There’s no denying Lennon wrote some of the most fantastic music ever committed to vinyl, but he also produced his fair share of dreck – a fine example being ‘Imagine’, the song recently voted Britain’s bestest pop song ever, and the subject of tonight’s Arena: Imagine Imagine (BBC2), a programme which could serve as a textbook example of what happens when you ask a Mojo reader to create a documentary.
The song itself is the musical equivalent of one of those airbrushed paintings of dolphins they sell in tabloid magazines, which manages to outstay its welcome despite being little more than three minutes long: Imagine Imagine lasts 88 minutes and contains more lumpish padding than an outsize Muppet factory. This is a prog doc – a long, slow, bloated fart of a programme; pretentious and pompous enough to include everything from Lennon’s inarticulate ramblings about chocolate cake to footage of the Twin Towers exploding in the mistaken belief that the whole unfocused mess will somehow transcend the subject matter to become a powerful statement about … er … something or other. Oh, peace. Yes, that’s it: it’s a film about peace. Or music. Or both.
Along the way, we’re accosted by all manner of talking-head morons: chief offender Yoko Ono on hand to smugly guff out her standard pseudo-deep bullshit.
‘There are only two industries in the world – the war industry and the peace industry,’ she says. Really Yoko? What about the textile industry then? Come to that, what about the John Lennon industry, which, under your guidance, markets a range of branded Lennon products including duvet covers and baby wear?
Cut to some ponderous footage of babies and clouds. Cut to the opening of Liverpool’s John Lennon Airport (at which a marketing expert gushes that ‘the slogan “Above Us Only Sky” isn’t just a beautiful sentiment, it’s a strong corporate message reinforcing how John Lennon Airport has risen above its competitors’). Cut to archive clips of John and Yoko exhibiting artworks consisting of everyday objects from their opulent home sawn in half and sealed in signed jars (an act of self-aggrandising celebrity chutzpah even Victoria Beckham would balk at). Cut to a gathering of hateful American hippies blubbing over the Lennon memorial in Central Park.
Cut to ethnic children performing the lyrics to ‘Imagine’ in sign language. Cut to – arrrrrgh. You get the picture. And there’s an hour and a half of it.
By the end you’ll want to imagine this programme was less abysmal. But that’ll be difficult. Imagining the cynical, caustic John Lennon spinning in his grave at 5,000 r.p. m., however, is surprisingly easy.
Before I go, a quick command: move heaven and earth to catch Turn on Terry (ITV1) – Terry ‘The Word’ Christian’s late-night TV review show, and a car crash of considerable force. It consists of Terry Christian sitting in a Manchester nightclub incoherently ‘reviewing’ the week’s television (‘So, like, what’s this I, Claudius all about then, eh? Romans and that, innit, right?’) while a bored-looking audience stands around in the background wondering why they’re there. Best of all there’s a house band, fronted by Shaun Ryder’s brother, whose job seems to consist solely of introducing each item with a bit of plodding, Madchester dirge.
If you can sit through 10 minutes of this without wanting to lean forward and rub a big blob of dog muck into Terry’s rictus grin, you’re far more compassionate than me. Or John Lennon. Or the both of us combined as one, living life in peace, above us only sky, etcetera etcetera et-bloody-cetera …
Dean Gaffney as Derek Hatton [27 September]
It opens with Tony Blair and Gordon Brown sitting down to dinner in an Islington restaurant. It ends with a shoot-out in a hall of mirrors.
You’ll GASP – as the two leading Labour stalwarts wrestle naked by a fireplace! You’ll SCREAM – as Mandelson holds his hand in a candle flame to prove his loyalty! And you’ll HOOT – when Blair’s trousers fall down unexpectedly, in front of Her Majesty the Queen!
I’m lying of course. The Deal (C4) should have been totally ridiculous, and quite frankly it’s a miracle it isn’t. The lack of ridiculousness is also, truth be told, a crashing disappointment for cynics everywhere. I was praying for a preposterous camp masterpiece, the real-life equivalent of the Comic Strip’s Strike! film, in which a Hollywood studio attempted to tell the story of the miners’ strike by casting Al Pacino as Arthur Scargill.
