Charlie Brooker’s Screen Burn (19 page)

There’s an intensely patronising hypothesis amongst TV farmhands that goes something like this: build a show around glamorous people in glamorous locations and the proles will switch on in droves; wishing they were there, wishing they were like them. Perhaps that’s true of the nation’s most imbecilic viewers, but those bozos would probably tune in to watch Tania Bryer ride a goat around a funfair, and that’s no justification for inflicting it on the rest of us. Any rational human exposed to
LA Pool Party
is going to wind up despising everyone onscreen – don’t sit too close, or you may catch sight of your own reflection and feel like smacking
yourself
in the teeth.
LA Pool Party
? LA Prick Convention, more like.

If you still haven’t been force-fed enough tinsel, watch
FANatic
(C4) an absolutely terrifying programme in which various Barry Bulsaras-in-waiting are granted the once-in-a-drudgetime opportunity to meet their celebrity idols. Already in this series we’ve seen a girl blubber like a bereaved parent at the prospect of stroking Jennifer Lopez’s hair, and another girl confess to vomiting with nerves prior to sitting opposite irradiated mantis Victoria Beck-ham. Last week, a whooping buffoon who worships the Red Hot Chilli Peppers almost kicked himself to death with excitement en route to an audience with his heroes.

Why such a big fan? Because, he claimed, their music is ‘about being an individual, about being yourself’. And how can he best express his own individuality? Well, other fans have tattoos, so in order to be different, he had the band’s logo burnt permanently onto his chest with zinc oxide. Then, to further underline his uniqueness, he reveals his favourite hobby – slavishly impersonating the band’s bass player.

In the meeting itself, the Peppers seemed appalled and embarrassed (as do most of the other stars in the show), at one point earnestly trying to dissuade him from scoffing a bagful of
genuine
red-hot chilli peppers in an attempt to impress them.

Saddest of all is that now, having achieved his greatest dream, his remaining existence will be one long ride downhill. Celebrity worship – just say no, kids.

In order to contain my excitement at the imminent return of
Monarch of the Glen
(BBC1) – and that’s not irony, I am genuinely excited by this – I’ve been sitting through
Pop Idol
(ITV1) agape with astonishment. I haven’t witnessed so much crestfallen weeping since I last caught sight of myself naked in a changing-room mirror.

Enough Bob Monkhousing already:
Pop Idol
is, of course, little more than an exaggerated version of
Popstars
. Realising that the main draw of that show lay in the sadistic thrill of seeing eager young hopefuls having their dreams torn apart, they’ve trimmed
away most of the fat and concentrated fully on cranking up the humiliation. The result is a bit like watching a programme in which young children queue up to be punched in the face by Father Christmas. Absolutely riveting for all the wrong reasons.

‘Nasty’ Nigel Lythgoe, perhaps tiring of the abuse he suffered at the hands of tabloid newspapers and
Guardian
‘Guide’ columnists, has sensibly opted to concentrate on his backstage role this time around, leaving the role of chief abuser to A&R man Simon Cowell, who’s instantly made a name for himself by behaving like an unpardonable bastard, unafraid to stare a contestant in the eye and overstate their uselessness with the sub-zero precision of a misanthropic character from a Neil LaBute movie. It’d be easier to forgive Cowell’s deadpan cruelty were it not for his track record. He’s been responsible for such musical luminaries as Girl Thing and Westlife – the former a hideous failure, the latter a finely honed joy-crushing machine – it’s hard to believe he even understands pop music, which is surely supposed to make people feel better, not like diving beneath the nearest juggernaut. Perhaps he’s just following orders. Perhaps he was issued an instruction sheet with the words ‘Be Cruel’ printed on it in 72-point Arial Black. Whatever: he’s overdone it by about 5,000 per cent, and as a result looks less like an expert and more like a man clawing at fame with even more sad desperation than the hopefuls anxiously awaiting his judgement. And the rest of the panel? Well, alongside mumsy Nicki Chapman (previously in
Popstars
) there’s Dr Fox (last seen hammering a nail through a crab in the
Brasseye Special
) and Pete Waterman (no introduction necessary). It’s hard to imagine a more cast-iron guarantee of blandness. In between their blatherings, official court jesters Ant and Dec are on hand to arse about and console rejected hopefuls, as though they’re somehow not as involved in the programme’s casual nastiness as everyone else.

