Wednesday, July 12, 2006
the fluidity of Zizou
So farewell then, to the World Cup. Its departure has left a gaping hole in the tv schedules, but will we miss the coverage of the two competing networks?
Of course, by and large, the visual direction of each match was under the control of the German hosts, which accounts for the long lingering shots of ‘VIPs’ during the games, which left me often berating the Germanic director (even though he was a couple of thousand miles away). “No more close ups of Franz Beckenbauer”, I would cry from the depths of the sofa.
The camera dillied and dallied so long on Herr Beckenbauer, that I felt it was only a matter of time before John Motson would be forced to tell us that, whilst we were indolently panning in to yet another view of the former Germany captain and manager, we had missed two goals and a sending off.
I have never seen so many close-ups in a single sitting. We saw the nostrils of the people in the posh seats, we saw the speckles of light reflecting and refracting on the ice surrounding David Beckham’s ankle, and we saw the individual stitches on the match ball. How they loved to show us the ball. No game could begin without a slow, leisurely, close up examination of the logo on the matchball, as it waited patiently or otherwise, to be rolled off the centre spot by Messrs Ronaldinho, Crespo and co.
Oh but – the most repeated close up – Zinedine Zidane and his great waterfall of sweat-drops, that seem to cascade down his face, and pour, like some mini-Niagara, from his nose and chin. The man must lose litres of fluid simply walking out for the national anthems. He is the Lee Evans of the sporting world but with a little more in terms of footwork. Zizou is a one-man solution to the hosepipe ban. Get him to shake his head whilst walking over your lawn and your problems are solved.
Although we may agree that, in terms of spectacle (and longevity), this has been the greatest World Cup of the modern era; we cannot say the same for the British television coverage. There was little to choose between the offerings of the BBC and their arch foes at ITV.
Surely the time has come to ditch the dreary format of the cheery host (Lineker/Rider) and the three wise monkeys lined up opposite?
On the BBC, the dour, downbeat offerings of Alan Hansen and Martin O’Neill (‘been there, seen it, can we go home now?’) were in stark, and often jarring, contrast, to the feel of the tournament. Out on the streets, in the pubs, in offices, people were loving the tournament – willing England on (all those flags), yet the taciturn so-called experts had all the oomph and pizzazz of a funeral parlour on a Bank Holiday. Lighten up lads!
On ITV, the rather tense, and out of place, Steve Rider, conducted proceedings as if he had a broom handle up the back of his shirt. As with the BBC, the experts failed to grasp the emotion of the world outside their little glass cocoon. Ally McCoist (Scottish international) and Andy Townsend (Irish international) could find little to enthuse about, as we at home prayed for the progress of the England team.
So we turn, finally, to the enigma of Terry Venables, the third culprit, and uber-expert from the ITV squad. El Tel has seen it all, been there, and come back round for another go. His coaching credentials are legendary. Many players testify to his skills in motivating and illuminating a side with his team talks and visionary ideas.
So why does he gargle and fumble his way through his on screen analysis like a man who has both never watched a game before, and equally, has not much more than a passing acquaintance with the English language. It can’t be nerves surely? He has been on a thousand such studio bound seats over the years. It is a mystery to stump even the greatest combined talents of Miss Marple and DCI Tom Barnaby.
Less than a week since it all ended, and I already pine for early afternoon kick-offs between Togo and Switzerland; early evening dashes to the fridge to coincide with the slow, slow, slow, panning camera shot across the bows of Sepp Blatter; and the angst and anguish as England’s game moves towards the inevitable penalty shoot out.
Only four years to go – roll on 2010!
remotevision@gmail.com
Of course, by and large, the visual direction of each match was under the control of the German hosts, which accounts for the long lingering shots of ‘VIPs’ during the games, which left me often berating the Germanic director (even though he was a couple of thousand miles away). “No more close ups of Franz Beckenbauer”, I would cry from the depths of the sofa.
The camera dillied and dallied so long on Herr Beckenbauer, that I felt it was only a matter of time before John Motson would be forced to tell us that, whilst we were indolently panning in to yet another view of the former Germany captain and manager, we had missed two goals and a sending off.
I have never seen so many close-ups in a single sitting. We saw the nostrils of the people in the posh seats, we saw the speckles of light reflecting and refracting on the ice surrounding David Beckham’s ankle, and we saw the individual stitches on the match ball. How they loved to show us the ball. No game could begin without a slow, leisurely, close up examination of the logo on the matchball, as it waited patiently or otherwise, to be rolled off the centre spot by Messrs Ronaldinho, Crespo and co.
Oh but – the most repeated close up – Zinedine Zidane and his great waterfall of sweat-drops, that seem to cascade down his face, and pour, like some mini-Niagara, from his nose and chin. The man must lose litres of fluid simply walking out for the national anthems. He is the Lee Evans of the sporting world but with a little more in terms of footwork. Zizou is a one-man solution to the hosepipe ban. Get him to shake his head whilst walking over your lawn and your problems are solved.
Although we may agree that, in terms of spectacle (and longevity), this has been the greatest World Cup of the modern era; we cannot say the same for the British television coverage. There was little to choose between the offerings of the BBC and their arch foes at ITV.
Surely the time has come to ditch the dreary format of the cheery host (Lineker/Rider) and the three wise monkeys lined up opposite?
