The X Factor (ITV, Saturday and Sunday) is the most popular show on television at the moment. I felt I should watch it so that you don’t have to.
It’s very loud. There is a lot of clashing and banging and whooping and whooshing. A voiceover booms at you, and the presenter shouts at everyone. The audience sounds as if it’s on something which might not trouble Professor Nutt but could cause grief to Alan Johnson. The slightest remark makes them cheer or boo irrationally.
It’s very camp and ironic. The two male judges — Simon Cowell and some Irish bloke called Louis — constantly niggle at each other, but it has the fake air of all-in wrestling, being mildly amusing but entirely unconvincing. The female judges are Cheryl Cole, Britain’s favourite wronged woman, and Dannii Minogue, sister of the more famous Kylie. Their job is to be kindly to the contestants and not smudge their luminescent lipstick, which could signal to ships in the fog.
The contestants are for the most part persons of moderate ability, having the kind of voice that goes down a storm in a pub or on a downmarket cruise line. They belt it out with little warmth, or passion. Some are awful. One young man who did a ‘modernised’ version of ‘Stand By Me’ (or ‘stenn-henn-ah-henn-bah me’ as he sang it) was actually criticised by three judges, who in turn were jeered by the bonkers audience. Who would have thought that Orwell’s two minutes’ hate would have arrived, but directed at a group of greasy millionaires who are actively encouraging it?
A young man called Olly Murs staggered round the stage like an arthritic gardener, performing a version of ‘Twist and Shout’ that lacked rhythm, soul or even tune. His plaintive attempt at persuading the audience to join in — ‘c’mon, I wanna hear you now!’ — would have made me resolve not to utter the slightest murmur until he was out of sight. One singer, Danyl Johnson, appeared to have real ability, which made me wonder how long he will last.
On Sunday night Cowell, who has been abusing the Irish twins, John and Edward — they resemble one’s children singing at you far too long because they have got your attention — changed his mind and kept them in the competition. Thousands of viewers complained that the programme has ‘lost its credibility’. Yes, it has. And Noddy isn’t a real human being, either.
I watched The Thick Of It (BBC2, Saturday) with an American friend who loved it, even though half the references must have whizzed past him. He pointed out afterwards that we actually want the loathsome Malcolm Tucker to come out on top, just as we wanted JR’s machinations to succeed in Dallas. That’s what hooks us. My only anxiety is about what Armando Iannucci and the gang can come up with to skewer the Cameron lot from May next year. I hope they are working on it now.
Michael Portillo presented Digging Up the Dead (BBC4, Monday), a programme about Spain finally coming to terms with its ghastly civil war. Portillo’s father Luis fled from Franco, and married an Englishwoman, ‘so if it hadn’t been for the Spanish civil war, I wouldn’t exist’. I hadn’t realised that 4,400 victims of summary execution are buried a short way from where we sipped coffee in Malaga last summer. The programme was beautifully judged, full of fascinating yet grim information, and deeply affecting.
But Portillo’s last programme was about a classmate who committed suicide, and before that he investigated humane methods of capital punishment. A theme is emerging here. There may be some ancient family curse: ‘If Portillo’s show be on the box / Then death shall shake his gory locks…’
Comments