The whole thing’s on a hiding to nothing of course; you might be able to get away with manufacturing a band from thin air, but solo idols rarely appear overnight. Lasting pop megastardom takes years to ferment; in dramatic parlance, it requires a ‘back story’ –
preferably one that involves a deprived upbringing (Elvis/Eminem) or a ruthless struggle to the top (Madonna/Glenn Medeiros). It also requires a distinctive voice, and since 95 per cent of the contestants simply adopt the characterless transatlantic warbling of the average pseudo-soulful pop puppet rather than actually doing anything interesting with their throats, their potential careers seem destined to closely resemble the lifespan of a mayfly. Perhaps they should have called it ‘Pop Patsy’ instead.

There are exceptions, although they’re clearly doomed to be weeded out before the final push: the quietly spoken fat guy (surely destined to be jettisoned once they’ve stopped toying with him for the novelty value), and Danny, the lad with the cleft palate and by far and away the finest voice in the contest. And then there’s the most deserving winner: Darius, who deftly combines undeniable vocal talent with more unfortunate back story than the rest, and has thus far displayed more quiet dignity than anyone else in the programme.

Still, everybody’s talking about it, so ITV must be cock-a-hoop. Next year, expect a further escalation of humiliation and brutality: male contestants forced to sing with their testicles in a cup of hot coffee, perhaps, or live DNA sampling, with results sneered at by Simon Cowell (‘I have medical proof you will never amount to anything. You’ll balloon in size once you pass 27, and you’ve inherited at least three debilitating diseases from your ancestors. In all honesty – you are awful’). And I’ll doubtless tune in like everyone else. Provided it doesn’t clash with
Monarch of the Glen
.

The clocks go back. The nights draw in. Cadbury’s Christmas selection packs deck the halls of Safeways. It’s winter. And what we need of an evening is comfort television; the brain’s equivalent of a warm bowl of leek-and-potato soup – something bland and reassuring requiring minimal digestion.

In TV terms, that means countryside and quirkiness, and shows that feel like an elongated Mr Kipling commercial crossed with a
widescreen reproduction of
The Haywain
– shows like
Monarch of
the Glen
(BBC1), the most shamelessly pleasant series since
Bally-
kissangel
.

As I mentioned last week, I was genuinely excited when BBC1 began running trailers for this latest series, which must be as sure a sign of encroaching age as a grey pubic hair or an inexplicable urge to place a doily beneath every object in the house. Quite why I enjoy the programme is a mystery – perhaps my hate receptors are at their lowest ebb on a Sunday evening.

Nothing much happens in
Monarch of the Glen
– at least, nothing unpredictable happens – and therein lies the appeal. Each character is a mild eccentric, from Richard Briers’ batty laird (signature move: dressing as a pilot and shouting ‘Tally-ho!’) to dimwit Duncan (signature move: getting tangled in a hedge). The exception to the rule is Archie, the world’s dullest man, around whom the programme revolves.

Every week, against gorgeous scenery, Richard Briers gets up to some vaguely potty antics, a guest star tumbles down the glen, and the omnipresent incidental music chortles away to itself like a senile pensioner reading a saucy postcard. Ideal viewing if there’s nothing else on and you’re curled up on the sofa, massaging the feet of a loved one; absolute hell if you’re single and bad-tempered.

I haven’t caught its competitor,
My Uncle Silas
(ITV), yet, but judging by the trailers, it has twice as much scenery and stars Albert Finney as a sentient toby jug. Perfick.

Later in the week,
Blood of the Vikings
(BBC2) is a slight letdown, thanks to its pretty insistence on sticking to the facts. Opening with footage of cinematic Vikings on the rampage, it sadly soon turns studious, and sure enough, within 10 minutes we’re in
Time
Team
territory – watching archaeologists scrabble about in the mud.

Who’d be an archaeologist? Spending months methodically scraping dirt from a thighbone with a brush thin enough to paint eyebrows on a Barbie – Indiana Jones never bothered with all that shit. I’d snap after 10 minutes and hurl it in the bin where it belongs.

