Television
Channel crossing
Edward Heathcoat Amory
Despite living in central London, near the top of Notting Hill, with Broadcasting House a few miles to the east, and White City a mile or so to the west, I was until recently unable to appreciate the small screen in all its high-definition glory. The picture was fuzzy. There is an aerial on our roof the size of a pirate radio broadcasting mast, erected with the help of scaffolding and a building contractor. It is connected to an expensive booster system, designed for remote Welsh farmhouses. But, howev- er often we adjusted this, and twiddled that, and called out the other at £40 per hour, the output of Britain's most popular medium of communication remained obsti- nately deconstructed.
Then Channel 5 arrived, and we were unable to see it at all. With hindsight, I realise this was a singular blessing, as we were spared an acquaintanceship with the torrent of airbrushed, unfulfilled sexual encounters that dominate our long-awaited fifth terrestrial channel. At the time, how- ever, whipped up to a fever of excitement by a Channel 5 tuner arriving to repro- gramme our video, it was very frustrating.
Having ruled out satellite on principle, we decided to sign up to cable. This took some time and effort, wading through the bureaucratic jungle of one of Britain's most inefficient so-called service industries. Videotron, our cable company, seemed strangely reluctant to acquire new cus- tomers. They were digging up every other road in London, but not ours. They were indifferent to demand; a petition from every house in the street fell on stony cor- porate ground. Then our neighbour pulled some strings, and miraculously, early one Saturday morning, we were woken by the sweet sound of a pneumatic drill outside our window. Shortly thereafter, a smorgas- bord of television channels arrived in our sitting-room.
It was an exciting few weeks. Such choice, such opportunity, all at the touch of a button. On QVC, the shopping channel, we were offered the opportunity to buy, for an introductory price of only £13.99, the Stylee Hair System, part of their fashion essentials range, to which one could add a few feathers 'to glam it up for Christmas'. On [Ave TV, topless darts awaited, as did Painted Ladies, in which two nearly naked, improbably endowed young women poured paint over each other, and then rolled around on each other and a large piece of paper. If you tired of such Blue Peter antics, there were the Italian Stripping Housewives. In a successful bid to promote their slice of our national broadcasting output, Bravo had bought a game show in which young wives from Naples removed their clothes in the hope of winning a prize. They added a Welsh voice-over which perpetuated a number of racial prejudices concerning the people of the principality.
However much I hopped and jumped, surfing compulsively, stricken by the fear that I might be missing something wonder- ful somewhere, I found hardly a single watchable programme among my 20-plus new channels. The Weather Channel, which enlivens trips to America and the Caribbean by tracking the approach of hur- ricanes, does not seem to be available here in Britain. Perhaps our weather, despite its national iconic status, is just too dull to deserve such devotion.
I was, of course, buying only the basic package. For a modest monthly rate, I could have received premium (priced) channels, as well. In particular, Mr Murdoch would have liked me to purchase his various Sky movie outlets. I resisted the temptation, since they mostly show B-list blockbusters. The idea that I could one day be persuaded to pay for an extra channel seemed absurd.
Last week, however, I invested £5.99 a `Thanks for letting my kids dribble round your old folks, matron.' month to bring one more channel into our lives. FilmFour, launched on 1 November, and sponsored by Channel 4, shows movies that I want to watch. Intelligent modern American independents, good contempo- rary British, a sprinkling of witty Spanish, but, best of all, some real old movies, the kind that aren't shown after lunch on Christmas Day. Big Wednesday, for example. This is a film about surfing, and the Vietnam war. It is simplistic, pretentious and makes anyone like me who has never stood upright on a surf board feel hopelessly inadequate. But it has a mythical quality. It is a big movie, as only American films can be. As the play- ers grow up and grow old, so does their country, and the sea on which they surf provides a wonderful shifting backdrop, with a far larger emotional range than the actors. Any channel that shows this movie, let alone Bony Lyndon, Bad Lieutenant, The Usual Suspects, To Die For, Barton Fink and Brassed Off, all in the first month, is an excellent investment. If digital television and an explosion of new airtime produces just a few channels like this one, the whole dismal downmarket business may be worth it after all.
Previous page
