Wildly indulgent
Simon Hogart
We had American friends round for lunch the other day, and we all agreed that US sitcoms are hugely preferable to the dreary, limp ones we have here — except for a few, such as Black Books, which seem to vanish as if their makers, like bees, had collapsed and died once their savage satirical sting has been used. On the other hand, we thought, our documentaries are better. And so they are. Take Picasso — Magic, Sex and Death, which started on Channel 4 this week.
This was an astonishingly detailed description of the painter's roots, homes, lovers and sources, right down to the very spot on the beach where he first noticed a woman's pubic hair and so provided himself with a convenient inspiration for the rest of his artistic life. The same spectacle destroyed Ruskin. Thank goodness some of us are made of sterner stuff.
I can't think of any television service in the world which would have dug out such details as the postcard of naked African women that provided one source for 'Les Demoiselles d'Avignon'. The simultaneous advantage and the drawback of the series is the fact that it is scripted and narrated by John Richardson, a majestic, bull-headed Brit who was Picasso's biographer and friend. His knowledge gave him extraordinary insights; his friendship made him wildly indulgent. Of Picasso's father, who made a sort of living by teaching art and painting pigeons: 'Isn't this painting defiantly ugly? But what the father has done is capture the pigeon-ness of pigeons. Picasso went on to become the greatest pigeon painter of
all time.' 11,
One yearned for someone to shout: 'Pigeons, schmigeons, thank you, don't call us .. .' Later, 'Picasso promised God that if his much-loved little sister died, he would never paint again. But unfortunately he did, and she died.' What? God killed her because he could paint? What's 'unfortunate' there? The death, or the fact that he kept on working? Why is this nonsense left hanging in the air? What are commissioning editors for if they don't stamp on such crud? If you could ignore these moments, the programme was packed with invaluable and fascinating material. I wish Mr Richardson could have been more critical; each painting was offered as if we should immediately recognise its transcendent genius. A little more detachment would have helped.
When it became clear that the election was going to bring no change, I decided to get some sleep. But I couldn't. You have to watch. The brain is dragged on till 3 a.m., then 4 a.m., then five, kept alert by even the minuscule drama of a 0.75 per cent swing. (As a political writer by day, I know quite a few of the people involved, and you carry on in the faint hope that someone you really loathe will be defeated, or at least humiliated by the monster raving loonies.) ITN had the results very fast; the BBC had cameras at the counts. Thus ITN brought us the news while the corporation had the excitement. A friend of mine was in the BBC studio, and watched Peter Snow handling the graphics, which we could see at home, but which were invisible on the set because they existed only in virtual computerland. She said it was pure dementia, as Snow heaved imaginary balls marked, for example, 'size of Tory mountain to climb' up imaginary mountainsides as if they were there in front of his eyes.
Bremner, Bird & Fortune's Exit Poll (Channel 4) has gone beyond humour. They've dropped the jokes in favour of realistic reality. You laugh not at the gags, but at the grimness. I loved 'The Woodwards', the story of a very posh couple in St Helens who talk to the butler in Scouse accents, and it looks as if Bremner's Portillo will keep us happy for a long time. I would not enjoy his Widdecombe, though he might enjoy trying. Still, it looks unlikely she'll become leader, which will be a great loss to the sketchwriters.
Big Brother (Channel 4) has become intolerable. The last lot were bores and boors. This lot are odious without any redeeming ghastliness.
Nice Guy Eddie (BBC 1) starred Ricky Tomlinson, who is in everything these days, and is a very fine if stupendously ugly actor. You can see him now depicted nearly a quarter-millennium ago in Hogarth's grotesque election paintings, on display at Sir John Soarie's museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields, London, admission free. Many of the other characters were also very ugly. I enjoyed it for that reason. On the other hand, not enough happened. It was that rarity these days: a one-off drama. But it looked like a two-episode slice out of a soap opera. A man accused his ex-wife's lover of being a paedophile, though he wasn't. A wedding anniversary was almost ruined. Someone turned up claiming to be Ricky Tomlinson's love child. The question of whether he was or not was left hanging in the air at the end. A one-off drama with a cliffhanger finish is a strange beast. The trouble is, we didn't care enough either way.
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