It must be a sign of raging Philistinism, or at least a sign of having only managed my Grade II in piano, but I have never really understood the point of orchestras having conductors. I mean, they can all read music, right? Sir Simon Rattle makes for a picturesque figure, twitching around in front of the Berlin Philharmonic with his stick and his funny hair, but what function is he providing that a fluffy metronome could not?

Of course, I'm being contrary. But why is it that an orchestra is more than just a bunch of people playing together? And why is a conductor more than a monkey beating the time? It was these questions that Imagine... essentially set out to answer, and I'm not convinced that it managed it.

I had high hopes. You expect a lot of colour from an orchestra. A lot of madness. Rubbing egos, slamming doors, varied virtuosos being forced to exist as one. Send them on a trip around Asia, and you should be on to a winner; a Lost in La Mancha-style meltdown, or at the very least a spot of shagging. There was none of that. Just earnest interviews, the odd Chinese crowd scene and lots and lots of music. Very wonderful music, true enough. But still, this is telly. When you've got The Wire over on FX, you need a little bit more.

Too harsh, perhaps. There was certainly ego here, flapping around to a suitably blithe degree. You couldn't help raise an eyebrow as the various members of the orchestra confessed to their various childhood miseries: Sarah (horn) to her insecurity; Stanley (violin) to his desire to fit in; growing up Chinese in Australia; Albrecht (oboe) to his stammer.

At times, it almost seemed as though they were competing. “I was what you might describe as ‘odd',” said Thomas (violin), gravely. “Nobody ever asked me to join in,” wailed Wieland, on timpani. And yet, there was no sense of how all these wonderful characters rubbed up against each other over the tour. Indeed, none of them ever specifically mentioned each other. Nobody properly bitched. They just waffled on about how complex they were.

With so many of the musicians on probation - waiting to see if they would be accepted into the orchestra or not - the most unforgivable flaw was the complete lack of any sense of progression. One had a vague sense that Virginie wasn't going to cut it. At one point, Jelka seemed a bit upset that somebody had forgotten to book her a hotel room in Hong Kong. Perhaps the format was at fault. Every shot with more than one individual was holistic, impersonal. Participants appeared to have all been interviewed once, possibly at the end. The viewer did not, frankly, get a sense of being on the road in Asia with the Berlin Philharmonic at all. Asia had only the odd cameo, crossing roads in crowds, or tootling past in a rickshaw. Mainly, this fascinating continent of billions was playing second fiddle to a bunch of solipsists.

And still, nobody managed to tell us what the big deal was about an orchestra. They tried, but it all ended up as guff about “interconnectedness” and “fear of silence”. Except for in a very few cases, such as the baffled Virginie, or the highly-strung oboist Albrecht, there was none of the humility that edification requires. It became annoying, and it was only at the very end that you got a real sense of why. As they stepped out in front of a vast cheering crowd in Taiwan, you could see wet eyes and tears on faces.

“We are used to being semi-outcasts from our school days onwards,” Sir Simon said, breathlessly. “So that was very touching.”

That was it. They are wonderful at being musicians, but rather rubbish at being people. It was a good point, but badly made.

Over on BBC Three we had episode two of Summer Heights High. Reviewing the opening episode last week, my colleague Andrew Billen noted that we don't necessarily gain much from seeing Chris Lilley, the comic behind it, play all three main parts. This is a fair point, but it is undeniable that he plays them all very well. I think Jonah, the sullen Polynesian, is turning out to be my favourite. They are all ghastly, but only Jonah has flashes of heart.

Summer Heights High is not inoffensive, and I'm still waiting for a comedian to explain to me when or why laughing at “special” kids in “special” schools became such easy, light-hearted fun. At its best, though, the cruelty is well- targeted. This is a show that makes victims out of bullies, and you don't need to have ended up joining an orchestra to approve of that.

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