But maybe the genre does have a future . . . not in print but on telly.

I say this on the basis of two of the best recent contributions to RTE's Arts Lives series of programmes . . . a John McGahern profile from a couple of years ago, and, last week, Alan Gilsenan's film Paul Durcan: The Dark School.

What both had in common, apart from thematically similar and intelligent . . . and intelligentlyused . . . content, was a heightened treatment. But whereas the pace of the McGahern film was led by the film-maker . . . all tactful silences and measured observations of the Leitrim countryside . . . the Durcan documentary involved a much more simplified, close-in format, and as such, the rhythm was dictated by the subject himself, albeit complemented by Gilsenan and his team's masterful camera and lighting work and judicious use of old Super8 footage.

The power of the film stemmed from Durcan's willingness and ability to speak plainly and unaffectedly about his traumatic early years. Most of the time, it resembled a therapy session; you really felt that the poet was working something out by opening up, and when he was seen, in an interval, pacing around the studio, it seemed as if he was bucking himself up for the next 'session'.

The beginning of the film reinforced the feeling that there's nothing sadder than the innocent optimism of youth being shattered through hard experience. From the early years of sunlight and hope, Durcan's life trajectory followed a downward spiral which eventually, in his early 20s, led to him being literally bundled into a car and committed to a mental hospital, apparently because his father detected in the incipient poet an artistic bent which he took to be a perversion. The dad was a brute . . . that was clear from the evidence . . . although Durcan never passed judgement on him.

The story of how, in a seemingly random act of kindness, he brought his son into Dublin city centre on his birthday and bought him a Beatles LP was the emotional sucker punch of this perfectly controlled film.

There was more personal and passionate reflection on Ar Bhruacha Na Life, a new series about Dublin life and culture presented by former Siptu president Des Geraghty. It seems a good fit; as well as being a natural in front of the camera, Geraghty is, to quote the song, as Dublin as can be.

He was on familiar ground with the first episode, telling the story of the struggle of Dublin's workers from the time of the 1913 lockout to the present day, a journey which brought the presenter into contact with many of his friends from the tradeunion movement. Maybe the subject matter was too familiar:

the second half, in which Geraghty spoke about his own part in recent Irish labour history, at times approached auto-hagiography, reminding me a little of that My Ireland documentary Charles Haughey made for British TV in the late '80s. Geraghty really is one of life's good guys though and the subject matter is interesting (and made all the more so because of the personal perspective from which it's viewed), so there's great hope for this series yet.

Staying with personal worlds, Surrender brought us into the inner sanctum of the titular besuited London art-disrupters, a disconcerting prospect if you're familiar with their work. True to these consistently shocking artists, Alan Yentob was shown around a house that was surprisingly neat and old-world, if very, very creepy. Apart from hoards of dusty antiques, the only possessions the duo seem to keep are boxes and files of ephemera such as ticket stubs and restaurant menus. It's as if what they care about most is their public legacy. I'm sure that's the case to some extent with most artists but Gilbert and George's rather self-conscious obsession with how posterity might perceive them seems consistent with their own shock policies, which only reflects added tawdry light on their work.

At the risk of sounding like a Daily Mail editorial, giant paintings of turds don't really do it for me, and I was left even colder on Gilbert and George after this film than I was beforehand.

Not that apparently off-bound subjects should never be mined for art. Hitler: The Comedy Years, an examination of the rich history of humorous depictions of Nazis in film and on TV, afforded a rare opportunity to savour clips from the ultimate bad-taste sitcom Heil Honey, I'm Home, canned after a single pilot episode in 1990. "None of us ever worked again, " said one of the actors involved, bursting into a laugh, which just goes to prove that you can find humour in the grimmest situations.

Reviewed Paul Durcan: The Dark School Tuesday, RTE One Ar Bhruacha Na Life Sunday, TG4 Imagine. . . Gilbert and George: No Surrender Tuesday, BBC1 Hitler: The Comedy Years Thursday, C4