Television
The lure of the tedious
James Delingpole
If you ever listen to Radio Five Live, you might have heard me being horribly inartic- ulate last week as I tried to explain the point of television criticism. Its principal functions, I decided, were to amuse readers and gratify the critic's ego. Then, fearing that this sounded far too glib and arrogant, I added that it was also quite useful for punishing crimes against taste (e.g. by Carl- ton) and for turning viewers on to series they might otherwise have overlooked.
On the latter count, I'm delighted to report that no fewer than two people's viewing lives have been improved by this column. My girlfriend's father is now a Fra- zier (Channel 4, Friday) addict; and my father has discovered Two Fat Ladies (BBC 2, Wednesday). This week, I hope to work similar wonders for Northern Exposure (Channel 4, Tuesday).
I do feel slightly guilty about reviewing a long-running American import instead of fresh home-grown produce like the Hong Kong special of Cracker (ITV, Monday), the satanic abuse drama Flowers of the For- est (BBC 1, Saturday) or Billy Connolly's World Tour of Australia (BBC 1, Monday). But we all know Cracker's gone downhill, I've already said my bit on child abuse, and I've seen enough of Connolly's profound Australian insights in the Radio Times (`The country has a youthful vitality that makes it an exciting place'; the view from the top of Sydney bridge is 'beyond belief) to be able to survive without the full, eight- part series.
Besides, I've been watching Northern Exposure for about five years now and if I don't write about it soon the series will end and I'll never have had the chance to work out in print why on earth I've wasted so much life on such a boring programme.
It's set in the remote town of Cicely, Alaska, where the people are mildly eccen- tric and not an awful lot happens save the occasional outbreak of magic realism. There was, for example, the episode when someone turned into an eagle — sort of and flew off a precipice; another involving a telepathic moose; and another in which all the characters started dreaming each other's dreams.
By Northern Exposure's standards, these are moments of rare excitement. A more typical plot line might concern Maggie's attempts to build an aeroplane from a kit; Dr Joel Fleischman's temporary inability to find his patients' veins during a mass blood-donation session; or the power fail- ure which threatens to destroy Maurice Minnifield's rare orchid collection. It's as resolutely undramatic as The Archers used to be in the days before Ambridge discov- ered drugs and race crime. And therein lies its insidious appeal.
Northern Exposure uses tedium as a lure: you keep watching in the hope that one day something interesting might happen. It's like doing the Lottery. Even though you lose every week (or at best, end up with the miserly £10 consolation prize), you remain convinced that next time round, you'll hit the jackpot. Take, for example, the rela- tionship between gorgeous, infuriating, snub-nosed heroine Maggie (Janine Turn- er) and neurotic New Yorker Joel (Rob Morrow). It was clear from the start that they were made for one another. Yet it took three whole series before they finally got it together, when a mysterious, mind-warping wind blew through town, causing them to end up making frenzied love in a hay barn.
Sensing that this was more thrilling than any viewer could possibly hear, the script- writers decided to pretend the incident had never happened. Maggie claimed to have lost her memory, which meant we had to endure another dozen or so frustrating episodes before the affair was re-consum- mated.
Sometimes I wonder whether the makers of Northern Exposure are enjoying some sort of private joke: how boring/cloying/ annoying can we make our series without suffering a huge drop in the ratings? They were certainly pushing their luck in last year's yawn-fest, when Cicely staged a wheel- chair-racing championship; and I doubt entertainment was very high on their prior- ities in the saccharine episode when the ghastly, ex-cheerleader bimbo Shelly ago- nised over the questionable morals of the priest who had come to baptise her baby.
And yet, week after week, I keep on watching. I'm starting to feel like Joel Fleischman — an educated, metropolitan sophisticate simultaneously repelled and seduced by this nightmare world where the only entertainment is catching fish, chop- ping up logs or watching moose through the window of the town's only pub. And where everyone, from curmudgeonly ex- astronaut Maurice and movie-obsessed shaman Ed to philosophising hippy wind- bag Chris is a screamingly dull monomaniac.
The terrible thing is, it takes only a few episodes before you start finding all these dreadful bores interesting. Indeed, you end Mum, dad, it's time you knew . . I'm bent'. up like one of them. You start seeking out fellow Northern Exposure fans so you can have long, tedious conversations about which character is more irksome — Chris or Shelly; whether Maggie looked better with short hair and whether her beauty is sufficient compensation for her smugness; and how stupid it is of Channel 4 to sched- ule the programme so late (11.30) that you have to watch it on video.
And it's not even filmed in Alaska, you know.
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