TV REVIEWS
A choice of reviews from recent TV programmes. Updated regularly.
MARY, QUEEN OF
SHOPS
Hey, everybody.
There’s a recession on, didn’t you know? Businesses are about to feel the pinch
after Tory Boy announced the latest Budget, which will see a significant
increase in VAT from 17.5% to 20%.
Shops in particular, will bear the brunt of
this as everyone from your average small business through to your big
superstore will be forced to put prices up, come January 2011. Now that’s going
to be a happy Winter.
Still, small
shops apparently do have some sort of saviour. Mary Portas, business guru and
retail expert, is ready to save the day in her TV programme, Mary Queen Of
Shops.
The way in which
it works is that Mary visits a shop that’s on its last legs. Its not bringing
in the money like it used to. Customers have upped and left. Cue much soul
searching and crying, but by the end, nine times out of 10, everything’s all
right. The shop gets a swanky new refit. The shop owners see the error of their
ways. More customers pile in. More profits! Hooray!
I say nine times
out of 10 – in fact, the latest series kicked off with a complete misfire. Mary
decided to visit a baker’s shop to give it a complete overhaul. The owner of
the bakery, Angela, was none too impressed with Mary’s methods though –
although judging by Angela’s constant miserable expression, she wouldn’t even
be impressed if she won the lottery.
Wearing the face
of a bulldog chewing on a mouldy cheese sandwich, Angela wasn’t ready to play
ball. Apparently, she was the expert – as she pointed out about 874 times,
she’d been in the business for 36 years, a fact that was repeated about every
31 seconds.
Mary suggests
that they redo the décor – “Yeah, my customers like walking into a 1974
throwback – I’ve been in this business for 36 years.”
Mary suggests
that she gives her hapless second banana greater input into cooking products.
“Naaah, eee’s alright. I’ve been in this business for 36 years.”
Mary walks out of
the shop, exasperated. “Oy, you weren’t creating business in 1974 were you?
I’ve been in this business for 36 years.”
A quick look at
Angela’s bakery website even points out this fact, so much so, that probably
all her products were made in 1974 and were put into suspended cryogenic
animation until today.
In the end, after Mary’s persistence finally didn’t pay
off in changing her outdated interiors and products, Angela went upstairs in a
sulk and refused to speak to the cameras – until, in a fit of pique, she threw
Mary and her team out on the streets and told them never to come back. Result!
Mind you, in a
way, for all her faults, you can see why Angela took umbrage with Mary so
easily, since Portas’ methods of rejuvenation are about as subtle as an army of
bulls in a china shop. Resembling a cross between Sharon Osbourne, the woman
from Swing Out Sister and Bruce Forsyth, Portas doesn’t so much call a spade a
spade, she launches into an angry rant about the spade and then probably
proceeds to throw it across the room. At Angela, no doubt.
Take one of the
latest instalments in which she visited a run-down furniture shop apparently
helmed by a myopic Mick Fleetwood and a freeze-dried Liza Goddard – the
reaction that Portas gave was as if she had stepped into a room full of rotten
eggs. Bellowing and wailing about the outdated design and products, Mary wasn’t
backward in coming forward.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, she later paid a
visit to the couple’s house, which was similarly eccentric with blue front
walls and mural designs on the inside. “Yeah, it’s like it’s from the time when
Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours was Number One,” she sneered.
Actually, in
1978, weren’t glitterballs or posters of Sid Vicious the order of the day? Come
on, get it right, Mary.
Anyway, it’s the
sheer rudeness that rankles. And what’s worse is the fact that any hint of
creativity or imagination is tossed out the window in favour of bland, clinical
design. OK, so in the business world, there’s little room for eccentric
personalities, it’s all designer this and designer that – but in the end, any
hint of personality and individuality is ground down to dust by Mary’s stiletto
heel.
And you can’t
help but feel that most of the arguments between Mary and her hapless victims
are just put on for the camera. That’s the way TV works these days – an easy
ride in which ordinary people make helpful suggestions doesn’t make for
exciting TV. Instead, Mary’s rudeness and overbearing hectoring supposedly
makes for a far more interesting viewing experience.
Most of the time
– Angela apart – the programme has a happy ending. The victim always takes the
advice, and in a grand relaunch, the shop opens to queues of customers (who
probably wanted to be on TV anyway). Victim cries a lot – and sometimes, like
when the hair stylist guy re-opened, even Mary does too in a crass bid to show
that she’s not that ferocious really.
That said, it is
quite heartwarming to see the underdog fight back against the big players in
town. The problem is that Mary, Queen Of Shops has to resort to the usual 21
century methods of rudeness, abruptness and the removal of any individuality.
Portas evidently knows what she’s doing, and most of the time, she’s on the
money, as the increase in fortunes prove. But if only she wasn’t so rude to
people.
But then, what do
I know? I’ve only been around for nearly 36 years.
