Paul Whitelaw

The BBC deserve an ambivalent shrug for The Rob Brydon Show, which is, at best, objectively "alright". Faint praise is the dullest weapon in the critic's armory, but it's all this lighthearted chat show deserves.

Last time Brydon presented something in this vein he was in character as hapless cuckold Keith Barrett of Marion and Geoff renown. This time he's being himself, the likeable, witty, waspish Welshman whose eagerness to please is as endearing as it is occasionally overbearing - during his opening "banter with the audience" segment, I thought his unfunny Pingu impression was never going to end.

There is, to its credit, something pleasingly old-fashioned about the programme's format. Oddly, what it reminded me of most was - pace Wogan and Harty - Knowing Me Knowing You with Alan Partridge, starring Steve Coogan. But whereas that was a parody of traditional chatter-tainment, this is the real, undemanding deal.

So, a few gags, a sycophantic chat with a showbiz chum - David Walliams doing his lazy faux-camp schtick - a self-indulgent duet with a musical hero - Tom Jones - and a showcase for an up-and-coming comic - Tom Deacon, a nondescript child. And, inevitably, as many impressions as Brydon can cram in. If Jones' involvement was anything to go by, expect future guests to include others the host can "do". Ronnie Corbett is probably ironing his cravat as we speak.

An atrocious new sitcom about a self-centred wally (Rafe Spall) whose misadventures are analysed by a pair of omniscient sport commentators. It's a clumsy attempt at subverting the genre with a unique gimmick à la Peep Show. But whereas the subjective camerawork and inner monologues in Peep Show enhance the comedy, this crude device actively discourages it.

Not that it would be funnier without it. Utterly charmless, it exhibits all the worst aspects of modern British comedy, including irritating sub-The Office performances and characters behaving crassly in awkward situations in lieu of actual jokes. An embarrassing comedy from the comedy of embarrassment

If, like me, you enjoy watching tributes to dead British comedians, you'll be familiar with their essential ingredients. The crème de la crème is a contribution from veteran comedy writer Barry Cryer, who knew and worked will all the greats and whose ubiquity demands the question: who will programme-makers turn to when Cryer passes on? Anecdotes about Les Dawson don't grow on trees, you know.

Other hardy perennials include promiscuous use of the word "consummate", usually in conjunction with "entertainer", "timing" or, in less guarded eulogies, "alcoholic" and explorations of private sadness behind the public mask. All were present and correct in The Unforgettable Bob Monkhouse.

Featuring candid contributions from people who knew him, rather than the usual roster of quacking heads, this documentary offered a fair and balanced account of a man who polarised public opinion throughout his long career. To some he was merely a smarmy game-show host, the epitome of shiny showbiz insincerity, whereas others recognised him for the imperial comedy craftsman he was.

Though not without his faults Monkhouse emerged from this profile as a shy, sensitive, bright and introspective man who carefully delineated between his public and private personas.

More self-aware than many gave him credit for, Monkhouse was hurt by accusations of insincerity, arguing that his gushing over-enthusiasm, especially in the presence of fellow comedians, was caused by genuine admiration for their talent. Monkhouse was, to his credit, an unabashed comedy nerd, as evinced by his support of younger comedians, his sprawling personal archive of films and TV shows (curiously not mentioned in the programme) and his famous hand-written joke books, containing thousands of gags on almost every conceivable subject, which made headlines when they were stolen in 1995.

That Monkhouse was devastated by their theft and tearfully overjoyed when they were returned, tells you everything you need to know about his dedication to the craft. He took comedy seriously, as only someone who really understands it can. Cryer made the point that Monkhouse wasn't an instinctive comedian, but rather he trained himself to become one through voracious study of the art. Perhaps that's why many thought him lacking in natural charm.

Very much a brisk skip through his life and work, this was nevertheless a fitting tribute. Neither sycophantic nor hagiographic, it doubtless would've pleased the man himself.

A few weeks ago I dismissed the ecclesiastical sitcom Rev as far too understated and joke-shy for its own good. But I've since grown quite susceptible to its modest charms. I'm not religious, but I like that it avoids the cheap, obvious route of mocking Christianity. Instead it chides and celebrates the foibles of humanity, and presents us with a believable vicar, the terrific Tom Hollander's flawed yet likeable Adam Smallbone.

