I remember the time when a Radio Times cover promoting Doctor Who seemed an excitingly rare and desirous thing. Now you can't move for the bloody things, and they seem far less interesting as a result.
Anyway, that's not what I want to talk about. Rather this week's set of covers has prompted a sigh of depression at the seeming impossibility of photographing the Doctor without him waving the sonic screwdriver around like a gun. I know the screwdriver is an omnipresent part of the programme these days, but thankfully it's only taken on the iconography of weaponry once, when the Doctor was sneaking round Canary Wharf at the end of last series, and then you could kind of forgive it as David Tennant indulging himself.
This is too much, however. Look at them both, pointing their weapons at us. Now imagine how much better, how much classier, how much more interesting it would look without the toys. If both men were simply staring out it would make the threat about them; instead, here, it becomes about the gadgets: which is more deadly the sonic or the laser? Frankly, who cares? If this story, this contest, is meant to mean anything, it should be about the characters. And I know I said I was talking about the publicity photographs rather than the programme, but the photos are symptomatic of the role the wretched screwdriver now assumes in the narrative.
For my part, I agreed with Russell T. Davies on an early Doctor Who Confidential when he argued that in a 45 minute story you haven't got time for the Doctor to be trapped in a locked room; however, there's a long way between that and the all-purpose magic wand it's since become - and when I find myself agreeing with Christopher ("H") Bidmead I know something's wrong. The series tries to have it's cake and eat it: the screwdriver is verbally mocked for being a tool and not a gun, yet is increasingly used, passive-aggressively, so to speak, as the Doctor's weapon. Steven Moffat sent it up well in Series One's 'The Doctor Dances', through Jack's incredulity and the Doctor's banana response, as an argument about arms; last week's sight of the Master taunting the Doctor with the size of his (the Master's) own 'laser screwdriver' is not half as funny, and only points up how ubiquitous the gadget has become. Moffat was poking fun at a piece of the series' iconography, celebrating how much it defined the series by it taking the traditional place of a weapon when it patently wasn't one; but that was back when largely all it did was open doors. Now it does everything, and the Master can laugh about his being larger, because everything is diminished as a result.
Now in its second week, Would I Lie To You? is yet another comedy panel show, something that engenders no excitement or anticipation - and yet it's actually not too bad. The only two examples of this genre that feel like they have a strong underlying premise are Have I Got News For You and They Think It's All Over; HIGNFY (the ubiquitous use of stock phrases as titles for these shows necessitates falling back on initials, to save discussion of them taking as long as an episode of A Touch of Frost) gains relevance from the week's events, while TTIAO has a breadth of specific and popular material to draw from, as sport generally encroaches into television comedy far less than current affairs.
Really, though, all of these panel formats only exist to provide the panelists with an excuse to go off on one: Paul Merton's mastery of HIGNFY is usually completely unrelated to any topical event. Would I Lie To You? succeeds in this respect by having David Mitchell and Lee Mack as captains; Mitchell, though dangerously close to reaching panel show saturation, is undeniably in his element, and Mack can pull his weight; on the basis of last night's episode, the key to this show could be their stoking of a class rivalry on the Merton/Hislop model.What sits most oddly in this show, however, is not the blatant crib from 8 out of 10 Cats(guitar-driven theme tune, mock-pompous introduction of the guests, showman's entrance of the host), but Angus Deayton. It's hackneyed now to say how his absence from HIGNFY has reinvigorated that show, but it has also allowed to us forget him - and for him to reappear in a similar premise, reading the same tortuous links, makes you feel like you've slipped 15 years back in time.
So, in short, it passes half an hour, but I'll never set the timer if I'm out.
It does bring me to a particular bugbear, however. In what we must call "the old days" there was a sense of occasion to guests appearing on this kind of programme; maybe television itself felt more special just because there was less of it. But you did feel that an effort had been made, and I've realised why - jugs of water.
On any kind of panel show, or any kind of programme where people were expected to sit and talk at length, there was always a glass carafe of water and a couple of glasses. I remember noticing this as a child, because someone stopping to take a sip of water felt odd - it went against the flow of the rest of telly, where people knew their lines and things happened and no one stopped to refresh themselves. Then, sometime in the last few years, the carafes vanished, replaced by plastic bottles. The problem is that these are bottles of commercially bought water, and so have to stay out of sight, which means that, now, quiz rounds are punctuated by shots of guests bobbing down and to their side as they replace small bottles of Volvic. This may not seem like a matter of great import, but it makes everything feel a bit shabby: rather than the impression that someone had gone to the trouble of making sure there was water available, and creating a pleasant atmosphere for the panelists, you can't help but picture some beleaguered runner, sent out at the last minute and struggling back from the local cornershop.
