I’ve always been of the opinion that if you can’t manage to do something so brilliantly that any potential critics are silenced and the assembled masses are knocked dead (or at least mute) by your sensational performance, it’s much better to be appalling. Mediocrity, whichever way you slice it, is a no-no.
Take the genius director, during my drama school days, who decided that King Lear, Shakespeare’s matchless masterpiece about betrayal, filial duty and the potential of power to corrupt, should feature actors in full punk regalia. The resulting production (our Cordelia cheekily had her nipples pierced and tried to claim it back on production expenses) was so horrendous and the reviews in the Haringey & Hornsey Express so vicious, that every performance was a full house.
It was on that “so bad it’s good” philosophy that I drew for comfort while watching Charlotte Church’s new Channel 4 show. Truly, this was a masterclass in how to produce a toe-curlingly bad show. It wasn’t just a televisual car accident; it was a 250-mile pile-up on the M4, complete with buckled barriers and decapitated drivers.
And I had wanted so much for it to be a roaring success. There are few people who have done more for Wales while still living in the country than La Church: Tom Jones moved to L.A. about 40 years ago, Shirley Bassey hangs out in Monaco, Cerys Matthews is based, however temporarily, in Nashville and even James Dean Bradfield has abandoned ship and moved to London, yet the entire Church clan can still be observed going about their business in Cardiff.
But how can it be that anything so utterly without any kind of merit on either the artistic or the entertainment front made it as far as the production stage? I know that the omnipresence of reality TV has caused us to lower our standards somewhat, but even the sight of Big Brother’s Pete in full-blown Tourette’s-fuelled outburst failed to prepare me for the full horror of The Charlotte Church Show. It had absolutely everything: celebrity guests (Z-listers who were barely permitted to get a word in edgeways), comedy sketches (which weren’t remotely funny, even if you and your mates had just rolled in from the pub with twelve pints of Felinfoel Double Dragon on board), nods to Welsh culture (all presented in a way that shamelessly sucked up to English viewers’ idea of the Welsh as inbred sheep-fornicators) and, the piece de resistance, a band so obscure that not even Jools Holland has heard of them. It was as if the producer, unsure of his star’s ability to carry the show on her own, decided to spread his potential losses as wide as possible. She’s no good as a chat show host? Never mind; we’ll give her a couple of sketches to do. She hasn’t got any idea of comedy timing? No worries mate, we’ll get her to sing with the band at the end of the show; at least we know she can do that.
The result was very much like biting into an iffy burger: you just know that the taste is going to stay with you for days, however hard you try to forget it.
The only time that the sorry affair took flight was when Charlotte was given enough rein to display her bitchy street fighter persona. The comment about Paris Hilton (“Paris says that she looks on going out to nightclubs as work. Well, I suppose it is…if you’re a whore”) was such a delight that one wished that more time had been devoted to allowing Charlotte to be herself, rather than a sort of foul-mouthed, satanic version of Bonnie Langford.
The critics were mostly condemnatory but the few who found something to praise, such as the Sunday Mirror’s Kevin O’Sullivan, suggested that perhaps ITV bosses might consider signing the Taffy diva as a replacement for Sharon Osbourne in the teatime slot. Well, it’s true that even with Charlotte on board the resultant show could hardly deteriorate beyond the murky depths to which it’s sunk under the captaincy of Ozzy’s missus.
Cleverly O’Sullivan also pointed out that the core audience of The Charlotte Church Show is young and gay and it’s true that while the pink pound has caused holiday companies and retailers to rethink their policies, it’s not made much of a dent in the thought processes of the TV schedulers.
Probably it’s coincidence that most of the primetime slot on Saturday evenings has been made over to the cavalcade of camp that is How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? It’s got the lot: Graham Norton, show tunes, gals in dirndl skirts and a singing coach that could have given Bette Davis lessons in effective bitchery.
What should give the programme’s makers cause for concern, however, is not that homosexual culture is dominating weekend TV but that, judging from the performances of the Marias, there isn’t much in the way of all-round upcoming talent. The fact that one contestant’s dominance has characterised the competition has clearly exposed the exploitative and manipulative aspect of the phone-in talent show. Whatever the outcome, it was so obvious from the first episode that Connie was far and away the best singer, dancer and actress that the producers included the loony handicap of an assault course in a pitiful effort to lend some feeling of danger to the proceedings. Connie finished last and was told that her physical fitness was in question. Come on, fellas! I’ve been to drama school, the same one as Connie in fact and, while there’s no doubt that you have to be in good health to work in the theatre (anyone remember Martine McCutcheon and her My Fair Lady absences?), being able to tackle an army assault course is a completely different barrel of mackerel.
Nonetheless the idea that playing the role of Maria requires extraordinary skill and stamina should give Lord Lloyd-Webber some cause for concern: if it were true. In fact The Sound of Music is no more demanding of its female lead than many other musicals. All you need is a good, solid all-rounder with a strong voice, a decent range and an unfailing ability to nail a note.
Now there’s a job for Charlotte Church.
This article first appeared in the October 2006 edition of Views 4U magazine
No comments:
Post a Comment