But no. Instead, The Deal is actually rather good – once you come to terms with the notion of actors in a straight drama playing Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, that is. And, thanks to David Morrissey and Michael Sheen, that utterly crucial suspension of disbelief doesn’t take as long as you might expect.
Can you imagine the sheer balls it must take to accept a role like this? Playing Brown or Blair in a satirical comedy would be nerve-racking enough, but surely to do so in a serious drama is the thespian equivalent of volunteering to clear a minefield with a teaspoon – one false move and you’re screwed. Wisely, neither Morrissey nor Sheen opts for Rory Bremner caricature, instead adopting a kind of semi-impersonation that leaves neither man looking stupid.
Actually, that’s not entirely true: Blair still looks stupid, but that’s because he is. With his goggle-eyed perkiness and supremely slappable fizzog, Sheen’s Blair is a thumpingly massive twit – just like the PM himself. Reminiscent of a recently violated meerkat in a gay bouffant competition, skittering around wearing a hideous salmon-pink shirt tucked into his chinos, this fictional Blair cries out to be despised.
Brown, on the other hand, is a gloomy, complex potato of a man: serious and committed, stiff and dour, sensitive and slightly bitter. The other main players here are John Smith and Peter Mandelson: other MPs appear as themselves in interstitial archive clips. A pity, because I’d love to have seen, say, Joanna Lumley as Margaret Thatcher or Matt Lucas and David Walliams playing Neil and Glenys Kinnock. In fact, the list of dream casting opportunities is endless: Jamie Oliver as Roy Hattersley; Dean Gaffney as Derek Hatton; Animal from The Muppet Show as Robin Cook.
Still, by focusing tightly on the two main subjects, The Deal manages to keep snorts of derision at bay (although it’s hard not to laugh at the sight of the young Mandelson’s ridiculous Basil Fawlty moustache – but to be fair, that’s his fault for having grown one in real life), and thus commands your attention. The scene where Brown and Blair finally sit down to tensely hatch the deal of the title is vaguely reminiscent of the pivotal Pacino/De Niro restaurant scene in Heat, and arrives on a similar wave of palpable tension.
Neither man comes out as particularly likeable, but you’re likely to end up siding with Gordon because a) everyone loves the underdog and b) he’s simply less of a twerp than Tony.
Anyway, it’s comforting to find proof that C4 can still rustle up a decent slice of intelligent, solidly crafted drama. Can we have fewer property shows and more programmes like this, please? Oh, and how about a series of spin-off sequels using the same cast, in which Tony and Gordon find themselves having to pull together in a string of increasingly absurd situations, like going undercover in a convent, or trying to catch an escaped monkey during Paris fashion week? Because the comic possibilities of an odd couple like this are too good to pass up. And it’d be a damn sight funnier than watching them run the country.
Hitting the Red Button [4 October]
They said interactive television would change our lives. They said it would be TV’s biggest technological leap forward since the introduction of K-9.
They said it would put the viewer in control, that we’d be able to alter storylines on the fly, hitting the red button if we wanted to see Dot sleep with Barry, or the blue button to see Ricky find a magic whistle. They said all of this and more. Reader, they lied to us.
The majority of ‘interactive’ programmes are actually long-running talent shows in which the public votes to save their favourite contestants. We’re told this puts the viewer ‘in the driving seat’, but that’s another lie: the audience’s power is strictly limited – you can’t text a number to sack Dr Fox or drown all the contestants in a gigantic bucket
.
To date, the purest example of interactive broadcasting I can find is the ridiculous Friendly TV network (Sky 268). Described in its own literature as ‘a new venture in digital television’, it’s an unbroken stream of yabbering ‘presenters’ responding to text messages from viewers – a cross between a help desk, a radio phone-in and a sign of the coming Apocalypse.
Later in the day, they cover video games and sex tips, but their most compelling show is the Morning Chat slot, in which two young women sit behind a desk talking about nothing in particular, apparently only semi-aware they’re on television, fielding endless enquiries from lonely, desperate men. Despite the girls’ constant pleas to ‘keep it clean, or it won’t go on screen’, since the bulk of the messages are wretched stabs at daytime-friendly erotica – ‘DO U LIKE BEING TICKLED?’, ‘WILL U BLO ME A KISS?’, it’s clear what sort of ‘friendly’ interaction the viewers have in mind, and if you needed two hands to send text messages, the channel would fold overnight.
