Saturday night television is reserved for the crowd pleasers – the shows created with the sole intention of appeasing the masses, commonly known as prime time. How amusing then, that Saturday night television is little more than a barren wasteland, where only the stupid survive.
For some, The X Factor represents all that is wrong with television for the masses – a crude simulation of what it appears to be. Crammed with fabricated mini-narratives and the illusion that we have power over its outcome, The X Factor is little more than an exercise in propaganda, manufactured by the Dark Lord himself (that’s you, Cowell). But in light of what both the BBC and ITV are peddling at the moment, its worth noting that The X Factor might not be as terrible as we originally thought…
The Beeb’s new effort in the battle for Saturday night ratings is The Magicians, a variety-style programme showcasing the talents of various magical folk. And Lenny Henry. And Chris Tarrant. Oh dear.
In this week’s episode Samantha Womack was brought in as the celebrity guest magician, and she found herself involved in a number of tricks that, quite frankly, failed to incite any entertainment value whatsoever. In one ‘trick’, Womack nominated numbered polystyrene cups, one of which concealed a menacing looking spike that would have been more at home in one of the Saw movies than family-friendly television. As she called out the numbers, the resident magician slammed his hand down on the cup, and the tension of the segment apparently hinged on the fear that he may skewer his hand upon said spike. But let’s be honest, this is pre-recorded, Saturday night TV, and the chances of them actually screening such a horrific accident are slim. Hence, no actual tension whatsoever – in fact, it just proved an absolute bore. The days when Noel Edmonds could sling an unsuspecting contestant from a helicopter to their certain death are long gone – apart from seeing the odd celebrity chewing on a kangaroo’s cock or anus, there are few genuinely risky stunts on the box these days. In a way it’s a shame – the sight of Lenny Henry trying to hold the show together after someone had fallen foul of some macabre stigmata/polystyrene cup experiment would have been comedy gold. Lenny, there’s no amount of annoying bird noises that could cover up a moment of such grotesque violence.
But credit to the BBC, they are branching out. The Magicians is at least a step away from the preferred formula of current times. Whilst viewers are inundated with talent shows (a matter of opinion), from celebrities dancing for their supper/cocaine (sometimes on ice), and doe-eyed hopefuls singing for the unsightly Andrew Llyodd Webber, at least the BBC are doing something different (or rehashing what was popular twenty years ago). What a shame it’s absolute shite.
But still, it could be worse – what ITV are dishing out at the same slot is mind-bogglingly awful. Yes, it’s Take Me Out, the Paddy McGuinness hosted Blind Date reimagining. And make no mistake, that’s exactly what it is – no amount of tweaking the format or inflating the budget can overlook that this show is about as worn out as Cilla Black’s growler.
Take Me Out is about as Saturday night as it gets – complete with catchphrases, Asda humour, and a right cunt of a contestant (Harry the Greek God, apparently).
The rules are as follows – as the male contestant attempts to impress with either his looks, charm, or brain power, the ladies reveal whether they are interested in a date with said gentlemen by either leaving on or switching off their lighted podium (‘No likey, no lighty!’ as Paddy so eloquently put it). As Harry the Greek God dazzled the twenty-or-so ladies (including resident desperate-fishwife Jo Jo) with his Oceana good-looks and chiseled physique, the response appeared fairly positive, with a large number of lights remaining after strutting his stuff. And who came blame them – there is something endearing about a man who lists his favourite things as ‘my family… and my body’. Which is handy considering his family apparently paid for his plastic surgery. He’s a keeper…
Following this, Harry the Greek God made his way around the remaining girls, switching the lights of those he wasn’t interested in until only one lucky lady remained. As he teased them, hovering over their light switches and threatening to eliminate them (poor old Jo Jo was quickly rejected, with a watery glint in her eye that seems to reveal both excitement and suicidal tendencies), I was reminded of the school-years practice of picking classmates for a sports team. That’s the same game that usually ends with a fat kid crying, hoping for the gymnasium floor to swallow him up. Except it’s not the gymnasium, it’s national prime-time television.
Yep, this is an unpleasant way to treat the fairer sex, though they don’t seem all that bothered. Either they’re gagging for the television exposure, or gagging for much worse – although they all seemed less fussed about getting in on once Dave from Luton turned up, a strange cross between Theo Paphitis and Timmy Mallet. Even Jo Jo turned her light off once he cracked out the poetry.
So, pretty low-brow stuff overall. And even though Paddy tried to endear us to the ladies as much as possible – at one point even declaring ‘One of these girls came third in Miss Burnley’ – there was little positive to be said about anyone involved in this barbaric exercise. Either these women have no idea the damage they’re doing to their fellow woman in this regressive nonsense, or they just don’t care. Perhaps it wouldn’t seem so overtly derogatory if the producers were to reverse the roles at some point, and show a gaggle of men degrading themselves for the affections of one all-powerful woman. Or let’s take it further still – how about a round dedicated to gay contestants? Something tells me prime time ITV isn’t quite ready for that yet…
In light of all this, The X Factor might not be such a bad thing after all. At least we get genuine tension at the outcome of each show, actual wit and energy between the hosts, and some display of actual talent (though that point may be up for debate). Until Cowell and co rear their ugly heads again later in the year, I shall be keeping the TV switched off during Saturday prime time. As Paddy says, no likey, no lighty.
