Television
The Spice of Whose Life ?
By PETER FORSTER
HANK God, really, that there
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Which brings me to the point that my own main objection to TV's quiz shows is the manner in which they are conducted by the Show Biz Corps of Compres. It is reasonable enough for ITV sometimes to exploit the paradoxical fact that it can he cheaper to distribute gifts than to produce a variety show, thotigh recent American experi- ence of the dangers inherent in big-money prizes must have made the BBC feel justified in their more cautious policy. Even so, it is pleasant and even exciting occasionally to watch people guess aright or dare and win. But the Show Biz Corps! Oh, those 'personal goodnights,' those he-Man handshakes, those 'May I call you Mum?' invita- tions delivered with all the warmth of a false coal front on an electric fire. Oh, Mr. Bill Owen's spry milkman's manner . . . Mr. MiChael Miles's awful relish . . . Mr. Hughie Green's twangy transatlantic archness . . . Mr. Jacky Ryan's twisted-grin charm, as standard and regulation as his army crew-cut . . . Mr. Bruce Forsyth's twinkle-toes and strident congratulations . . . oh, all you MCs who do not stand on ceremony, how big your hearts bulge beneath your draped, money-padded jackets, how hard you slave away as Santas who come down the tube every week! It is blessed to receive, you seem to say, but thrice-blessed to give away what is not yours. You do a grand job, though you say so your- selves. Glad to have had you with us, friends; look after yourselves, God bless you all, and good-night, good-night, good-night.
Variety offerings have been rather dull lately, apart from a Bob Hope show which was an object- lesson, as this artist always is, in charm and timing and how to exploit a clearly-defined comic personality. Nor do I care how many assistants wrote his jokes, the advantage of bad originality over good collaboration having always escaped me. The trend at present, as exemplified in Granada's Chelsea at Nine and its copycat (but well produced) BBC rival, Riverside One, in- volves the interlarding of music-hall turns with pseudo-ballets, recitations, and odd attempts to tip-toe through the classics (as cinema Organists always put it) with excerpts from serious works. I know that Bernhardt and Co. often appeared on bills at the Coliseum, but within the shorter com- pass of the TV screen I prefer a more homogen- eous entity, and suspect that these little culture digests deter or at best bewilder the mass audience; certainly the ten minutes from St. Joan on Chelsea recently did justice neither to Shaw nor to Siobhan McKenna's stage performance. Also those Chelsea lads and lasses, glacially mouthing and miming to recorded voices, are more chi-chi than cha-cha. Also why announce 'From the North Granada presents Chelsea at Nine'? North Chelsea?
I caught the first of a new story-comedy series, The Patriotic' Singer (BBC), and thus saw the TV-made Charlie Drake for the first time. As a Fred Karno soldier involved in World War 11 desert heroics, he blundered about like a baby seal, squeaking at a world he did not understand. 'I'm gonna do Hitler and Mussolini!' swore a tough sergeant. 'Impressions?' asked Charlie innocentlY, and Harry Tate and Billy Bennett and a host of others 'must have applauded from the shades in think that even in these days their style of music-hall can sometimes somehow survive. 1r the more modern vein, far the slickest, quicke' and wittiest of the comperes is Alan Melville, whose impersonation of a professional comedian in that useful piece of elastic formula, A-Z (BBC) now draws me home when possible on Tuesday evenings. His skit on Animal, Vegetable, Mineral?, trick-photographed so that he played Glyn Daniel and all the lions as well was deliciously funny as well as being brilliant television. Footnote: Tura to page 11 of the new TV Tines for ITV's official answer (taken from its annual report) to the charge of overmuch. Americana in programmes. Then turn to page 32, and consider Thursday's fare. Half an hour of American horse-opera for the kiddies; • half an hour of American crime thriller at seven, followed by half an hour of rather poor American-influenced English thriller; at eight-thirty the American-style Hughie Green' at eleven-thirty an American crime thriller. A balanced programme, such as the ITA exists la ensure? Arguable, I would have thought. Bat undoubtedly an 'alternative service.'
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