Breathless Wonder
IT'S a strange thought that tele- vision should at this stage be so willing a tool in the propagation of all that's dreariest and phoniest about the cinema. Alarmingly 0 0 0 often we've been dished up with shabbily mounted trailers which, because they purport to have some general kind of interest, get programme bookings even though they are noth- ing more than publicity. I am sick and tired of meeting the fabulous• Mr. This chatting to fabu- lous Miss That on location for the fabulous film The Other. And what makes it all worse is the bated breath with which such publicity is greeted by its presenters.
To add to our pleasure, every time a Holly- wood actor or actress who has appeared in two pictures arrives here to shoot another of those wonderful British films with an American cast, an American director, an American script and British tea-boys, they are hurried on to our little screens with an urgency of excitement that is sup- posed to make my hair curl but in fact makes my stomach turn. Not content with straightforward interviews in which their simple, unaffected modesty, their easy humanity, their superbly capped teeth can be made apparent to all, they now serve us with extracts from their films on the side accompanied by commentaries which for fatuous reverence can only be equalled by film- company handouts—which is what they probably are anyway.
When this sort of thing started Mr. John Fitz- gerald used at least to keep a sentence or two of opinion and criticism in his paragraphs of praise, But Miss Young, who was looking breathlessly at Burt Lancaster this week, allows not a murmur of doubt to sully her idolatry.
Further to complete our pleasure, we have !TV Box Office presented (and how) 'in co-operation with all the companies in the film industry,' and BBC's Picture Parade, a much smoother and more acceptable programme, but like the other, inevitably loaded with plugs.
To round everything off, the shoddiest of old movies seem to be greeting me with increasing frequency. And even these, bless us, are hailed with the same lyrical superlatives as are usually reserved for a new, white-toothed Hollywood import that I haven't heard of before. Yes, haven't heard of before! Quite often these days I've never heard of 'em—because all this gasping worship has quite taken away my appetite for going to the cinema.
Of course, it isn't just the movies which use the bated breath technique. It's a disease which seems to be spreading across the board. Last week Associated-Rediffusion put on an hour-long documentary about America. It wasn't a particu- larly distinguished programme; it took the form of a series of interviews with the kind of people who always seem to get interviewed when we look at America : a Southern farmer, a New York taxi- driver, ordinary people with ordinary faces all
being a bit too coherent; but still, it was a worthy effort and it points to some right-minded think- ing by ARD. And then, just as I was feeling pleased for ARD, a young man shouted out of my set saying, 'Well now, you have enjoyed this magnificent programme, haven't you?' (or words to that effect)...`lt really was splendid, wasn't it? In a few weeks' lime we are going to show you another programme like this—and wasn't it godd?—only about Russia. You'll be as thrilled with our programme about Russia as you have been with our programme about America.' This kind of clumsy and incompetent self-praise, this awkwardly hysterical self-backslapping can only lead to collapse of stout party; only be followed by a solemn vow by stout party not to mention again programmes which applaud themselves as soon as they are over or before they have begun.
JOHN METCALF
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