Television
Quite filthy
Simon Hoggart
A. people say there's nothing to watch on television. I've just been sent the thick voting leaflet — book, rather — from the BFI, which is running one of those huge polls to find the 100 best British tele- vision programmes ever made. The exer- cise may be silly and inconclusive, but the choice we are offered is quite extraordi- nary. There are more than 700 titles listed, and I would happily sit down and watch almost any of them today, with the excep- tion of those featuring Esther Rantzen. There's no point in listing all the names, but there's at least ten times as much first- rate, durable material as the British theatre produced in the same period. Ali G returned to Channel 4 this week, his creator Sacha Baron Cohen having been given his own six-part series, Da Ali G Show. It goes out at 10.30 but almost every child in the country will oblige their par- ents to tape it or else force them into the humiliation of going to school on Monday unable to repeat the best lines. It is quite filthy. Watching the preview tape at Chan- nel 4's headquarters this week, I inwardly cringed at the thought of having to explain to a young teenager his porn-film pitch to unsuspecting American film executives at Cannes. (Ali G: 'This terrorist guy sticks a grenade up the Queen's vag.' Unaware female executive: 'It doesn't need to be up her fanny.' Ali G: 'So where would you stick it?') The character may seem very cutting- edge and modern, but the lovably thick vul- garian has been a staple of comedy from ancient times. In this latest form it's Puff Daddy's gangsta rapper meets Sir Les Pat- terson. As always with Cohen, you're reduced to bleating that it is terribly, terri- bly funny. His interview with Neil Hamilton (`so you is the guy was found with an orange in his mouth?') would delight Mohamed al Fayed who, when you think about it, also has a close resemblance to Ali G.
The most charming programme of the week was also on Channel 4. I hadn't meant to watch The Top Ten Really Annoy- ing Records but the moment the St Winifred's School Choir appeared singing `There's No-one Quite Like Grandma' I was hooked all the way through to Keith Chegwin's choice of number one ghastly record, `Agadoo', sung by Black Lace. What was striking was how nice all the one- hit wonders turned out to be, so unlike the preening, posturing egomaniacs who per- form most serious pop. They'd had fun at the time, and had then settled down cheer- fully to real life. And you know that people will still be bopping to `Agadoo' years after the latest Oasis album has been forgotten.
This was followed by The Big Brother Story (also Channel 4) about an immensely popular Dutch television show in which a disparate group of people were selected to live in a specially built house crammed with cameras. Almost every moment of their lives, including their ablutions, was taped and could be shown on air. The show's Piquancy was enhanced by having viewers vote one of the inhabitants out of the house each week. Naturally, a programme so artificial, so prurient, so intrusive and demeaning could never be shown on British television. (Sorry — I've just heard — the UK version begins in July.) You could argue that Paul Watson's 90- minute, fly-on-the-wall documentary Cut- ting Edge: A Wedding In The Famil), (Channel 4, yet again) was no better, though of course Watson's presence behind the camera acts as a moderating influence. We're not voyeurs, dear me no; he does all that for us. The bride's mother said she was deeply distrustful of TV 'because it shows things that shouldn't be shown'. The bit that struck me as most unshowable was the bride's line: 'I asked him what was his favourite superstore, Tesco or Sainsbury's, and he answered correctly, Tesco. That was very important.' Nor was she joking. In its way, that was far more chilling than the miserable loveless relationships which were scattered around the programme, like dead albatrosses festooning a Christmas tree.
The problem with The Great Gatsby (BBC 1) is that Gatsby himself is a dreary, self-indulgent fellow, who becomes inter- esting only through the eyes of the narra- tor. That rarely works in television terms (A Dance To The Music Of Time, also with a narrator called Nick, faced exactly the same difficulty.) A film-maker can get round it by giving the role of Gatsby to a superstar, which is why the cinema version with Robert Redford more or less worked. Toby Stephens is a perfectly competent actor, but he doesn't yet command the screen, and I'm afraid I lost interest halfway through.
Now and again I trawl the wilder shores of television on your behalf. This week I discovered Good Evening Rockall on BBC Choice. It's yet another knock-off of The News Quiz on Radio Four, where we at least leaven the relentless bad taste with a few good jokes. On GER, the story about the Pakistani who raped little boys, cut them up and, boiled the flesh in oil was captioned 'Human Fondue'. The indepen- dent company which makes this dire show (if that's the BBC's choice, what's the stuff left over like?) is called Princess Produc- tions. 'Princess, may you soon arrive at your Tunnel de l'Alma,' as they would indubitably say on Good Evening, Rockall.
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