Botoxing Marty could never be entertaining
THERE’S a common theme that pops up when actors and directors are promoting a film and it is one I have learned to look out for. If they say the shoot was fraught and no one was talking by the end of the process, there’s a very strong chance they just made a masterpiece. If, on the other hand, everyone agrees they had the time of their lives, especially in some exotic location, and laughed from the minute the camera first rolled to the time the director said ‘that’s a wrap’, then the movie probably is dreadful. I was reminded of this watching Marty And
Bernard’s Big Adventure, the first of a twopart documentary featuring Marty Morrissey and Bernard O’Shea doing, well, what, exactly, beyond enjoying a lads’ weekend in New York? The sports commentator and the comedian met on last year’s Dancing With The
Stars and became friends, and that alone appears to be the flimsy basis on which this mess was constructed.
The thesis was that they would examine what it’s like to be a modern man, and this was the first fundamental flaw, because the entire concept immediately was dated. Is it really a surprise that men moisturise, or that they have their eyebrows trimmed (if I didn’t, my face would look like the palm court in the National Botanic Garden, because those babies have a life of their own), or wear loafers without socks? These things might have been a novelty in 1985, but in 2019, they’re completely mainstream, especially for young people who by definition are more modern than two middle-aged men sounding old even beyond those years.
Now there are a few limits, and I admit I had a giggle at Dublin GAA star Bernard Brogan sharing the frankly startling news that, with a few friends, he is in a WhatsApp group dedicated solely to synchronising their visits to the barber.
Beyond that, though, there was little here to enjoy. Dressing Marty and Bernard up in outfits designed for leaner young men with cheekbones a sparrow could perch on, then making them strut their stuff like baffled extras on the set of
Zoolander (Marty pulled off Rusty Tin quite well, but it’s no Blue Steel, believe me) probably sounded hilarious on paper, but it landed on my telly with a very dull thud.
Ditto a segment with top New York cosmetic surgeon Dr David Shafer. He was telling Marty what to expect from Botox injections but spoke so slowly and with so little animation, the strong feeling was that he tripped earlier in the day and accidentally injected himself with Botox in the tongue.
Is watching a middle-aged man having toxins injected entertaining? It’s not a question I ever asked myself, but I can confirm with some confidence now that the answer is a resounding no.
As for a scene with the two boyos getting ready for another photo shoot, this time wearing white vests and skinny jeans, well, I’m not sure I’ll ever be the better of hearing two grown men discussing how to tuck in their bits to their satisfaction.
Last week, I was praising independent production company ShinAwil for its masterly production of Dancing With The Stars. As a spinoff of sorts, this was a misfire, dated and contrived. On the day the clocks went forward, it felt like television had gone back about 30 years.
Contrast that with the sheer beauty of Vitamin Sea, an elegiac documentary about people who take a daily dip in the ocean, no matter what time of year. I live very close to a beach and, in summer, I wander down there around 7.30 in the evening when the crowds have gone, often with a can of beer. I go for a dip and then I sit on a rock and just look and listen, with no other distractions, and it calms me like nothing else can.
That’s why I completely got the connection everyone here said they felt with the water (though not the year-round bit, because I’m very much May to September) and how it somehow rejuvenated them, because it does. Especially moving was the story of Mark Earley, who has used his daily swim with friends in Dublin’s Forty Foot as a form of therapy after the tragically premature death of his young wife, Leanne.
There was no intrusive narration, no gurning, no corny set-ups, just real people telling their own stories to produce a programme that frequently was poetic. The producer/ director Sally Boden delivered a quiet masterpiece, but credit also must go to those working the cameras – Kieran Slyne, Dave Perry, Alex Sapeinza, Barry Donnellan and Ronan Fox – because the images they produced were utterly sumptuous.
Finally, The Murder Of Jill Dando promised more than it delivered, reaching no conclusion at all about who really killed the popular BBC presenter on the doorstep of her London home in 1999.
There was a strong focus on Barry George, the London Irishman convicted of the crime on the flimsiest of evidence before being released after eight years in prison following a successful appeal. Usually, in such documentaries, relatives point to technicalities while hinting that the right man had been convicted, but what was remarkable here was that none of them believed George was responsible.
Instead, it was left to the chief investigating officer to insert that seed of doubt, a consequence, surely, of wounded pride that must gnaw away every day since. Someone out there knows who killed Jill Dando, but the rest of us likely never will.
Jill Dando
Programme reached no conclusion about who killed the presenter