Who’s got more talent . . . Simon Cowell or a dog speaking French?
SINGING dogs, flying roller skaters, choirs, gymnasts and dance troupes — all of them merit the ‘T’ word. Their performances shine with talent. What I’ve never been able to fathom is what Simon Cowell claims to do.
‘I run an empire,’ he told David Walliams haughtily. So, he’s a cinema manager? He might as well have announced he’s running the Gaumont and the Regal, too.
Britain’s Got Talent (ITV) returned with Cowell at the helm, as ever, for no discernible reason. Unlike his fellow judges Walliams, Alesha Dixon and Amanda Holden, he can’t sing or act. He’s not witty or entertaining, and he’s got the comic timing of a sea lion, blurting out his lines like he’s honking a horn.
It’s not as if he wields real showbusiness clout: half the acts he manages don’t so much fade away as evaporate like ice lollies in a microwave. Remember The X Factor winners Joe McElderry or Steve Brookstein? Neither does anyone else.
But for some reason the crowds and the contestants treat Cowell as if he’s Frank Sinatra and Brad Pitt rolled into one, even though he looks more like Ronnie Corbett with a chest wig.
BGT is a variety performance, but he takes the variety out of it. The show would be much better if it dispensed with judges altogether and concentrated on the acts, presented by Ant and Dec, with audience reaction shots.
We don’t need the judges and their buzzers sending contenders through to the next round or breaking their hearts. That talent contest classic, Opportunity Knocks, had a much better system in the Seventies: the louder the audience applauded, the higher the score.
This was long before sophisticated software or social media. All host Hughie Green needed was a wooden box with a microphone inside: he called it the clap-o-meter.
Previous series of BGT have kicked off with acts so grim they needed a groan- o-meter to measure their awfulness. But dreadful singers and deluded egos don’t make for Saturday night fun — the last series of The Voice proved that.
So BGT sensibly scheduled a spectacular opening sequence, with a brother and sister whirling round on roller skates like helicopter blades, and a female contortionist in a leopardskin leotard who appeared to turn herself inside-out.
A Gallic peach farmer called Marc brought his dog, Wendy, onstage: she looked like a ball of dandelion fluff and at first it appeared that she didn’t do much except cock her head cutely while Marc chatted to her . . . until the pooch started answering back.
This dog didn’t just talk — she spoke Spanish, French and German. And she duetted with her master on a rendition of the ballad Feelings. Either Marc is a brilliant ventriloquist or the previous BGT winner Pudsey wasn’t as clever as we all thought.
Some of the dialogue in Poldark (BBC1) wasn’t too smart either. The storylines aren’t complicated, but characters feel the need to spell them out to each other.
The Cap’n, knocking back brandy by the jug, was playing cards with the cad who ruined his cousin. Our hero had gambled away the contents of his wallet and was now betting his wife Demelza’s jewellery.
‘ Poldark’s losing badly, ’ muttered Banker Warleggan to his scoundrelly son. Thank you, Mr W, we couldn’t have puzzled that out on our own.
British TV execs are struggling to commission drama that competes with the best and subtlest U.S. series, such as Mad Men — the ones that keep us thinking long after the credits roll. One simple improvement would be to cut the laboured lines and let the action tell the story.
For veteran Poldark fans, the best moment came at an earlier card table scene.
Ross was baiting a local magistrate, sneering insults at him under his breath, until the older man leapt up and called him an ‘offensive young drunkard’.
That J. P. was played by Robin Ellis, the original Poldark. These days he is rarely on TV — he prefers cooking to acting, and publishes recipe books for diabetics.
How marvellous to see a man with two talents. Perhaps he could teach one of them to Simon Cowell.