God knows, this column has never had any respect for reality television.
Downmarket, unthinking, low cost, low content, it is a process that has made 15- second duration heroes and heroines of the gratuitously untalented. One scene out of all the others stands out. We recall some sort of competition requiring performers to outgross each other to win a prize. This required the participants to choose one amongst three cooked penises cut off dead wild animals and then eating them with he assistance of a knife and fork.
There you have it. The standard bearer, the lowest possible denominator, the line totally obliterated by six-toed feet racing towards some sort of tawdry reward. Well, thanks to Donald Trump and his facilitators, reality television has finally given us something even more repulsive that n noshing on elk penises. After this, any moral crusader pitching the virtues of democracy to us innocent and benighted third worlders is going to win nothing except bitter laughter. Waiter!
Bring me another braaied moose penis and hold the Tabasco.
Staying with reality (well, you know what I mean) brings us – all over again – to Swamp People, just one of the unhistorical shows on the History Channel.
Clearly, the History Channel regards history as something that happened last Wednesday. And so it was, and so it is and so it shall always be. In Swamp People, like many similar series, each episode is more or less identical to those that came before, rendering repeats truly unnecessary. It seems – and I know it’s true, television told me so – that in the glorious watery terrains of Louisiana, giant alligators swim about snapping their huge jaws and swirling up the mud with their scaly tails. Terror like no other!
Until of course you see – all over again and again and dare I say it, again – that behind every giant water lizard there’s a couple of badly dressed almost incoherent local humans in a boat. These are the only English speakers who genuinely require subtitles to turn their hoots and roars into human language.
They kill the alligator at point blank range and sell the giant carcass to dead alligator dealers who turn the saurian corpses into watch straps and briefcases. But don’t think for a moment that this is achieved without drama.
They moan at the camera about the cost of alligator hunting, the loneliness of the long distance lizard killers, the extraordinary brilliance, cunning and forward planning of their prey.
One is reminded of King Lear and Lady Macbeth sharing a stage and whining about recent bad decision making.
Meanwhile, back on ITV Choice, this former admirer of American democracy, watched Birds of a Feather. Allow me to make a self-incriminating confession. I thought, in my unprofessional carelessness, that this was a another series of Absolutely Fabulous. An understandable mistake, since 1) I had been watching nonstop Trumpish events on CNN, and 2) both shows have Fs in the title.
Birds of a Feather is an old-fashioned show, one that goes that going the extra mile to prove that the 1950’s were just like the Renaissance.
There are three women in the main roles. They are sassy and sour, filled with loathing and inappropriate expectations of love and revenge although to be fair, not necessarily at the same time.
A comedy, the directors make vigorous use of canned laughter, which is – a great help with underscoring the mid-Twentie20th century jokes, japes and general fall about humour.
The canned laffs are quite good, coming in various stages of hysteria and volume. The timing can be a bit mysterious, but then what the hell, Greek mothers-in-law and blind fiancées were once the glittering stuff of jolly laughter.