The broadcast itself doesn’t so much cut corners as deny their existence outright. You can phone in and speak to presenters live on air but, amazingly, other viewers won’t hear your end of the conversation – they’re just left staring at a girl going ‘Yes’, ‘Really?’, and ‘Ha ha ha’ or, more often than not, frowning and hanging up when the caller says something untoward.
Around lunchtime one of the girls will get up and go to the corner shop, asking her co-presenter on air if she wants anything. Ten minutes later she’ll return to eat a sandwich right there at the desk. When things get quiet they flip through the latest Heat and discuss which shifts they’re working. For some reason this is quite, quite terrifying.
But the true joy of Friendly TV lies in its interactivity: since the conversation is driven by whatever you text in, you can quickly steer it into preposterous territory. Or to really spice things up, sit around with a bunch of friends, firing confusing messages en masse. Some work chums and myself tried this the other day, and for entertainment you can’t match it. Within minutes we had them discussing On Golden Pond, the death of the Pope (‘I didn’t know he was dead! It’s not in the paper’), and whether they ‘trusted’ Trevor McDonald (‘Yes … well, as much as one can’).
We sent suicide notes, reading, ‘So, so alone – just want out’ (‘You’re not alone, we’re here! But there’s nothing we can do, so don’t send that, it’s just upsetting.’)
We said, ‘My dad’s drunk again he keeps falling over’ (‘Oh, that’s not nice, it’s quite early’) and asked if they fancied Lord Hutton. We quoted the Wearside Jack tapes from the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Best of all, we asked, ‘Philosophically speaking, when you wake up in the morning are you still you?’, which prompted five minutes of debate before they reached the verdict: probably not.
Here’s a suggestion, nay, a command: this Monday morning, at 11.30 a. m., I want as many ‘Guide’ readers as possible to bombard them with mind-bending philosophical queries, plaintive calls for help and Billy Joel lyrics. Interactivity: it’s all about power to the people. Friendly TV is on Sky 268. The number to text is 86121 (it’s £1 for four). Monday, 11.30 a.m.
B THR OR B SQR.
Do Spiders Live Alone? [11 October]
Reader, I thank you. Last week I asked you all to send mind-bending philosophical text messages to Friendly TV’s Morning Chat show (Sky 268) and good crikey, God damn, you didn’t disappoint.
Yep. Last Monday, at 11.30am, poor unsuspecting Friendly TV presenter Sara-Michelle was on duty when a string of dreamy queries began pouring in – courtesy of you, dear reader. Since the vast majority of Friendly TV texts seem to emanate from about-to-masturbate loners, the sudden rush of asexual cerebral probing took her unawares.
‘Do spiders live alone?’ you asked.
‘If the earth is round, how come a table is flat?’
‘Where do you think the soul goes when you are under general anaesthetic?’
Sara-Michelle fared very well, considering. I think she had a nasty cold. Well, she kept reaching for her nose anyway. But what a trouper. Despite all that, she was still quite animated. Wide-eyed with enthusiasm, you might say. And at that time in the morning! Incredible!
A special mention to the texter who insinuated that Billy Joel had died, prompting considerable distress from Sara-Michelle, although the grand prize awaits the anonymous reader who posed the question: ‘Given that all matter is really energy condensed to a slow vibration, is there really any such thing as death or is it merely a transition to another plane?’ That got my vote for text of the day: Sara-Michelle damn near swallowed her own brain searching for a coherent answer.
Not that I could hope to answer such a query with any degree of authority myself, of course. Nope, I was caught on the hop. In a freakish example of interactive television striking back, the Friendly TV ‘babe’ phoned me on my mobile live on air. There I was, just a-walking down the street, when my phone chirruped and Sara-Michelle herself said, ‘Hi,’ from the other end.
It seems that someone behind the scenes sussed what was going on, and deduced my personal number by checking the texts detailed in last week’s column and phoning the mobile that sent them. Oops. I’d make a terrible serial killer – ol’ fingerprints on the ribcage, that’s me.
