Another thing the TV Cranny can't stand is March Madness.
American college basketball. Teams of gangly lugs from obscure places playing ineptly while cheerleaders sit and smile, waiting to leap up and gyrate ineptly. (Look, we're continuing with the sporting theme today. Deal with it.) What's it all about? Betting, that's what. People who know nothing about American college basketball putting five bucks on Purdue in the optimistic hope that they'll win something in the office pool. And, in this neck of the woods, it's about people trying out being American for a while. Sad, really.
The World Figure Skating Championships last weekend, from Gothenburg, Sweden - now that was TV entertainment. Tacky and mind-boggling, but superb entertainment.
There was no point betting on it. The number of people who actually understand the requirements for the skaters and the criteria used by the judges would fit into the Cranny here, with room left over for the brother and the lads in his digs. And you'd have better odds betting on cow-patty bingo at the summer fair.
Canadian Jeffrey Buttle won. That was peachy. I am informed, through copious research on the matter, that Buttle did a solid triple Axel-double toe-double loop followed by a triple flip-triple toe and another triple Axel. Then he did a triple Lutz-double toe, a triple loop, Salchow and another Lutz as well as excellent spins. Haven't a clue what it means. He didn't fall down, which is the point. And he looked cheery and confident. Good hair and a nice smile. That's what Canadians want in a skating champ.
But the outfits. Oh dear Lord, the outfits are the epitome of tacky. Buttle wasn't the worst. Many of the men were going for a fake-fur look. As Kurt Browning commented on the subject of a chap from Japan (I think), "You can't see where his hair ends and the costume starts." And at this tournament, for some reason, a number of the couples used a red chair as a prop. The fella would sit on it, looking moody to indicate heartbreak, and the young woman would skate around to indicate the object of his heartbreak skating away. Then they'd eventually get together. It was gloriously awful theatre.
Skating tournaments are fascinating TV. When the couples dance, there is often a staggering amount of sexual innuendo. The young woman wiggles her posterior; the fella thrusts his hips. But it's all perfectly acceptable because they're doing it on ice, while wearing outfits no sane person would ever wear. I hesitate to speculate on the meaning of this in a cultural-anthropological context, except to note that skating is, somehow, simultaneously geek central and sexy.
The styles and attitudes of the various countries are also intriguing. The Canadians go for all-out wholesomeness, the American go for sheer commercial ruthlessness and the Russians, well, the Russian tend to go for slutty. But nobody says that on TV.
In fact, the TV commentary and behind-the-scenes reporting are truly surreal at these events. Half the time, the viewer is clueless about the meaning of the commentary. It's just a matter of hoping that nobody falls over. And the attempts at reporting are about as far from scintillating as you can get. On the weekend, Brenda Irvine occasionally talked to the Canadians skaters and told them how great they are. Even in the context of TV sports reporting, it is incredibly banal. Mind you, Kurt Browning brought some wit to things. Asked what he was thinking 20 years ago when he won something or other, he replied that he wasn't thinking that two decades later he'd be on CBC with no hair.
For all the pleasure that comes with the competitive rounds, it's the end-of-tournament gala skate that is truly, madly compelling. Without the judging and rules, the skaters go wild. Canadians Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir performed beautifully to the Damian Rice song The Blower's Daughter, which has been overused, but is a step above the appalling movie-soundtrack music that many skaters choose. Then, I think, it was Oksana Domnina and Maxim Shabalin of Russia who went for the stripper-doing-a-lap-dance routine. Oksana wore this extraordinary outfit, which gave the impression that she was wearing half a dress. One half of her body seemed clothed, the other didn't. It was stunningly slutty. As I watched, I was praying that the brother wasn't watching at home. If he was, he'd be erecting an altar to worship Oksana all the way to Vancouver in 2012.
Skating is the last irony-free zone on TV. It's outstandingly cheesy and yet shot through with eye-popping moments of style and eroticism. Now that's what I call entertainment.
Airing tonight
Eli Stone (ABC, CTV, 10 p.m.) features singer George Michael again. Anyone who saw the first episode of this strange, part-whimsical and part-serious drama about a lawyer who has a brain aneurysm knows that Michael kick-started the series when he appeared to Eli (Jonny Lee Miller) in a vision. This time, he's no vision, he's real, and he wants Eli to handle the legal affairs of a teenage girl who was expelled from school. The series was launched during the writers strike and has not been a big hit but has developed a loyal following. That's because it deals with issues of faith, spirituality and outright weirdness. Check it out if you've never seen it.
Check local listings
J.D.
members can read movies review going back to 1977.
4