MASTERCHEF
The last week has seen TV cookery take a bit of a pasting. Sophie Dahl’s new show has been lambasted in the press and in foul-mouthed tirades by TV foodie, Giles Coren. Jamie Oliver’s been reduced to tears, while trying to wean fat kids in America onto healthier diets, and meeting fierce opposition from the locals. Still, at least there’s good old Masterchef to fall back on.
From a slightly awkward beginning with Loyd Grossman bleating in a dark, cramped TV studio, Masterchef has since blossomed into the familiar pattern of fast-paced cookery tasks in both professional kitchens and the purpose-built domain of John Torode and Gregg Wallace. It has become so successful, that there are now two spin-offs: Celebrity Masterchef and Masterchef: The Professionals, in which Torode is usurped by cooking legend, Michel Roux Jr. Roux Jr really should write the Masterchef Professionals Book of Clichés, since every verdict contains one or more of the following phrases:
“Delicious.’
“Unctuous”
“It’s as pretty as a picture.”
“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it looks.”
“That dressing/sauce/spice etc adds a whole new dimension.”
And so on… But we’re back to the usual format of sweaty individuals hoping to snatch the crown and open their own restaurant. Or at least enjoy their five minutes of foodie fame.
Torode and Wallace, as ever preside over the hopefuls, and yes, they still get to fill their faces with food. It’s bizarre. We always get whopping great close-ups of both men shovelling a fork or spoon into their great big gobs. Maybe it’s the camera angle, but their mouths seem big enough to accommodate a bulldozer, like dimensions to another universe of scollops and sauce. Wallace (the bald one) also has this weird habit of chomping down on his fork or spoon and then keeping it in his great big gob for about 10 minutes. It’s crazy, one of these days, I expect to see him take the fork or spoon out, minus the head.
The tasks themselves look relatively simple. The heats begin with six hopefuls making a dish from a list of set ingredients in a limited timeframe. Torode and Wallace then deliver their verdicts to the contenders’ faces, and then proceed to sit in what appears to be two separate rooms, because they keep SHOUTING. Every sentence is hollered at the loudest decibel, as if neither Torode or Wallace can hear what the other is saying. Even in the opening titles, we are always treated to the sight of Wallace bellowing: “COOKING!!! DOESN’T GET MUCH TOUGHER!!! THAN THIS!!!” as if he’s talking to the man on the moon. The golden rule of Masterchef is never to listen to it on headphones, since I guarantee you’ll be left deaf at the end, after listening to the judges’ relentless bellowing.
Anyway, at the end of their heated debate, three contenders proceed to the next two rounds. The first of these is the Professional Kitchen round, during which all three get flustered in a swanky restaurant kitchen while some shouty Ramsay wannabe yells at them to hurry up. Call me stupid, but quite how shouting at people gets the best results goes way over my head. The hapless contenders always have to bark “YES CHEF!!!” as if the head chef has just found the cure for the common cold rather than making tiny little portions of food for wealthy customers.
The stupid thing about this round though is that it doesn’t matter a damn. A contender can make a complete meal of their time in the professional kitchen, and yet, this doesn’t really have any bearing on the final verdict, which seems to be judged solely on whether Torode or Wallace like two specially created meals that the trio produce. Even then, the goalposts have been constantly changed this series, since more than one contender always seems to proceed. So not a cop-out in any way then.
The quarter-final round now also includes the 15-minute challenge in which the cream of the crop are challenged to produce a dish before Torode’s and Wallace’s very eyes. This round was introduced in the Professionals series in which Michel Roux Jr’s rather odd sous chef Monica Galetti stood and watched quivering wrecks do the same. Touted as “scary”, Galetti wasn’t anything of the sort, just, as I said, odd. Indeed, her whole time on Masterchef: The Professionals was spent gurning and pulling as many sour-faced expressions as she could in a whole minute.
Torode and Wallace have taken their inspiration from Galetti, and now gurn and gawp for the camera as if they are in a gurning championship rather than a cookery competition. Still, the contestants seem to be terrified out of their wits, as they more often than not, make a complete hash of the task, burning, undercooking or overcooking the food. One tearful loser then exits stage left to leave one of the remaining hopefuls cook their very best meal: Cue more noisy chewing and big close-ups of the big mouths.
So, at the time of writing, we’re about to embark on the semi finals, no doubt with more overwrought tension, tears and bored, monotonous voiceovers from India Fisher.
Amazingly, most of the contestants actually come across as quite likeable. Some of them admittedly do play the sympathy card a bit too much. The man with the comedy beard claimed to give up his home to be on Masterchef. While the science teacher claimed to abandon her husband, wedding guests and honeymoon on the day of her wedding to be on the programme. Needless to say, they didn’t get through, proving that OTT sacrifices won’t win you a place in the finals. I wonder what Mr Science Teacher thought when his new wife flew off?
Despite all its problems, there’s something cosily reassuring about Masterchef. It’s probably because you know exactly what you’re going to get, and also there’s always something rather satisfying about seeing other people make your own cooking look like gourmet cuisine. But a good rule of thumb for Masterchef wannabes? Always cook scollops. Use lots of sauce and spice. And definitely don’t sacrifice your family, partner, husband, wife, kids or house to be on Masterchef. No good will come from it, I promise you that.