On the BBC, the dour, downbeat offerings of Alan Hansen and Martin O’Neill (‘been there, seen it, can we go home now?’) were in stark, and often jarring, contrast, to the feel of the tournament. Out on the streets, in the pubs, in offices, people were loving the tournament – willing England on (all those flags), yet the taciturn so-called experts had all the oomph and pizzazz of a funeral parlour on a Bank Holiday. Lighten up lads!
On ITV, the rather tense, and out of place, Steve Rider, conducted proceedings as if he had a broom handle up the back of his shirt. As with the BBC, the experts failed to grasp the emotion of the world outside their little glass cocoon. Ally McCoist (Scottish international) and Andy Townsend (Irish international) could find little to enthuse about, as we at home prayed for the progress of the England team.
So we turn, finally, to the enigma of Terry Venables, the third culprit, and uber-expert from the ITV squad. El Tel has seen it all, been there, and come back round for another go. His coaching credentials are legendary. Many players testify to his skills in motivating and illuminating a side with his team talks and visionary ideas.
So why does he gargle and fumble his way through his on screen analysis like a man who has both never watched a game before, and equally, has not much more than a passing acquaintance with the English language. It can’t be nerves surely? He has been on a thousand such studio bound seats over the years. It is a mystery to stump even the greatest combined talents of Miss Marple and DCI Tom Barnaby.
Less than a week since it all ended, and I already pine for early afternoon kick-offs between Togo and Switzerland; early evening dashes to the fridge to coincide with the slow, slow, slow, panning camera shot across the bows of Sepp Blatter; and the angst and anguish as England’s game moves towards the inevitable penalty shoot out.
Only four years to go – roll on 2010!
remotevision@gmail.com
# posted by Terence : 6:59 PM
Saturday, July 08, 2006
the cantilevered bikini tops
Just as the numbers were dwindling sufficiently enough for us to remember the difference between the vacant looking Welsh one, the other vacant looking Welsh one, and the Violet Elizabeth Bott one, Big Brother sends us into a summer of morbid depression, by bringing in a variety of new, equally vacant looking ‘housemates’.
Now we have to try and recall which is the ‘rapper’ from Ireland (not the most glamorous location to show on the c.v. when applying for gangsta credibility), and which one is the angry gay chap (Michael? – or is it Matthew? – or Mark? - we can’t be sure).
Lea, with her cantilevered bikini tops, her tears, and her paranoia safely packed in her suitcase, left us on Friday. It was this unhappy lady who first made me wonder whether auditions had been scrapped this year, and that perhaps Big Brother had simply thrown a net over the first fourteen people queuing at a nearby Post Office as they fought each other, attempting to cash their Social Fund girocheques.
From where, they were whisked off and paraded before us in the latter day asylum in Elstree. A sort of Bedlam-Lite.
Returning to the distraught Lea (“You’ve changed!” her remorselessly repeated catchphrase), fans of coarse, inarticulate ladies in their mid-thirties, need not feel as though their summer is over. As if anticipating the demise of the troubled ‘blonde’, Endemol had taken the precaution of introducing a new inmate, in the shape (and an unusual shape it is) of Jayne, a Recruitment Consultant from Slough. Unofficial reports suggest that John Betjeman wrote that poem after spending five minutes in Jayne’s company. The earth exhales. It isn’t clear, who, or what, exactly Jayne spends her time recruiting. However, a quick Google shows that Jayne is hoping to make some money from her BB adventure, in order to pay off debts accumulated “after a string of business flops”. If she has previously used the style, grace, and elan in her business world, which she has shown in her brief tenure in the Big Brother house, perhaps we should not be overtly surprised by that news.
remotevision@gmail.com
Now we have to try and recall which is the ‘rapper’ from Ireland (not the most glamorous location to show on the c.v. when applying for gangsta credibility), and which one is the angry gay chap (Michael? – or is it Matthew? – or Mark? - we can’t be sure).
Lea, with her cantilevered bikini tops, her tears, and her paranoia safely packed in her suitcase, left us on Friday. It was this unhappy lady who first made me wonder whether auditions had been scrapped this year, and that perhaps Big Brother had simply thrown a net over the first fourteen people queuing at a nearby Post Office as they fought each other, attempting to cash their Social Fund girocheques.
From where, they were whisked off and paraded before us in the latter day asylum in Elstree. A sort of Bedlam-Lite.
Returning to the distraught Lea (“You’ve changed!” her remorselessly repeated catchphrase), fans of coarse, inarticulate ladies in their mid-thirties, need not feel as though their summer is over. As if anticipating the demise of the troubled ‘blonde’, Endemol had taken the precaution of introducing a new inmate, in the shape (and an unusual shape it is) of Jayne, a Recruitment Consultant from Slough. Unofficial reports suggest that John Betjeman wrote that poem after spending five minutes in Jayne’s company. The earth exhales. It isn’t clear, who, or what, exactly Jayne spends her time recruiting. However, a quick Google shows that Jayne is hoping to make some money from her BB adventure, in order to pay off debts accumulated “after a string of business flops”. If she has previously used the style, grace, and elan in her business world, which she has shown in her brief tenure in the Big Brother house, perhaps we should not be overtly surprised by that news.
remotevision@gmail.com
# posted by Terence : 7:13 PM
