Television
Good Greer
Jeffrey Bernard
In last week's edition of The Book Programme (BBC 2) Germaine Greer gave a faultless display of earning the television appearance money in the correct and most entertaining manner. Make no mistake, this is a very wonderful woman. She spoke with great wit, charm and ease and after recent editions of the programme it was as though Robert Robinson had decided to take the new ball and had achieved an immediate breakthrough. (SOrry about that, Germaine.) Some of her quality brushed off on Robinson and I thought she did wonders for his hypothermia. Sometimes he's a bit too crisp and aloof like a Harley Street man and, not long ago, I thought he was going to tell Mrs Steinbeck that she only had six months to live. Television producers should nurture Miss Greer. 1 wish I could. She'd do wonders for Read All About It. She'd do wonders for any show where people are paid to sit down, chat and play safe.
Horror of last week was the disgusting industry of Edgar Wallace revealed by James Cameron in Edgar Wallace—The Man Who Made His Name (BBC 1). I'd always thought that the whole point of journalism was that it's the next best thing to working, but that wasn't the case with Wallace. As Cameron said, 'He didn't have divine inspiration, he had relentless industry'. He ran a fiction factory that was fuelled by one hundred cigarettes a day, endless cups of weak, sweet tea and with breaks to go racing, bet and lose. He could turn his hand to anything and, as his daughters said, one minute he'd be writing a piece about women's high-heeled shoes and literally the next he'd be writing a piece about the Manchester November Handicap. Come to think of it, it was pretty industrious of James Cameron to make the programme. Wallace was more of a curiosity than anything else.
Following on immediately, Omnibus (BBC 1) presented an even odder curiosity in the form of pianist Ronald Smith talking about and playing Charles Alkan. Alkan was a nineteenth,-century virtuoso pianist, composer and nut case who, when he didn't get the job he wanted as boss of the Conservatoire, became an eccentric recluse. Well, I say became an eccentric, but he obviously had a lot going for him for a kick off. What I liked most about him was his end—crushed under an enormous bookcase which toppled over on him while he was reaching for a copy of the bible. I think perhaps God was trying to tell him something. Anyway, Ronald Smith, who gave the fascinating talk about him, looked somewhat bizarre himself. Very serious, wearing a black shirt buttoned up to the top, it was like watching a recital given by Doctor No. He said it had strange Gershwinlike meanderings about it. Smith called it 'a pungent use of the keyboard'.
There were a couple of still shots of Alkan and in the early picture where he looked quite presentable you could still see that he was doomed. He ended up looking not unlike Liszt, which must be awful if you aren't Liszt. I would very much like to have known more about his early years and it must be a shade of odds on that he saw something nasty in a salon. Following the all too soon departure of Ronald Smith there was an interview with Richard Avedon. Very interesting, but oh my God how these Americans go on about Art. I suppose they must feel absolutely wretched about the rest of their activities. It's odd that they've produced the best comedians in the world and writers like Perelman and yet, as a rule, and like most women, they have very little sense of the absurd. It would be' nice one day if some photographer put in a good word for the emulsion.
Sunday was unbearable. There was a burglar alarm going all day beneath me and at first 1 tried to smother it with some old Bernard Levin favourites from the pen of Wagner, but in the end I had to have the television set on all day. I even watched The Big Match (London Weekend) and I've never heard anything like it. It was the Southampton v Crystal Palace FA Cup semi-final and before the kick-off they took us, hand held, into the empty dressing rooms where we were treated to close-ups of the sacred shirts to be worn by the lads. To listen to Brian Moore's voice you'd have thought he was showing viewers closeups of holy relics. 'There it is,' he said in a hushed voice while we stared at a hanging lump of man-made fibre, 'the shirt that's going to be worn by the number nine'. Not a very good match and, yes, Malcolm Allison is a very silly man.
Later on I sat up and paid attention to my weekly fixed of Under Bow Bells (BBC 2). Lord Soper reminds me of various headmasters who, in the past, expelled me from their schools. A hard man to own up to, I should think. Miss Bakewell did well though. I find her mouth utterly fascinating. It looks as though its movements are superimposed by cartoon animators.
Sunday evening was awful. Rock Hudson looked as masterful as Noddy in Darling Lili (BBC I) so I settled for The Guns of Navarone (ITV) where, surprisingly, David Niven easily out-hammed Anthony Quinn. Then came what I thought might be the treat of the day, Steve and Eydie—Our Love is Here to Stay (ATV) a monstrosity about the lovely George Gershwin. You wouldn't think it possible to mess up Gershwin, but early on when Steve Lawrence said, 'The way he wrote, I guess he kinda knew he had a deadline,' I had to turn over to That's Life (BBC 1) where Esther Rantzen and her boys were making a very long joke about travel brochures that involved Swanage. The English don't just laugh compulsively at things like the noise of a lavatory flushing, they will laugh and laugh till the tears run down their cardigans at the repetition of any place-name. Keep saying Scunthorpe or Macclesfield and you've got a television programme on your hands.
Finally, I'm beginning to feel sorry for World of Sport (London Weekend). While the BBC were doing their usual good job on the Grand National, Dick ie Davis's lads were wallowing in the mud at Towcester and Kelso. For afters, they'll really have to think up an occasional alternative to wrestling. The only thing about Grandstand is David Coleman's excitability between events. The BBC should bung him some valium. Racing is exciting enough when it's carrying the rent without all those choked back sobs of emotional commentary. Never mind. You're doing a great job, Dave.
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