SKI SUNDAY
At the time of writing, Britain is caught in the middle of what the media calls: "THE BIG FREEZE". Having grown bored of scaring people witless with THE CREDIT CRUNCH, the news channels are now hellbent on spreading mass panic with overhyped stories about... um, a few inches of snow.
Newsreaders such as eerie robotic headmistress Kate Silverton deliver stern warnings of how the country is falling apart at the seams, while boggle-eyed madman Daniel Corbett delivers further grim weather prophecies like an RSC reject dancing on hot coals.
Which is all nonsense of course. If only the local authorities, travel companies, etc, actually did something rather than cave in so easily at a little bit of snow, then we wouldn't have excessive non-stop coverage on the TV. God, Canadians must be having a right laugh at us.
As must the makers of Ski Sunday, a programme that's probably hot property (ho ho) at the moment. Ski Sunday is one of those programmes that's been around for donkey's years, but has actually been updated for a modern 21st century audience a la Top Gear, Strictly Come Dancing or Doctor Who.
And it's actually quite enjoyable: a staggering feat for me personally, since I'm actually rubbish at skiing. My wife took me on a ski holiday five years ago, where I spectacularly managed to make a meal of what seems like a deceptively easy sport. Keeping your balance on two planks of wood in the snow. What could go wrong?
Well, plenty, especially since your feet are encased in heavy boots, which feels like you're walking around dragging two anvils in quicksand. Not easy at all, and when you're put in a starter's course full of prodigiously talented five-year-old kids who can do start jumps in the air, that's got to rankle.
And yet, watching it on TV is curiously soothing, worlds apart from the abject terror that I faced five years ago. Skiiers like Walchoffer make the runs effortlessly simple - and after the frantic pace of so many programmes on TV, it's a blessed relief to find a programme that you can just chill out to (OK, no more rubbish weather-related jokes).
That said, though, this relaxing ambience is disrupted by very LOUD commentary from the two presenters Graham Bell and Ed Leigh. Both are good enough presenters and obviously know their stuff inside out. But why do they both have to shout? Bell, in particular, sounds like he's being forced to commentate through a megaphone at a heavy metal gig. Every single ski run is accompanied by Bell's relentless bellowing, as if he thinks his target audience is an army of acutely deaf grannies (who are probably too busy watching Songs Of Praise or Last Of The Summer Wine or any other Sunday night boredom).
Shame, since the other reports and celebrity ski runs are quite fun, and definitely provide comfort viewing with a steaming hot mug of cocoa on a Sunday afternoon. How long before we get remakes of We Are The Champions, Paddles Up or Kick Start? Just don't hire Bell to provide the commentary above the sound of motorbikes - your TV speakers won't be able to handle the shouting.
SATURDAY NIGHT TV
Freezing cold outside, stricken with flu, there’s no choice for me and the missus but to stay in with Saturday night telly to try and make us feel better. Although judging by the latest efforts, it may be a bitter medicine to take.
Both BBC and ITV seem to be stuck in several timewarps, judging by their choice of programming. BBC’s prime time viewing kicks off with Total Wipeout, a bizarre fusion of 70s chestnuts It’s A Knockout, The Krypton Factor and that old kids TV favourite, We Are The Champions. Alas, there’s no Ron Pickering substitute to bellow “AWAY YOU GO!!!” at the end of the show.
What we do get instead is the double act of Richard Hammond and Amanda Byram – well, a double act that’s operating on other sides of the world. Hammond, still stuck with an 80s mullet that resembles a cross between a hedgehog and any one of Kajagoogoo, is relegated to making sarky quips from the TV studio, while Byram, despite being at the heart of the action in Argentina, does little more than gurn gormlessly at the camera. Hardly taxing work.
The show itself is just one long obstacle course, as several look-at-me goons undertake giant bouncy balls, active boxing gloves, very fast roundabouts and copious amounts of water and mud. All of which is actually quite good fun, were it not for the competitors, who seem hell-bent on being as annoying as possible. They shout raucously to the camera, like some drunken reveller at closing time in some grimy nightclub. Sometimes, they even jump up and down, sing, shriek, moon for the camera… All of which is begging for the viewer to recognise that they are “wacky” and “cool” when in fact, they are just irritating nuiscances. Furthermore, they get silly adopted alliterative names. So say someone called Maureen goes on the show, and bellows “I’M MAD, I AM!!!” – she becomes “Mad Maureen”. Same goes for Loopy Lucy, Crazy Chris or Nutty Neville. You get the picture.
Total Wipeout revels in this silliness – well, it’d have to, given that it’s all about making it across in one piece on a giant obstacle course. The problem is, it feels so forced. The annoying contestants, Byram’s non-stop irritating mugging to the camera, and Hammond’s sarky voiceovers are the sort of fake jollity that you’d get from say, the office Christmas party, or worse, a Go Compare advert. There’s little about the show that’s actually funny, apart from when the annoying goons fall in the mud or when they only complete the course in about one and a half hours.
