Spread thin
Simon Hoggart Talking about television, either Frank Muir or Denis Norden said that Eisenstein's The Battleship Potemkin was an awful warning of what happened if you let the ratings take control, That film reached only number 88 in The Hundred Greatest Films which dominated Channel 4 the past weekend, and which was presented by Graham Norton. No doubt in their pursuit of ratings, C4 have invested heavily in the Irish elf, and now spray him on everything, like glitter on a Christmas tree.
So, So Graham Norton will have to be renamed So Much Graham Norton. With the two parts of The Hundred Greatest Films, and his chat show, plus the repeat, he was presenting, interviewing and generally larking about for a little less than eight evening hours on Channel 4 last weekend. I think that's over the top. High-camp humour, like, so to speak, Gentlemen's Relish, needs to be spread thin. (Years ago I went for a weekend in the country. One of the other guests was a diplomat, who'd bought back from Moscow a lib jar of black-market caviar. The first few bites were delicious. By the time we had it spread on toast for Sunday tea, we were near to screaming. I'm beginning to feel the same about Graham Norton.)
Of course the hundred great films were fascinating. For one thing, you're meant to disagree with the selection. I know there isn't a law saying that Citizen Kane has to win all these compilations, but is it really inferior to The .4/latrix? Or to The Usual Suspects? Does anyone seriously believe that The Shawshank Redemption is the third best film ever made? Who really thinks that Jaws (12) will last longer than Casablanca (16)? Could anyone with any moral sensitivity whatever think that Pulp Fiction (4) is a finer work of art than Fargo (31)? Come to that, are there really 87 films better than The Battleship Potemkin?
Of course, as soon as you even ask those questions you're doing the producers' work for them; they're offering the list as definitive, while saying behind their hands, 'Look, none of it matters, so long as it gets you talking.'
Yet the programme gripped. Actors and directors — some real catches, like Ridley Scott and Steven Spielberg — offered revealing background anecdotes. The least successful segments included lots of mouthy young persons (usually labelled something meaningless, such as `writer'), whose considered judgments largely con sisted of 'I like the bit when .' They were there because C4 was under the possibly mistaken impression that young people won't watch a programme which doesn't include lots of young people blethering.
But the whole six-hour epic did what television does best and most confidently: taking our past, chopping it into preformed, bite-size pieces, slathering it with a tangy sauce, and serving it up in an easy-to digest style. There can't be much left for them to feed into the hopper: they've done television, they've done pop music, they've even done favourite commercials. Your Hundred Favourite Screensavers, perhaps.
I was rude about Andrew Davies's adaptation of The Way We Live Now (BBC I) after the first episode, seeing it as 'Andrew Davies presents The Way We Live Now, based on an original idea by Anthony Trol lope'. But later episodes have been far bet ter. The hectic, 'look at me, I'm Andrew Davies, Britain's cleverest television adapter' tone has faded and the story is being allowed to tell itself. The characters, too, have grown, as if the actors feel more confident inside them. David Suchet's Mel motte, for example, is now a massive figure in every sense, utterly dominating the seri al, even when he's not on screen. Everyone here is trapped, either by their own greed or else by duty or by social convention. The consequent melodrama is being allowed to fester nicely. Episode One merely annoyed me; Two and Three have drawn me in, Mr Davies has, I'm pleased to say, written himself Out, which is perhaps an adapter's greatest skill.
It's a shame that The Way had to fight against the remarkably successful Cold Feet (ITV), which is being shown on both Sun days and Mondays — though apparently the Monday ratings have been much lower.
I still enjoy it, and like the dialogue, which sounds like the way people talk — rare in television drama. But now the characters' lives are going so wrong in so many differ ent ways. I'm beginning to get a little tired of them, as you do with a friend who does nothing but complain. Sympathy quickly turns to irritation. The series is coming to an end, and it's probably time.
One small puzzle. It's set in a city called Manchester, which is all lush green parks, clean, graffiti-free pedestrian precincts, lov ingly preserved old buildings, beautiful shops, chic minimalist bars and restaurants.
I used to live in a city of that name, which scarcely resembles this place. I wonder where it is?
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