To be fair, the producers do attempt to liven up the dig by playing sinister chords and punctuating each find with recreations of people having their throats hacked open. But these brief glimpses aren’t enough: show us more ‘mad Viking’ stuff, you bastards. We want a big bloody Viking with a big bloody axe, crashing through the fens, hacking limbs off peasants. Dispense with the dull quest for accuracy and simply make it up! Make it bloody up! Don’t stand there telling us they didn’t really wear horns on their helmets – you’re spoiling it! Stop spoiling the Vikings! Tell lies! Exaggerate! It’s not like the Vikings are going to rise up and sue, so fib your teeth out. Pretend you dug up some primitive Viking porn video. Tell us they were 100 feet tall and could fly and shoot lightning from the tips of their fingers. Show us a computer simulation of a Viking beating up John Lennon. Anything but bookworms scrabbling about in the dirt, pissing their pants with delight each time they unearth a bit of old tin. Please.

‘This is a world where birds eat horses,’ booms Kenneth Branagh, as a giant dodo-like creature chomps on a vaguely equine creature with the face of a dog, and you realise you’ve either dipped your face in a bowlful of dream juice or woken up to the crazy, mixed-up world of
Walking with Beasts
(BBC1) –
Walking with Dinosaurs
v2.0.

Walking with Beasts
shines its computer-generated spotlight at the bizarre mammals that walked the earth after everyone’s favourite giant lizards had been wiped out by a bit of celestial clumsiness with an asteroid. Sabre-toothed tigers aside, it’s doubtful whether the fuzzy creatures on offer here are going to fire childish imaginations to the degree that
Walking with Dinosaurs
did. Adults may enjoy seeing prototype horses trotting through the undergrowth, but kids will probably miss the scales and the fangs.

As with
Walking with Dinosaurs
, it
feels
educational, but afterwards you realise you haven’t actually retained any information whatsoever, because you can’t help spending more time assessing
the visuals than listening to the commentary (Branagh might as well be saying, ‘Ooh, check out this next bit, it took ages’). And when you’re not gasping at the graphics, it’s impossible to stop yourself obsessing over their minor flaws: they haven’t quite mastered realistic ‘hopping’ motions yet.

Still, early mammals are largely uncharted territory, and this is a show that couldn’t have been made at any other point in history: in 1983 they’d have been reduced to using ZX Spectrums to create a series called ‘Walking with Single-Colour Blocks on a Black Background’.

Walking with Beasts
’ menagerie of early mammals couldn’t have appeared three years ago because the software routines that simulate hair and fur weren’t up to the job. Now they are – and CGI boffins can’t resist showing off. Hence the sudden appearance of dancing mice in Aero commercials and the shaggy cast of the forthcoming Monsters, Inc. And this.

So, having mastered fur, what’s next on the animators’ wish list? My guess is beards or flames, both of which are notoriously difficult to pull off. Come 2003 we’ll be settling down to watch ‘Walking with Bearded Animals on Fire’ (‘As the blazing Friesian herd makes its way through Hair Canyon, a group of mustachioed dachshunds hurls makeshift petrol bombs directly into their path’).

Actually, forget that: the latest in cutting-edge computer animation is already here, and it’s hosting
Shafted
(ITV1). It looks a
bit
like Robert Kilroy-Silk, but somehow more evil, and with shimmering skin made out of woodgrain. Last week, he spent so long explaining the rules of this new psycho-terror gameshow, I felt in danger of evolving into a primordial mammal myself.

The accent is on stitching up your fellow man – just what’s needed in the current climate and – and it’s particularly disturbing to watch him ask the contestants whether they want to ‘shaft’ one another – close your eyes and he could be hosting a particularly lurid ‘incest’ edition of his morning angst show.

Horror of a different kind later in the week as Edward Fox promises an exciting glimpse at
The Secret Lives of Ghosts and
Werewolves
(BBC1) and then spoils it all by sticking to the facts (just
like
Blood of the Vikings
last week). Sounding like a man providing the voice-over for a cartoon starring an upper-class cat with a cigarette holder in its hand, Fox lolls in the back seat of a car explaining that werewolves are probably just lunatics and that ghosts are … well, it’s too dull to go into here, but it’s something to do with magnetic fields. Zzzzz.