A more serious offering is So You Think You Can Dance, yet another example of TV's constant recycling policy. Combining Strictly Come Dancing, The X Factor, and practically any other reality TV talent contest, you know the drill by now. Lots of hopeful twinkle-toes parade their talent (or lack of talent) before a panel of stern judges (more on them in a minute). Cue lots of tears, whether they are put through or not. The audition studios really should be insured for flooding, since practically every contestant cries a river. Ironically, this is mostly when they are put through. They look as though they’ve just been told that their dog has had to be put down rather than being told that they’ve made it to the finals.
That’s not to say that the dancers aren’t much cop, since a good deal of them actually are. And speaking as a man who has two left feet, and can only muster embarrassing Dad Dancing at discos, it’s actually quite impressive. Problem is, there’s such a weary, seen-it-all-before air pervading So You Think You Can Dance. The panel comprises the usual sorts of judges. Two veterans Nigel Lythgoe and Arlene Phillips are back, offering their usual mix of caustic put-downs and patronising compliments. The obligatory 90s pop star of the panel, this time, turns out to be Louise Redknapp, who sounds as bored out of her skull whenever she opens her mouth as she does when on any other TV programme. Oh, and there’s some guy called Sisco, too.
And of course, we get the inevitable padded out results show, which is like making the last sliver of butter last for a whole loaf of bread. Pop star of the moment caterwauls through their latest dirge. Cat Deeley asks the judges lots of questions about who did well and who didn’t. Oh, and my personal favourite is when the winners and losers are announced. Taking melodrama to a whole new level, as with any other modern talent contest, hopefuls are kept waiting for what seems like days, as ominous music hums in the background, the room darkens, and Cat leaves whopping great gaps between sentences. And then finally, after what seems like an eternity, the result is announced, causing yet more outbreaks of tears. Even a hospital ward full of newborns don’t blub as much as these talent show crybabies.
Still, if you want to have a good old cry yourself, try changing channels to ITV, which houses the truly dreadful Take Me Out, an uncomfortable fusion of Blind Date, Man O Man and a night out with a hen party of about 20 shrieking, attention-seeking harridans.
I mentioned the timewarp factor. Well, this programme is most reminiscent of the second ingredient, Man O Man, that god-awful 1990s show, in which desperate men attempted to attract the attention of a horde of vain, preening bimbos. If one of the men wasn’t up to scratch for whatever reason, they were pushed into a swimming pool by one of the women. Unfortunately, the women were a difficult to please lot. Either the blokes were too weedy or too muscly. Too serious or too jokey. In actual fact, you got the impression that the women’s ideal man didn’t actually exist: it was an imaginary ideal – no wonder the late 90s brought an army of singleton women on TV such as Ally McBeal and the Sex And The City crones.
Take Me Out is less brutal than Man O Man, although that’s not to say it’s any good. The women for one thing, are all uniformly annoying – all cheap bling, cleavage and lashings of make-up and fake tan. In fact, most of the women have so much fake tan, that Take Me Out hovers dangerously close to looking like The Black And White Minstrel Show. The blokes are as annoying as the girls, and like Total Wipeout, have to have irritating personality traits or hobbies. Six Pack Man. Nerd. Punk. Take That fan (really???!!??).
Still, that’s no excuse for the girls belittling practically every single fault that each bloke has. They don’t have the right build, not enough hair, too much hair, too boring, too nice, etc etc. They don’t happen to chuck the luckless suitors into a giant paddling pool, but switch out their podium lights instead, a metaphorical ner-ner-ner-ner-ner that’s probably just as painful.
OK, it’s probably all for show, and the singletons are probably looking to get their faces on TV rather than a relationship. But it’s so tacky and crass that it makes me feel sorry for all those lonely singletons out there who think that all dating is as brutal as Take Me Out.
Continuing the lurve theme, ITV then takes its roots from the 1970s with its other big offering, All Star Mr & Mrs, an updated version of that old 70s chestnut, which was then hosted by old smoothy, Derek Batey, along with a dolly bird on his arm to hand out cheap n’ nasty carriage clocks to cosy suburban couples. These days, the carriage clocks still remain, but it’s now hosted by the ubiquitous Philip Schofield and Fern Britton, a duo that are hard to escape. I went for a walk to town this morning and was surprised to see that they weren’t behind the newspaper counter at the local corner shop, or selling fish and chips at the chippie, or even pulling pints at my pub.
Of course, the main selling point is the great big ALL-STAR plonked at the start of the title, if that makes a difference. It seems that ITV can’t have revamped 70s quiz shows unless they contain the latest gaggle of Z-list celebrities gracing their doors. What next, All-Star 3-2-1? All-Star Winner Takes All? All-Star Sale Of The Century?
