He tries not to get the three confused.
|
He tries not to get the three confused. |
|
|
SECTIONS |
THE HALLMARK OF BLANDNESS |
THIS SECTION |
||||||
|
Home HIV and the Developing World Another World gay life on five continents God Would Be An Atheist Fiction Opinion Reviews martin@martinforeman.com Appeal to your wallet:  16 December 2001 World Copyright © Martin Foreman |
I watch less television than I would like, on the sound principle that experiencing life is usually better than observing it. But I'm intrigued by the continuous evolution of dramas and documentaries and how they depict our real and fictional lives. So when I find myself spending night after night in a hotel room, where the only alternative to satellite tv is doses of alcohol, I will place myself in front of the box with only the minimum of guilt. Which explains why, on a recent trip to Rwanda, I became very good friends with the Hallmark Channel. (For those of you, who like me, live generally satellite- and cable-free lives, Hallmark is owned by the manufacturers of the ubiquitous greetings cards. Almost all their output is film - cinema or tv commissioned.) Over the course of three weeks I had the opportunity to watch, amongst others, a youthful Glenn Close and Christopher Walken face drought in 1930s Oklahoma, Jason sail the Aegean in search of the Argonaut and a couple of mediaeval frogs turned back into a handsome-prince- and-his-witty-sidekick in twenty-first century Manhattan. All very pleasant, but scarcely challenging. Until the night that they broadcast Animal Farm. It started off so well, with Pete Posthlewaite (I've probably spelt that wrongly) as Mr Jones. Although he has appeared in a few productions where the script or direction did not live up to the producer's ambition, he has always come across as an actor whose sincerity gives depth to each of his roles. The mixture of live animals and animation was excellently handled. The setting - 1950s Yorkshire - well evoked, with only the car number plates striking a false note (they looked more French than British). The story was adhered to and if a little dramatic licence was taken - Major the old pig died as a result of Jones' striking out at the animals rather than in his sleep - it was forgiveable. Most of the characters were there - Snowball, Napoleon and Squealer, Boxer and Benjamin. The dogs were reduced to one, but her puppies played the role expected of them. The commandments were raised, the sheep bleated their chorus, the pigs moved into the house and the commandments were altered as we knew they would be. Then the story began to look a little fuzzy, and we came earlier than expected to the image of the pigs and men resembling pigs. There was a newsreel of the time, showing the farm in all its Soviet glory. The end, I thought. Except no. In the space of three minutes, with the grace and subtetly of a telegram, we were told that some of the animals escaped and hid in the woods for several years (no indication of how they survived) until one day they decided to go back to the farm to discover it abandoned (no idea of what had happened) and they learnt that new owners, looking uncannily like a young Bill and Hillary Clinton, with two young sons, were arriving to the tune of Blueberry Hill, having bought the farm and were going to restore it. So, thanks to the Hallmark Channel and TNT, who commissioned the film, all was right with the world. I refrained from throwing the hotel ashtray at the screen. There was no point. What I had seen was typical of all that is wrong with satellite and cable television. With the exception of HBO, the rule is always to play safe, never dare to be imaginative. If the vision of others offends you, cut it out; artistic integrity counts for nothing when weighed against the sanctity of ratings and advertiser satisfaction. And so a classic of literature is castrated for the sake of blandness and a generation that is denied the opportunity to appreciate one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. This is not a new phenomenon, nor did it begin with satellite television. The nineteenth century saw Bowdler's attempts to rewrite Shakespeare and the gentle vision of Lofting's Doctor Dolittle has been swamped by the crassness of Eddie Murphy, special effects and toilet humour gags. But it doesn't have to happen that way. The Fellowship of the Ring opens in a few days and I have not yet read a review that suggests it is anything but a loyal, imaginative interpretation which adds to, and does not subtract from the book. Meanwhile, the fact that culture has been robbed and maimed in generation after generation won't stop me complaining when it happens again. * Royal Academy of the Dramatic Arts and the Royal Shakespeare Company | N |
2002 columns... 2001 columns... This month's good cause: 
|
N |