Television
The Wimbledon experience
Simon Hoggart
The problem isn't really dumbing down, it's broadening out. The BBC doesn't think we're all stupid; it just believes that we can't really engage with most things, and also have the attention span of mayflies. Therefore every subject has to be presented in a way that will grab the attention of people who aren't remotely interested in it. Gardening programmes are designed for people who don't have gardens. Politica] programmes have to hold viewers who couldn't care less about politics.
Or take Wimbledon (BBC 1 and 2). When I first used to watch it, the screen was grey, with grey people running around on a grey lawn. Dan Maskell, the man with the grey voice, famous for saying 'Oh, I say!' when a thrilling rally got the better of him, never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary, and made barely more emotional investment in a British player than in an American or Australian. Then in the late 1960s Wimbledon was the first programme to be broadcast in colour, and as in The Wizard Of Oz, the fun began.
Now it's so lively, so packed with excitement and glamour, the actual game is becoming a tangential part of the Wimbledon experience. After all, most of us aren't really interested in tennis. How many people bother to watch the French or US Opens, even though they are also broadcast here, and feature the same players? What we like, the BBC has decided, is not tennis but Wimbledon. The early editions last week of Today at Wimbledon (BBC 2) showed tennis for less than half the hourlong programme. The rest of the time was filled with interviews, vox pops, shots of silly people in Union Jack hats waving Tim Henman on, and even phone-in polls (calls should cost no more than 25p a minute, i.e. the same as a short chat with your cousin in New Zealand) on such topics as 'Is Wimbledon the greatest of all the grand-slam tournaments?' — 95 per cent said `yes', you may be astounded to learn — or 'Are the media unfair to Anna Kournikova?', which is like asking 'Is the sea unfair to Flipper?', since she inhabits no other world.
On Monday night John Inverdale — chosen, I suspect, because he looks as if he has no interest in tennis and would be happier in the club bar wearing a cable-knit sweater, drinking a G&T and talking about the fuel injection on his new Saab — read out viewers' emails. 'Every time I went to the bathroom, Tim Henman broke serve. We've now re-named it "Tim's toiler!' some woman told us. Of course that wasn't the best or the funniest or the most pertinent message they got. But it summed up the mood: hey, this is all a bit of fun, it's a laugh, you don't need to waste your time watching people hit balls at each other! We closed with Enrique Iglesias singing: 1 can be your hero, ' As I said, tennis made digestible for people who don't like tennis.
I guess they have to do this, or at least they think they do. Now so many households can choose from 50 or 60 channels, plus the Internet, DVDs and computer games, the competition is ferocious. A programme watched attentively by the, say, 5 per cent of the population who really like tennis would be a waste of airtime, an audience loss-maker. Today at Wimbledon is no more for tennis fans than cookery shows are for gourmets.
A slightly different process was at work in Omnibus's Anthony Hopkins — the Hannibal Factor (BBC 1). I enjoyed it, there were clips of someone who is clearly a very fine actor, and it was amusing to imagine the appalling discomfort of the cameraman scrunched in the footwell under the passenger seat of Hopkins's convertible, filming up the great man's nose as he drove round the winding mountain roads of California.
Of course these things aren't really profiles. They're celebrations, promotions, hagiography. We learned nothing about Hopkins's inner life at all, except that he used to be an alcoholic, a fact which is now an important part of his public persona. Actors, writers and directors lined up to tell us how marvellous he is, hinting sometimes at 'a smouldering volcano' and 'a dangerous presence'. There were some big names, too, though this is not because the stars had anything important to tell us; in showbiz, flattering your friends in public is something you are obliged to do, like not belching in front of the Queen. You don't have a choice. I yearned for someone to say, 'He's a complete bastard, and frankly John Motson would make a better Hannibal Lecter.' But the conventions in this kind of show and interviews like these make it impossible.
Will and Grace (Channel 4) is still funny, but not quite funny enough. This week Will joined Jack's team of gay waiters. 1 can't do ballet service with an odd number of men!' says Jack. 'Then do it with a number of odd men,' caps Will, a line so clunky it could have come from a British sitcom. Just as Frasier Crane stealthily took over Cheers before getting his own series, so Jack and the appallingly selfish Karen are mounting a coup at Will and Grace, leaving the titles roles looking rather wan. I give it two years before we get Karen and Jack.
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