The All-Star element aside (basically Noddy Holder, Kirsty Gallacher and Mr Sulu, for example), Mr & Mrs is still as cosy and twee as it was in the 1970s. Each contestant answers questions about their other half. Said other half jigs about to music in a glitzy phone booth while wearing Cyberman headphones and rather odd Elton John-style shades. They then have to say whether their partner was right or wrong, and if all questions are right, they then win lots of money for charideee. Of course, they always seem to get the right answers (I’m in no way cynical), but I wonder what would happen if all the answers turned out to be wrong. The contestants would be heading for divorce courts faster than a mouse to a piece of cheese. That said, though, its cosiness luckily makes it the preferable antithesis of the execrable Take Me Out.
Saturday Night TV: It ain’t what it used to be, but get a bottle of wine in, unplug the brain, and just make sarky comments about what’s unfolding in front of your eyes on the telly. And if nothing else, just be glad that you’re not confronted with wall-to-wall rugby.
Oh, wait a minute…
DOCTOR WHO: THE END OF TIME
Boo Hoo Who. So that's that. In the end, David Tennant's Doctor was finally bumped off. By Bernard Cribbins. Or by a killer phone box. Or by an Ood choir. You've got to hand it to the Time Lord though, he's got more lives than 10 catteries. In these two episodes alone, The Doctor was nearly fried by the Master; shot at by a helicopter; and fell several thousand feet through a plate of glass. Now that's some staying power.
The episode itself has polarised opinion amongst fans. Some thought it the fitting end of an era. Others picked at the plot holes, OTT music and self-indulgence on writer Russell T Davies' part. Heck, the regeneration itself seemed to drag on for aeons, as the Doctor chose to get his reward by visiting all his friends. Back in the day when Jon Pertwee's Doctor also fell foul of lethal radiation, he presumably also spent three weeks going to see Jo Grant, Liz Shaw, Mike Yates, The Master and even Bill Filer, before returning to UNIT HQ to change into Tom Baker.
Me, I think both sides have fair cases. As with many of the new Doctor Who stories, there seem to be loads of unanswered questions and plot contrivances. Like how come Catherine Tate's Donna didn't burn up after remembering her experiences with the Doctor (which the Doctor originally warned would happen). Or how suddenly the Time Lords are the bad guys in the Time War, a phrase that's trotted out so much, I'm surprised that the Doctor hasn't said: "Let's do the Time War again." And what's with all this non-stop prophecy stuff? We've had mad Dalek Caan, Carmen from On the Dubai Buses and now some wrinkly old Time Lord hag prattling on about doomy futures for the Doctor. Mystic Meg must be throwing her crystal ball across her living room in jealousy.
Oh, and the music's still too hellbent on dictating what your emotions are. Wall-to-wall music just seems too intrusive, and although composer Murray Gold can produce some excellent scores, at other times, he swamps the action in slushy mush that wouldn't be too out of place in a cliched Disney movie.
Still, the diehard fans must have had a field day, since the episode saw the return of The Master, The Time Lords, Gallifrey, and hey - even Rassilon, played with dramatic gusto by Timothy Dalton. The plot was well worked out with a totally-left field conclusion to Part One, although sadly, the Earth faced yet another menace, as the giant Malteser - sorry, Gallifrey - threatened to crush the Earth like an egg.
The Master was played well by John Simm, here, looking like a cross between Jon Culshaw and Simon Pegg. The Master's botched resurrection came across very well, as he was reduced to skulking about rubbish tips and reducing portly burger staff to skeletons. Simm conveyed the Master's madness perfectly, and also added a touch of humour to proceedings, neither of which, for once, felt too OTT or annoying. The cliffhanger to Part One was both surprising and highly amusing. Although of course, the Master turned out to be a pawn in the Time Lords' game, and it was nice to get an explanation for the non-stop drumming in the Master's head. It was also a neat move for The Master to get some sort of redemption, after he chose to kill Rassilon and send the Time Lords back to the drawing board (although truth be told, I don't think we've seen the last of either).
You could quibble that some of the other actors weren't used enough. Catherine Tate was intriguingly sidelined for most of the action, while June Whitfield's appearance amounted to no more than a cameo. Veteran actress Claire Bloom also got a look in as the mysterious woman who warns Wilf: It was a good move by Davies to keep her identity enigmatic, although the Doctor's equally enigmatic answer gave the indication as to who she really was.
But the real meat of the show came from both David Tennant and Bernard Cribbins as Wilf. The latter threatened to steal the show once again in every scene he was in. Cribbins can do humour, drama and great poignancy - normally all at the same time. Wilf's discussions with the Doctor were perfectly acted by both Cribbins and Tennant, and formed the most poignant parts of the episodes, although Wilf's last silent tearful goodbye to the dying Doctor was also a choker. I know it's been said a lot, but can someone hurry up and make Cribbins an OBE? If only for fond childhood memories alone.