Television is about putting on a show, making an effort; that carafe of water is as much a part of the aesthetic of the programme as the custom-built set. Jonathan Ross does it on his show, but what's the point of him appearing from behind double doors, in a showbiz suit, if he's going to blow it all a moment later bobbing down for a plastic bottle? They should put a couple of plastic chairs down in the empty studio and he could roll up in his own clothes to do the show (though, admittedly, he's probably the wrong person to pick for this example). It makes everything look cheap, while every other element of the show is attempting to look as though money has been spent, and as I'm not sure what to conclude from all this I'm just going to say - bastards.
As I haven't posted for a week now (off out playing instead of in front of the telly, like mum used to urge), and to celebrate the fact that he's responsible for the largest number of visitors to this site thanks to Google searches, here's a picture of Daniel Boys from "the most enjoyable and professional pantomime Swindon has seen in years".
Britain's Got Talent. You could be forgiven for hiding in anticipation of strangled renditions of Mariah Carey songs and people banging tea trays over their heads, and to be fair there have been instances of both of those kind of thing. On the whole, however, it's been a refreshing take on the Pop Idol-type show, with an interesting diversity of act, providing some genuine entertainment. There's been the good, the mawkish (de rigueur on this kind of show, of course, especially on ITV), and the woefully-deluded, but the mix has been good; held together by Ant'n'Dec, who excel in this role, celebrating the talented, sharing our incredulity and hilarity at the bad. The three judges, Piers Morgan, Amanda Holden, and Simon Cowell, have been less irritating than they might, also.
That all changed last night. Last night's episode was the first of the semi-finals, moving into the studio from the theatres in which the heats had been held. Everything was bubbling along happily until Caroline Boyes entered. For those that haven't been watching, Caroline presented herself as hip-hop dancer in the heats. She wasn't very good, but she certainly wasn't the worst thing the judges had to endure; she was just having a go, chancing her arm in an open audition, and that's hardly a crime. Anyway, the judges put her through to the next round.
Last night she presented a pastiche of Madonna's 'Vogue'. It was, yes, rubbish, but no one had cause to assume it would be anything else, following her initial audition. Anyone with eyes and ears could see that she wasn't going to go through to the final, and that she was by far the least talented person on stage that night.
None of that excused the reaction she got. From her first appearance, the audience, who were disconcertingly rowdy throughout the show, started booing, and this became the soundtrack throughout her performance, and beyond. When it came to the judges' comments, Amanda Holden seemed unnecessarily brittle and dismissive, while Simon Cowell was just cruel, in a way that went far beyond his 'Mr Nasty' persona. What had been a fun show suddenly turned sour. Ant'n'Dec encouraged Caroline to respond, but the poor woman was incapable of finding the words, cast, as she suddenly was, as the studio fool and pariah. The reaction to her was simply out of all proportion to what she had presented.
What ITV broadcast last night was the distasteful spectacle of a woman in her 50s, and of above average weight, being abused for her presumption in getting up on stage. Her talent, or lack of, should have been the sole criteria for judging her, but instead became a fig-leaf for a display of cruelty and misogyny that demeaned everyone involved, including the viewer at home. The producers should force the judges to watch again the performance and their responses, making it clear that they stepped over a line, and the audience should be reigned in, their contribution made more proportionate; even during those acts that they enjoyed, such as Paul Potts, one of the finalists, they screamed and wailed throughout, as though Christ himself had appeared and was promising each of them eternal bliss. They're encouraged, of course, to respond in this way; it's a cheap way of adding some sensation to the show, but it yields diminishing returns. If everything is met with riotous ecstasy, what response to give the truly brilliant? What response the untalented get has, sadly, been answered.
I hope the remaining episodes will display a different character. I hope the production team feel as I do; everyone involved should feel ashamed at their involvement. There is no credit in selecting a winner of a competition in which we all, by displays like last night, have made ourselves losers.
Now, if they're really serious about it, they'll dress Nelson's Column up as the Time Rotor. John Barrowman should be a dab hand at that now. *I don't think think that's a euphemism. Not in an entry that's already so priapic.
Programme of the Week has to be the Blue Peter Doctor Who Special or (ahem) Who Peter. Primarily a show to announce the winner of this year's Who-related competition, the winner of which gets a speaking part in this coming week's episode, 'Utopia', it followed the by-now familiar template of shortlisted auditionees being put through their paces before the unsuccessful ones are booted off.
