Television
Fake tension
Simon Hoggart
The nice thing about a holiday in France is that you don't need to see their ghastly television, with its endless self-ref- erential discussions. Watching a Hitchcock film can never be simply a pleasure; it must be paid for with a 90-minute programme in which earnest men with beards but no moustaches analyse it to a pulp. But then British television can be deeply depressing too. Who Wants To Be A Mil- lionaire? (ITV) seems now to be drawing peacefully to its close. What was once sus- penseful is now merely annoying, and the programme's cunning devices have become predictable and irritating. Like most people I used to watch Millionaire with fascination. (The rights have been sold to America, where the format is already a huge hit.) Now it's become like a friend who has an infuriating nervous tic of which he is unaware and can't do anything about. Chris Tarrant, the presenter, should learn that there is no point in drumming up fake ten- sion when the contestant clearly knows the answer. If he's asked in which river you might find piranha fish and says 13 — the Amazon', it is aggravating to ask sombrely: `Are you sure it's not the Danube?'
Even when the wretched punter is gen- uinely uncertain, the habit is infuriating because you often cannot believe that anY- one, anywhere, could be so utterly igno- rant. 'Where were Chaucer's pilgrims bound?"Er, Canterbury . . ."Confident about that?"Ummm, relatively.' Or the chap who took ages to work out that Ger- many is more populous than France. And the way Tarrant always, invariably, without exception, says: 'You had £2,000 [or what- ever]. You now have . . . £4,000!' Some quizzes, such as Mastermind and University Challenge, work because you're amazed that people can master so much obscure material. Others please us by implied flattery; we must be smarter than these dimwits. Millionaire is somewhere between the two. Nobody at the time of writing has won more than £250,000, partly because the production company can always slip in a poison-pill question — one which nobody, including the studio audi- ence or those well-meaning but gormless friends on the phone, can possibly know usually involving general knowledge which we don't ever use, such as collective nouns and anniversary gift substances. Did you ever hear anyone say: 'It's their tin wed- ding, so we're sending them a case of corned beef? Or 'Oh look, there's a• whole unkindness of ravens in that tree'?
Maybe when you read this Millionaire will have found a millionaire. They desper- ately need one to keep the show going. I wanted Sex, Chips and Rock'n'Roll (BBC 1) to be good, if only to revive the BBC's once great reputation for entertain- ing, middlebrow, middle-of-the-road drama which it has done so badly of late. But it doesn't quite work. The tarty twin sisters (they are about as twin-like as the Michelin Man and Lindford Christie) are engaging, though the blonde looks old enough to be the brunette's mother. It's set in 1965, and there aren't too many anachronisms though nobody then said, 'what's your problem?' and 'don't hold your breath' in the aggressive modern sense. The star singer, Larry B. Cool, is a character from the 1950s; the Irish group from the 1990s. And the Beatles, who utterly dominated Pop music at the time, simply don't exist, on the soundtrack or in the dialogue. OK, Jane Austen didn't mention the French wars, but then Pride and Prejudice wasn't set in a regimental mess. At least Sex, Chips was amusing. Let Them Eat Cake, a sitcom set shortly before the French Revolution, merely inspired deep gloom. (The line, by the way, was attributed to Marie Antoinette more than 50 years after her death and translates, his- torians say, as 'let them eat leftovers' rather than 'gateaux'. That should be worth 125 grand on Millionaire.) Here is a typical exchange. Dawn French: 'It smells like a syphilitic's pisspot.' Jennifer Saunders: 'Well, it's always been like sleeping with an elephant's scrotum.' Passing effeminate fob: 'I don't do this. I've got nuns to shave.' Or try this: 'She couldn't take a hint if you nailed it to a suppository.' Or, 'There are three pillows. One for madame, one for the marquis, and one to keep yer arse up.' Or, 'Innocent? She wouldn't know a penis if she sat on one.' Or, 'My husband, the old comte.' (The last word had to be mangled and strangled as if by Inspector Clouseau to Wring the joke out.) It's not helped by the fact that French and Saunders have no idea of timing. Everything has to be shouted out at breath- less speed. There are no pauses, no micro- seconds for reflection. It's like being hit by a Pig's bladder, hard, over and over without a break. In short, the show resembles a panto without a plot, a Carty on film with- out the urbane sophistication. 'Alio, 'Allo without the profound understanding of French society, and Blackadder without good gags.
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