So it could be that ITV is saved not by a cigar-chomping, hot-shot show-biz executive but by a spinster from a Scottish village. The appearance of Susan Boyle in the first semi-final of Britain’s Got Talent (ITV, all week) was greeted with adoration — and audience figures — that would have been apt if Maria Callas had returned from the dead. Miss Boyle looked rapturously happy, and it was impossible not to feel delighted for her. She has had an unsung life of some difficulty; now, thanks to the internet, she is famed and celebrated around the world. Jay Leno, the American late-night talk-show host, sang dressed as her. There are politicians who would sacrifice their second homes allowance for such lavish, affectionate mockery.
But I have reservations. Miss Boyle is a fine singer, if not of the very first rank. Even a layman like me can spot that she has trouble with the lower notes, as she did this week performing ‘Memory’. But that’s not the point. She is distinctly plain. She actually looks rather like Jay Leno, with a less expensive hair-do. We are supposed to be amazed that someone who would not fetch a second glance in a bus queue can actually sing! The message was rubbed home by Ant and Dec when she first appeared. They sniggered and gurned, as if to say, ‘Look, an ugly old biddy, we can have a bit of a laugh.’ When it became clear that she had that voice, they appeared stunned.
BGT is a celebrity show in which celebrities hector and bully members of the public, some of whom are clearly selected only because they have ludicrous delusions of talent. When someone does have ability, the three judges welcome them as if to an exclusive club. One pair of comedians even wore Simon Cowell masks — people who want to be celebrities try to impress celebrities by dressing up as celebrities. I wish Miss Boyle a long and successful career, but the show is self-regarding and rather unpleasant.
The BBC has been trying to persuade us to enjoy poetry, and I sense Lord Reith lying still and contented in his grave. It could have been embarrassingly high minded, or, worse, patronising: ‘Hey, kids, this poetry thing, it’s wicked, innit.’
But the programmes I’ve seen have got the balance neatly. A Poet’s Guide To Britain (BBC4, Mondays) relates poems to the landscape where they are set. Owen Sheers is an excellent presenter, informative and enthusiastic without being intrusive. This week he discussed ‘Dover Beach’, which is about Matthew Arnold’s loss of faith, but which is set firmly beside those cliffs, and we could hear the same ‘melancholy, long, withdrawing roar’ that he did 15 decades ago. Odd that he came up with the poem on his honeymoon: after he says to his bride, ‘Come to the window,’ you can almost hear her saying, ‘No, for heavens sake, you come to bed.’ Best of all they actually recite the poem. This is arts programming for people who want to rise to the challenge, not to hear there is no challenge to rise to.
My Life In Verse (BBC2, Friday) was similarly affecting. Sheila Hancock related how poetry had helped her cope with the death of her husband, John Thaw, after what seems to have been a turbulent marriage. Poems had helped her make the decision to survive, she said, though I reflected that must be an easier choice for a widow who has two lovely homes, stacks of money and a bunch of lively grandchildren.
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