As for Tennant himself, after a shaky start in his early episodes (too much gurning and squeaky-voiced hyperactivity), he very much made the part of The Doctor his own, and turned in one of his best performances in The End Of Time. Starting out with forced bonhomie against his doomed future, moving through quiet contemplation, determination, and finally ending up with rage at the four knocks before resigning himself to his fate - even if his final words were a little odd. I was expecting one last "Allons-y!" before he regenerated, but his last choked-up cry of "I don't want to go!" ended this previously ebullient Doctor's reign on a very downbeat note. Tennant gave it 150% throughout the show, and he, along with Davies, very much earned the accolades and awards thrown their way for still making sure that the show is still a runaway success.
As for Matt Smith: Bad hair. Worryingly younger than me. But very promising for the future in only a few words.
Despite the few problems, The End Of Time was everything you could want from a Doctor Who story. It may not have been perfect, but it had the right combination of drama, humour, and above all, heart, to make it still the best show on telly.
THE RESTAURANT
The Credit Crunch. I'm not sure who came up with that name. Possibly the same type of someone who came up with equally irksome concepts like shrinking the TV credits or the god-awful T-Mobile advert where lots of tone-deaf morons butcher dog-eared "classics" like Hey Jude. Whoever came up with that name though, must be rubbing their hands in glee, since everywhere you go, there's mention of it. In the papers. On the radio. On the TV.
Oh, and on The Restaurant, BBC2's once rather good competition in which Raymond Blanc, France's very own Mr Bean, set out to find a couple to enter into a restaurant business with. The show used to go out twice a week, and actually looked quite high class for a reality TV show. The contestants were of course, the mix of the promising and the inept. Who can forget the Hotpot man who stuffed fajitas with beans and carrots? Or the tattooed guy and his hapless acolyte, who followed him everywhere like a lost puppy?
Unfortunately, this year, the Credit Crunch has hit The Restaurant hard. For starters, we're down to one programme a week rather than two, which means that we don't get to hear the immortal words: "And for zat reason, ah em putting YOU in ze shallonj!" The final scenes are no longer filmed in what looks like a swanky Breakfast Bar. Instead, Monsieur Bean visits one of the contenders' restaurants, where all the hopefuls huddle up and squirm uncomfortably as the great man delivers his verdict, and sends one of them packing. Heck, even Monsieur Bean himself seems to have been taking lessons from other celebrity chef shouters like Gordon Ramsay or Marco Pierre White. Rather than the genial host of Seasons One and Two, Blanc strides around the series with a scowl on his face, like someone's just broken wind in his kitchen. A lot of the hopefuls have left without so much as a handshake from Blanc, instead they've received a curt "Ah em closeeng your restaurant" and a disapproving glare.
Mind you, that could be because this year's contestants are uniformly poor. Right from the outset, we had a mother and daughter who opened a tin with a great big kitchen knife and a rolling pin. Presumably they use a cutlass to open a letter. Or use a cordless drill to clean their teeth. Whatever, quite how they passed the initial screening process to qualify for the show in the first place is a slightly troubling mystery.
Not that many of the others were much better, indeed, it's anyone's guess as to how the last two sets of contestants made it so far in the first place. On the one hand, we have Nathan and Chris. Chris seems like a capable enough cook, but unfortunately, he's hampered by what seems to be a faulty oven and more importantly, Nathan's people "skills". Well, I say skills - put it this way, it's like Victor Meldrew in charge of a busy birthday party for five-year-olds. Nathan sometimes has his good days, but more often than not, he's responded to customers' complaints with a nonchalant shrug and a pithy comment. Over the course of a few weeks, we've seen angry grannies, lovelorn singletons and birthday girls left underwhelmed by cold food and dispassionate service.
Still, Nathan and Chris are more likely candidates than their competitors, James and "JJ". Arrogant. Smarmy. Flop-haired. Three good adjectives to sum up these two. Winners? No. JJ looks like a slightly over-inflated Richard Carpenter doll. James looks like David Cameron impersonating the bloke from Let Loose. They both have bad curtain-cut haircuts, which makes them look like they've been plucked from 1991 and catapulted forward 18 years in time. More to the point, JJ seems to have hardly cooked much food. He was seen to cook in the last episode, much to Monsieur Bean's delight, but after seven odd weeks of not making much food, surely the judges are missing the point?
Take the semi-final for instance. Blanc put the final three candidates through their paces with a series of shallonges. At the beginning, it looked like the other two candidates Stephen and Rebecca might have been in with a shot. The food was up to scratch in their restaurant. Service was also more than acceptable, whereas the other two sets of contestants were struggling, with even one of JJ's chefs getting in a huff on camera.
But just when it looked like ze shallonges were over, the final hurdle proved to be too much for Stephen as he faced the daunting prospect of cooking in front of 100 strangers at a public cookery school. The tears flowed. Panic oozed out of every pore, until Blanc went to reassure him that even the great chefs got panicky in the early days. But guess who exited stage left before the final...?
Therein lies the problem with the show. It's not about who's the most talented cook, which is surely one of the most important criteria? Instead, it's about who's got the gift of the gab and more importantly, who makes good TV fodder. Remember the mother and son who were chucked out at the beginning? The mother had shown great culinary promise, but the poor guy blew it with a stumbling, incomprehensible load of nothing about the concept of their restaurant. Apparently, concept is more important than actual cooking. Remember that, people.
