Television: LAST NIGHT

So much was wrong with the first episode of Ruby, BBC2's new, late-night chat show (they even misspelled the word "commedian" on the identifying titles), that the only charitable course of action was to hold fire for a night and watch the next programme. And some things were better on the following night, though the improvement can't necessarily be put down to corrective measures since the programmes appear to be recorded at least a day in advance. To begin with, the table was much less crowded (two guests instead of five), meaning that the incidence of brutally amputated anecdotes and inaudible babble had significantly decreased. What's more, somebody actually drank the wine ("Just for effect, I think we ought to have a glass," said John Simpson, who must have watched the preceding programme, in which everyone stuck to the Ty Nant). As a result, all those corked bottles didn't just sit there, an accidental symbol of absent intoxication. They also seem to have cleared away some of the onlookers, background figures who appear behind the shoulders of the guests and forcibly remind the viewer of their own status in this affair - that of unprivileged eavesdroppers, ignored and unconsidered. (Memo to producer: Don't appear making calls to the gallery, as you did in programme one - it's fatally easy to become more interested in what you might be saying than in what the guests actually are.)

Despite all these ameliorations, though, I don't think you could describe the programme that resulted as a success. The really big misconception is the dinner-party format, a bright idea which enjoys a cyclical revival in television until the new generation realises why the old generation dropped it. Dinner parties are only bearable if they are interactive events, and not always then - but at least if you are the person interrupting a story you are doing it because you think you have something far more riveting to say. On screen, by contrast, the pile-ups and detours are simply frustrating - the opening programme, for example, included an excruciating vivisection of a Japanese joke (first anaesthetised by Terry Jones). And, as a spectator sport, dinner parties are notoriously unsatisfactory. Where a conventional chat show leaves a space for the viewer to occupy (even the layout of the seating implies that you complete an imaginary circle), the dinner party reduces you to prowling round the perimeter picking up scraps.

It may also be a mistake to use Ruby Wax as a facilitator for such discussions. Her talent as an interviewer is for getting hugger-mugger one-on-one, kicking off her shoes for an intimate chat and popping off an impertinent question when the opportunity arises. Here, she can't find an appropriate register, so that her questions range from therapised earnestness ("Where's the truth here?") to bizarre triviality ("Who's the worst tyrant you've ever worked with?"). When she unleashes her wit, the effect can seem distracting rather than illuminating: "It was a dreadful hanging," said John Simpson, embarking on a point about the ethics of journalism - "What's a good hanging?" asked Ruby smartly, but the remark was neither a useful joke or a pertinent point. You should keep an eye on this if you are interested in the spectacle of broadcasters digging themselves out of a hole.

Melissa (C4), it has now become clear, is built for pleasure - and is delivering it in large measure. What really marks it out from the genre exercises it builds on is the wit of the writing, but the length has also allowed Bleasdale the opportunity for some delicious excursions from thriller functionalism. The Gilbert and George detectives are wonderful, mysterious in their sexuality and arch in their dialogue - "It's only a crime against humanity," one says to a gay man who confesses to having unsafe sex. "We have no jurisdiction." Sometimes you can detect the crude lines of a simpler picture ("We have to talk, Melissa") but mostly they are concealed by Bleasdale's elaborate brushwork - it's like a painting- by-numbers kit filled in by Velasquez.