is blunt: switch off immediately.

Where did Philomena Cunk come from?

The character first appeared in 2012 as a spoof talking head on Charlie Brooker's annual end-of-year Screenwipe special. Her on-screen credentials varied wildly: "computer typist", "Bake Off viewer" and "influential Tweetist". At heart, the review says, she was "a stubbornly ill-informed woman-of-the-people" offering confused commentary on the pressing matters of the day — among them Jimmy Carr's tax avoidance and the dog from The Artist.

Morgan's delivery carried the concept. Thanks to her ability to "spout surreal tosh in an appealing no-nonsense fashion", Cunk was a hit, and soon graduated to solo documentary-making. Brooker and his longtime colleagues, including Joel Morris and Jason Hazeley, have continued co-writing her material throughout.

Her solo subjects have grown in scope: first "Britain", later "Earth", and now cinema. The format has stayed constant — Cunk bamboozles her expert interviewees with inane yet dogged questioning, which the review likens to "a cross between Jeremy Paxman, Louis Theroux and a far less problematic Ali G".

What does this change for the viewer?

Very little, and that is the point. The formula is unchanged; only the subject matter has widened to film history. The reviewer's verdict is unambiguous: "I could listen to Cunk's surreal tosh all day."

One caveat follows every promise, though, and here it is the review's own: this is deliberately, comprehensively idiotic comedy. Anyone expecting a genuine guide to cinema should look elsewhere. The reviewer's closing enthusiasm — a willingness to listen "all day" — is the strongest signal that the three-part run rewards viewers who bought the joke in the first 12 seconds and never demanded it grow up.