Unsurprisingly, JJ and James breezed through the latest task with arrogant bluster and, um, beetroot soup.
Sadly, The Restaurant has fallen victim to the Reality TV curse in that it's all about personalities rather than genuine raw talent. It even has its own boo-hiss judge lackeys, much like The Apprentice. David Moore looks like one of those potatoes from the 1980s Smiths Crisps adverts, and isn't averse to putting the boot into anyone that's not up to scratch. Still, he's a ray of sunshine compared to Sarah Willingham, who could curdle milk from a million miles away with her customary evil glare and sneer.
And in the end (as a post-it to the above review), the inevitable happened. Monsieur Bean uttered the immortal words: "JJ and James? Ah em openeeng a restaurant wiz you." Cue outraged spluttering on the internet as the programme chucked all its credibility out the window.
All this after JJ and James, in the final shallonj, made risotto that looked more like rancid rice pudding dipped in wallpaper paste, questionable roast beef and a non-existent souffle. Which was replaced with - oh, you'd never guess, a cocktail!
All of which made a mockery of the whole series that had gone before: Who wants to visit a restaurant where the food isn't up to scratch? Or if you don't get your plate of food, you get a cocktail instead? Still, what could you expect after we saw Smiths Crisps man on the verge of tears after Nathan asked someone what their order was again? Sheer madness.
We hear about the Credit Crunch often enough on this year's Restaurant. Monsieur Bean has stated that the High Street's a big, bad jungle, but quite how JJ and James' new restaurant can make a sufficient impression to keep up with the culinary Joneses is anyone's guess. Sadly, The Restaurant's dip in quality sums up the cutting corner traits of the recession, which is a great shame. Will it return next year after losing the plot this series? As Blanc says: "Bon chance." It's going to need it...
THE X FACTOR
I've just had a rather terrifying vision of the future. And it's one in which Simon Cowell becomes president of Britain. Lord have mercy, it could come true, given the man's seemingly omnipotent presence on the TV. Already, he's been one of the judges on Britain's Got Talent, whereas now, he's stepped up his quest for world domination with the current series of karaoke larks, The X Factor. Which will inevitably result in Cowell taking over the Christmas Number One Spot with - oh, wait a Miley Cyrus dirge. Makes me hanker for the golden years of Cliff Richard's Mistletoe And Wine. Well, nearly.
So with Cowell hellbent on dominating TV and the pop charts, presidency must surely be a shoe-in. Hype's an important thing in 2009. Just look at how the latest series has been hyped up to astronomic proportions. Apparent ex-strippers sleazing in front of the camera. Danyl, the man with the six-foot mouth, allegedly giving the other contestants a hard time. And of course, who can forget pantomime munchkins John And Edward returning week after week to knock some hapless hopeful out of the competition?
Let's be honest, John And Edward were about the only entertaining element of this year's X Factor. For all the wrong reasons, of course. Looking like they'd just been plucked from LazyTown, John And Edward caterwauled and wailed their way through rounds, reducing songs like Under Pressure to crushed rubble in the process. Ah, if they had only got through to the final, it might have put paid to the show for good.
Sadly though, it wasn't to be. The last three standing could hold the notes but were still fairly dull. Probably the most likeable of the lot was Stacey, who can somehow sing quite well (albeit in the usual Mariah-style caterwauling that seems to be taught to all female contestants parrot fashion), but yet seems to be channelling Blakey from On The Buses whenever she speaks. Which might have accounted for her departure in Saturday's show. Also in the lineup was annoying Olly, who did that annoying bellow whenever he got through to the next round. Which resulted in me chucking shoes at the TV screen . Mind you, for the semi-final results show, he went the other way, and turned into a girly, blubbing heap.
The winner was, of course, Joe (or Jaw, as everyone seems to call him). Joe is an odd fish. He looks about seven years old and resembles one of those kids who were hypnotised by The Demon Headmaster in the mid 1990s. The creepy blank stare. The fixed grin. Worst of all, the efficient but bland singing voice, which manages to suck out the life and soul from any song given to him. Even give him a song like Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport, and he'd reduce it to beige sludge in a single breath.
Which is why Joe won The X Factor. The winner's single is always the same. A dreary, monotonous ballad which tries to hide its lack of soul with lots of strings, caterwauling, and worst of all, shrieking gospel choirs, who always seem to bellow louder than the X Factor winner (whose show is this?). Just once I'd love to see Cowell actually dare to be different by giving the winner a fast uptempo number without a rotten choir poking their noses in when they're not wanted. That hasn't happened since Girls Aloud won Pop Idol with Sound Of The Underground, a racket by any other name, but at least it's a far cry from the dirges we're served up with these days.