What marked this programme out from the usual "It's not you" fare was the obvious talent of a lot of the kids, their unalloyed excitement at being there at all, and the concomitant disappointment when those that were rejected left the room. Now, I'm not so hard-hearted that I like seeing children deliberately upset on television, but the disappointment seemed so heartfelt and, more importantly, proportionate; if you're 9, being told you're not going to be in Doctor Who would be crushing - for a few days, until real life kicks back in. Kids are robust; appearing on Doctor Who is extraordinary and remote, so extraordinary and remote that they'll get over it. More difficult to stomach are those deluded adult souls who regularly fill the conference centres booked by The X Factor or Britain's Got Talent and who talk of 'their dream', as though universal adoration is in their grasp, as they tunelessly raid the Robbie Williams back-catalogue, or pull their luminous 'showbiz' waistcoat out of the wardrobe.
Anyway, enough of them. If the disappointment of the losers was tangible, it was nothing compared to the elation of the winner, 9-year-old John Bell. Receiving the news of his win on the phone from Russell T.Davies, the young lad went through astonishment, excitement, disbelief, and a silent tumult of all of these and more as the news sank in. The announcement delivered, he offered a professional thumbs-up to camera, before asking ingenuously if he could go and tell his mum and dad. The following footage of him on-set, having the time of his life, was simply a bonus after this. Terrific stuff.
Sandwiched in the middle of the programme, and I use the term advisedly, was the homoerotic sight of the week; namely, John Barrowman being lured into the Blue Peter greenhouse by Gethin in order to, um, make a TARDIS interior playset ("I need your help with something" "Oh boy..."). I'm aware that the mere presence of Barrowman is enough to make any given situation homoerotic, but the effect was compounded by the sheer complexity of the make, the speed at which they rattled through it, and the feeling from the viewer that both of them would rather be doing something less boring instead. Whether they were thinking of the same alternative will remain a matter of conjecture - but watch John Barrowman's face as Gethin displays his selection of coc - um, time rotor rings.
Last week's Radio Times (we've got busy lives here at Eejit Hall, OK?) contained an interview with cover star Jarvis Cocker. He had a, um, pop at Pop Idol, which is the bit that got mentioned elsewhere, but we needn't concern ourselves with that.
Rather more worthy of note is the magazine's teeth-grindingly twee policy on 'bad language'.
To suddenly become known by a lot of people simply because I waggled my arse at somebody isn't brilliant, is it? [...] Although my arse-waggling is second to none, I would rather people remember me for what I create.
Except he doesn't appear to say that. He, instead, talks about his a**e.
What? His what?
It's even included in one of the boxed-out quotes
To become known simply because I waggled my a**e at somebody isn't brilliant, is it?
Are the readers of Radio Times judged to be so fragile of spirit that they'll suffer immediate prolapse if they read the word 'arse'? A quick google search for The Royle Family reveals that the BBC's online comedy guides have their entries supplied by Radio Times; also, that the 2000 BAFTA Television Awards, which contained a nomination for Caroline Aherne, were sponsored by the Radio Times, so I'm guessing that a lot of the readers may have a familiarity with the series, whose catchphrase was, of course, "My Arse!". I have a feeling they ran a poll of favourite comedy characters, or catchphrases, which Jim Royle scored highly in, or maybe I imagined it; they're usually doing something like that. Maybe they're about to do one.
Maybe 'arse' is judged more offensive in print, where minors might see it, and have more time to peruse it. I hope there's no one under 16 reading this; I'd hate to be responsible for their moral corruption by exposing sustained and gratuitous arse at them.
Ultimately, it's just a bit silly. If the editorial team can provide evidence that readers find such words offensive, then those same readers ought to have their televisions confiscated, and their windows bricked up. If they can't, then they ought to stop treating us like morons, or Victorians. Any publication that can seriously feature a box-out like that isn't fit to w*p* my arse on.
Let's have a breather from all this excitement about credits, and coloured coats, and the like, and take a moment to sing the praises of Springwatch (BBC2). You'd be surprised how addictive and enthralling this nightly programme is; that is, unless you've fallen under its charms already.
Bill Oddie may be just (just) the right side of irritating, but I do quite like his lack of televisual slickness. You imagine he'd be acting the way he does, whether a camera were on him or no. Kate Humble does a good job as the indulgent niece, bringing him back on track; and Simon King is one of those old-school experts who's ended up on camera due to his knowledge and enthusiasm, rather than because he 'wants to be a presenter'. They're a good mix, and this is the kind of programme, or, in terms of its encouragement of the viewer to get involved, event that the BBC does really well.