And there I was, outside Shepherd’s Bush tube, when Friendly TV came calling. There wasn’t much I could do except offer bland chitchat until Sara-Michelle got bored and hung up. Not that you’ll have heard a word of it – Friendly only lets you hear the presenter’s side of the conversation. So you won’t have heard me enquiring how much they usually charge for one-on-one conversations. Or asking whether or not I could swear. It’s not Sara-Michelle’s fault, of course. She’s pleasant enough, and like all the Morning Chat ‘babes’, she’s simply doing her job, which is to sit there and look cute while clueless masturbators text in to say HELLO and I LUV U and I AM OUTSIDE STUDIO NOW WITH A HAMMER. In fact, as a concerned Guardian reader, you owe it to Sara-Michelle and her co-hosts to make their lives more bearable by sending a constant stream of thought-provoking, non-sexual enquiries to liven up their day. Don’t be horrid – they’re your friends! Let’s drive the perverts away, back to the Internet where they belong!
And since Friendly TV already have my number, if there’s anything you want to ask me directly, address the question to them and they’ll pass it on. Probably live on air. (Note to Friendly TV: you can call me whenever you like, and unless I’m in a meeting, I’ll respond right away. Really.) So, reader, let’s do it again: Monday, 11.30 a.m. The number to text: 86121. Four messages for a quid. Unless you’re on T-Mobile, in which case it’s loads more. Sky Channel 268. And they will respond live to almost any query. Provided it isn’t obscene.
Come on people – let’s make this the UK’s number one interactive TV channel before the end of the year. 2GETHA WE CN DO IT!
Coagulated Body Fluids [8 October]
Noel Coward once said: ‘I don’t think pornography is harmful … but it is terribly, terribly boring.’ What a dur-brain. Pornography is the only thing on earth more fascinating than sex itself. And that’s precisely what makes it so undeniably, eternally popular.
Come on, own up: you secretly like pornography, don’t you? Don’t be embarrassed. Everyone does. If pornography didn’t exist, the Internet would shrivel to the size of a single conker overnight. And you could print the entire contents of Google on the back of a chickpea.
Hardly surprising, because while yer average website, DVD or satellite broadcast could scarcely entertain a recently concussed farmhand, let alone a Guardian-reading cleverclogs like yourself, hardcore porn is endlessly fascinating to people of all varieties – particularly when the camera zooms in really close and it all ends up looking like a butcher’s shop window hallucinating in the middle of a heatwave.
Thankfully, there’s loads of filth knocking about the schedules this week. As a horrified world struggles to cope with the recent demise of Penthouse magazine,
BBC2 highlights the sheer magnitude of our loss in Sex Empires (BBC2), a three-part documentary chronicling the rise and fall of traditional printed jazz mags. I can sum the entire series up in one sentence: you don’t have to look a shop assistant in the eye while paying for online porn, and it’s physically impossible to stick the pages together – so bye-bye, jazz mags.
Meanwhile, armed with the knowledge that all print erotica is now doomed, good ol’ opportunistic C4 is peddling Pornography: The Musical, a textbook example of have-your-cake-and-eat-it television: part unflinching glimpse at the seedy underbelly, two parts nudge, wink titillation. With added songs. Yep, songs. Full-blown musical numbers, acted out by porn stars.
Pornography: The Musical comes from the award-winning tinkers behind last year’s borstal rap-along Feltham Sings, hence the format: straight interviews interspersed with fantasy musical sequences enacted by the ‘real’ participants. If it were any more arch, it’d be a curved structure forming the upper edge of an open space.
Shakespeare once said: ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’ Pornography: The Musical isn’t what he had in mind. As you might expect, it’s a treasure trove of dreadful lyrics (‘bring in the horse/then order a hearse’ being just one mind-boggling example) and yet more dreadful vocals (particularly from professional phallus manipulator Rebekah Jordan, who really ought to contact her GP and check her larynx hasn’t been permanently clogged by all those coagulated body fluids).
D. H. Lawrence once said pornography represented ‘the attempt to insult sex, to do dirt on it’ and, having witnessed the frankly jaw- dropping ‘musical bukkake’ sequence in this programme, it’s hard to disagree. Or move. Or speak.
Charlie Brooker's Screen Burn Page 32