Of course, Girls Aloud meant Cheryl Cole, Britain's "sweetheart". If anyone could scupper Cowell's chances of world domination, it's Cole. With relentless coverage in the papers, on the radio and even on TV adverts, there's no escaping the Cole Mine. The media have a field day, discussing her marriage, her singing and her hair. Actually, given that she's got different hair every week, it wouldn't surprise me that Cole's actually as bald as a coot.
All four judges are as irksome as ever, staging their public spats like wannabe Abanzars. Simon scraps with Many Faces Of Louis Walsh, as the latter digs through his rule book with inevitable regularity. Both scrap with Cheryl and Dannii, who turn into crying wrecks at the drop of a hat. Still, it seems that even everyday schmoes like you and me can be an X Factor judge. The key phrases you need are: "You are going from strength to strength"; "You really made that song your own" and of course that hoary old chestnut "You owned that stage".
In the end, the outcome was a certainty. Jaw won. Gave that eerie Stepford cheesy grin. Fireworks exploded, probably frightening little Joe in the process. No doubt, The Climb will make the number one spot, but how long will Joe be around? That's the burning question, as he could match the success of Leona or the relative failure of Leon. Whatever, it's a dead cert that Cowell will be back with another X Factor next year (despite his reported quotes that he's not sure). 15million odd viewers mean that the show's been another big hit, so surely ITV would be mad to can it? Crammed full of bland singers, over-hype, predictable song choices, everything I can't stand in short, The X Factor, still, nevertheless, miraculously managed to draw me back to the screen. Dammit, how does President Cowell do it?
THE ONE SHOW
So you’ve just had the day from hell at work. The train got held up first thing in the morning, meaning you were two hours late for work. Your computer went into meltdown, minutes before you had that deadline to meet. And to cap it all off, the sandwich man only had a stale bread and plastic cheese sandwich in the basket, meaning that your stomach did cartwheels all day.
Still, never mind, telly’s good in the evening, isn’t it? Well, no, actually. Especially if you plonk yourself down on the sofa at 7pm and tune into BBC1. And The One Show.
OK, slagging off The One Show is like shooting fish in a barrel. In fact, it shouldn’t warrant such criticism, since it’s only a harmless half hour of fluff (an hour on Friday) which is similar to 1970s staple Nationwide, which dealt with similar magazine issues in bland fashion. The One Show, in theory, is a bit like one of those free magazines you get through the door, that contain lots of pretty pictures but no articles of consequence whatsoever. In practice, however, it turns out to be one of the most irritating programmes in the history of TV. And that includes Eldorado.
Right from the start, it’s nails down the blackboard time, as a loud choir bellows “Waaaahhhhnnnn!!!” over and over what sounds like a tinny demo from a 1985 Casio keyboard. And then the real fun begins, as we join the two presenters, who manage to turn the mundane into oh-god-kill-me-now territory.
Yes, Adrian Chiles and Christine Bleakley, a game of two contrasts. On the one hand, Chiles possesses an expression of pure grumpiness, which looks a bit like a melted Wellington boot. Maybe it’s for that reason that Chiles sounds permanently miserable and disinterested, delivering links in a deadpan monotone, like an ironic dustman. There’s no warmth in Chiles’ delivery: Fair enough, he hasn¹t got the most stellar material to work with (more on that later), but as a presenter, he should be turning the most boring subject into something approaching TV gold.
Perhaps to make up for this, Bleakley is bright and bubbly and cheery. Yes, cheery. Very very cheery. So cheery, in fact, that she can’t stop smiling. Even if she were to give a solemn warning about the world exploding in five minutes, she’d have that same fixed rictus grin on her face. Bleakley looks like a demented ventriloquist’s dummy come to life, sitting there nodding, grinning and gimbling away to every single word that Chiles says. Bleakley’s inappropriate cheer sums up a big problem of The One Show: the inconsistent tone. One minute, we get a serious look at a topical issue of the week, such as redundancy, strikes, or lack of finance. The next, we get some chirpy, breezy topic about kids’ drawings, one-hit wonder songs or prodigiously talented pets. The tone is all over the shop, and so, it makes for a disjointed viewing experience, since you’re asked to go from a low to a high, and vice versa. Even the more hard-hitting reports are delivered without any real substance, instead resembling a bland, daytime TV-style peek into the real world. Not that I’m advocating doom and gloom at 7pm in the evening we all want a bit of escapism, but, at least try and present the stories with some integrity and thought. The light-hearted stories are, needless to say, very tacky indeed.
We even get a guest of the day, who shifts uncomfortably from side to side while dealing with patronising, unimaginative questions from Chiles and Bleakley. Surprising that the show gets quite high calibre guests, since their interviews are pretty much over and done with in a short space of time. All that potential for promotion, and it’s over in the wink of an eye. Talking of eyes, you need shades to watch this show, since the colour design scheme of the studio is gaudier than Joseph¹s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
And that’s The One Show to a tee. Gaudy but totally pointless. It’s only been going for about three years, but it feels like it’s been around for 30. Surely a change is going to come in weekday primetime scheduling. Even repeats of old classic comedies would be preferable to The One Show, which for me, gets One out of 10. And that’s being generous.