The final episode saw him question not his belief in God, but whether there is any point doing His work in a world full of suffering and idiocy. After making a drunken fool of himself, verbally abusing his wife and picking a fight with a gang of youths, he decided he was needed after all when called upon to deliver last rites to a dying pensioner. It's a credit to writer James Wood that he managed to juggle these tonal shifts convincingly. Beautifully performed by all, Rev is at once a thoughtful study of faith and a likeable comedy judiciously balancing pathos and humour. I kneel corrected.

When Shooting Stars returned last year after a lengthy hiatus, it felt tired and superfluous. Surprisingly, however, it appears to have recovered its mojo, seemingly because Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer are obviously enjoying themselves a lot more. And when Vic and Bob enjoy themselves, all right thinking people follow suit.

The latest episode featured all the inspired lunacy, knowingly terrible gags and questions such as "true or false: the Dutch language started as a joke that got out of hand" that you'd want from an above-par edition of this anarchic quiz show. The sketch in which Vic appeared as a sinister hunchback with a tiny plastic horse affixed to his philtrum was one of the funniest things I've seen in ages, proving that the duo are still capable of creating unique comedy from the most inexplicable sources.

That Mitchell and Webb Look is still a sporadically amusing sketch show. It's refreshing in that it lacks the lazy cynicism which pervades a lot of modern comedy. The strength of Mitchell and - particularly - Webb's performances usually carries them through the weaker material, and its spirit of acute silliness generally makes up for the bits which don't quite come off.

Written by Peep Show creators Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong, with assistance from Simon Blackwell, The Old Guys is a reasonably successful attempt at fitting their "edgy" comic sensibilities - they also contribute to The Thick of It - within a more traditional mainstream framework.

Amusing, lively and nicely performed, this comedy about mismatched OAPs, played by sitcom stalwarts Roger Lloyd-Pack and Clive Swift, has improved since its first series.

Lloyd-Pack in particular looks far more comfortable, and hogs all the best lines as a feckless old hippie.

While the similarities to Peep Show, in terms of dialogue and characterisation, are still distracting, The Old Guys has an agreeable charm of its own. Ignore the woeful My Family which goes out before it: the mainstream sitcom is far from dead.

Well-intentioned but hopelessly misjudged

If there is one thing guaranteed to garrotte my goat, it's a glib clip show containing broad assumptions based on spurious evidence and received wisdom. Are You Having a Laugh? was as maddening as these things get.

When Graham Linehan and Arthur Mathews created Father Ted in 1995, they breathed new life into the stereotype of the comedy vicar, a character that for too long had been suffocated by the tyrannical stranglehold of Derek Nimmo. Unfortunately Richard Curtis simultaneously came up with The Vicar of Dibley, a programme as twee and mediocre as any number of Nimmo's cassock-based comedies.

Perhaps realising that the realm of the ecclesiastical sitcom hasn't been successfully exploited in a while, acclaimed comic actor Tom Hollander has co-created Rev, in which he plays a harassed vicar at a struggling inner city London church.

Sadly, despite the talent involved - the cast also includes Alexander Armstrong, Finding Eric's Steve Evets, Peep Show's Olivia Colman and comedian Miles Jupp - this low-key comedy is a disappointment. The blame must lie with writer James Wood, who also wrote the similarly underwhelming media satire Freezing, in which Hollander's ferocious comic performance was the sole highlight.

The jokes in Rev are sparse, weak and principally based around the supposedly amusing conceit of a vicar acting in ways you wouldn't expect. So, the Reverend Adam Smallbone, played with amiable anxiety by the always watchable Hollander, smokes, drinks, swears and enjoys sex with his wife.

So, I imagine, do a lot of modern priests - indeed, a group of them are credited as technical advisors - but that doesn't mean the concept is funny in itself. Father Ted admittedly employed similar material, albeit far more inventively than Wood does.

The opening episode takes underpowered swipes at middle-class pretentions and hypocrisies when Smallbone faces a moral dilemma over the sudden rise in church attendance due to a glowing Ofsted report on a local church school. But the episode just dawdles along and not even Hollander's bumbling charm can save it. Rev, like many sitcoms before, may improve as it goes on, but there's precious little here to encourage you to find out.

Fantasy delivered at speed of snail mail

Ever since the success of the Harry Potter franchise, it seems as though every British thespian worth their equity card has been desperate to don a wizard's hat in the name of fantasy fiction. Whereas once an actor boasted of his Hamlet, today they're more likely to ask if you'd ever seen their Dumbledore.