Whether it's charting whether the baby barn owls have eaten one of their siblings, or spying on the golden eagle nest, or learning about the lifecycle of bees, or watching Bill make his 'shushing' noise to attract birds, or just drinking in the beautiful views of the island of Islay, the nightly hour really is a tonic for the cares and pressures of life - or for the rest of your televisual viewing. I really urge you, if you've the slightest interest, or even if you haven't, to give it a go. You might learn something too. It's the Fruit'n'Fibre before the salt and fat of Big Brother (or the sugar rush of Britain's Got Talent - more of than anon), and that sounds like a balanced diet to me.
It's been talked about for a few weeks, the BBC's new credits policy, but no one actually thought they'd do it...
When Doctor Who returned, two years ago, there was a tacit assumption that the end credits wouldn't be squeezed to the side, as those of many programmes were, and that proved to be the case. It was felt that the BBC understood that Doctor Who was... different. People are less bothered by the squeezing of the Holby City or Hustle credits. But not Doctor Who. Yes, the announcer talked over the theme, but, then, you can't have everything.
But mark today, Saturday 9th June, down as a day of television history. More shocking than anything in Steven Moffat's very scary episode was the moment when the closing time tunnel suddenly receded to the bottom right corner of the screen and Graham Norton, for the second time in the programme's recent history, made an unexpected appearance in the episode. Have the BBC prepared themselves for the avalanche of criticism that will follow this? Because it will; I'm as sure of that as I am of John Barrowman appearing onscreen every time I switch on. I wouldn't like to be staffing the switchboard tonight.
And the 'not-we' reading this and thinking that it confirms their view of Doctor Who fans as social illiterates have a point in the wider scheme of things. Of course they do. In many ways, (deep breath) it doesn't matter much; not compared to the suffering that the news will tell us of later on in the evening. But that's a specious argument. In its own, small way, something's been lost tonight: the unspoken contract between broadcaster and viewer that spoke of respect and consideration, that accorded the viewer autonomy to choose their own viewing, and evinced the broadcaster's pride in the programmes they were transmitting. This breathless panic to reel the viewer into the next programme, even while they are watching the preceding one, smacks of desperation and bad faith. Yes, we've known it was coming; yes, we've been subject to it for a while now, like a form of coastal erosion - but tonight, on the most televisual of all its television output, the BBC lost something, and we, the viewers, lost something too.
Sure, it's just had the best story in a good while, and we've got a Steven Moffat episode due on Saturday, but when the time comes and the Doctor Who ratings start to slide, this is what the regeneration might look like - go here and click on the next button repeatedly (it's like Romana in Destiny of the Daleks all over again!)By the by, do you think Andrew Lloyd Webber's complicit in the way he's sent up in the trailers for Any Dream Will Do? I wish I had a screengrab, by way of illustration. Actually, no, I don't.
Instead, we can wonder what anyone was thinking when they took this: Were they anticipating Clive Owen and George Clooney auditioning? The pair of smoothies!
Working my way through BBC4's Children's TV on Trial, I've just watched the 1978 Blue Peter John Noakes retrospective. This was mainly a collection of all his stunts and more daring challenges from his time on the programme; and it's only worth mentioning a 29-year-old repeat in order to marvel at the three words demonstrably absent from everything attempted i.e. Health and Safety. Watching him climb up the ramshackle collection of roped-together ladders to get to the top of Nelson's Column was enough to induce giddiness, even from the confines of my sofa. You wonder if any disquiet was voiced from senior management, but, being the 70s, they probably didn't have to mention they were doing it anyway; they probably just grabbed a camera crew and headed off into central London. Have a tiny lookette here. Other familiar clips included his freefall with the RAF, the climbing of the mast of HMS Ganges, and, less dangerously but gloriously, the Lulu the elephant segment in full, rather than the 30 seconds or so you normally see - which showed that it actually was quite funny, despite having been told so for the past 40 years.
Incongruous sight of the day was Clive James on Loose Women (ITV). There to plug his new book, Cultural Amnesia, James desperately tried to reduce his conversation to the level of banality required by the four hosts, who gazed at him in a way that reminded me of the apes who found the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Coincidentally I'm in the middle of rereading his Unreliable Memoirs, and that, plus seeing him on this show today, has reminded me of my disappointment that he isn't still a fixture on our screens. If you feel like this too, you might like to visit his website, where he has a series of video interviews with various interesting people.
ADDENDUM: apologies to the inordinate number of people sent here by the link on the Wall Street Journal. I'm sorry that I haven't written anything more profound for you to read.
