I suspect viewers can be divided into three halves: those who say, “Did you
see Springwatch last night?”, those who say, “What’s Springwatch?”
and those who say, “No, switch on the little birdies and empty my bag.”
Springwatch continues to be one of the most surprising successes of
television. Surprising, because it’s so counterintuitive to every
ingredient that’s generally held to be necessary for a popular early evening
show. It’s not presented by a comedian or Alan Carr; it doesn’t have a
gameshow element; it doesn’t involve members of the public realising their
dreams or giving it 110%; nobody cries; there aren’t any surprise celebrity
guests; and quite a lot of stuff dies.
But Springwatch’s success isn’t really surprising at all. For the above
reason. It is blissfully free of the cant, cred and cliché that is the
youthish television of most formats. If by chance you haven’t seen
Springwatch, it’s a daily live-ish show on BBC2 that looks at fledging,
fighting, feeding and fornicating in bushes, hedges, dunes and sheds. This
time of year, it’s a sort of anthropomorphic CCTV presented by the
uncoolest, untrendiest, dorkiest presenters working in television anywhere
outside of Norway. There is a blonde milkmaid girl and a couple of bumpkin
swains, like a modern remake of Far from the Madding Crowd.
The programmes are made with a lot of old-fashioned, understated technical
skill that is remarkable for its craft, if not its panache. This in itself
is a joy when everything else on television is made by an amateur director
waving a video cam at about knee height. It’s not simply the enthusiasm,
which is always attractive, but the enthusiasm combined with real expertise.
And that’s as rare as great bustards on TV, because the fashion is for
amateur interlocutors who deal in empathy rather than fact. Then there is
the enormous pleasure of the subject: birds’ nests and stoats at night. It
is a TV assumption that what the audience wants by way of nature is exotic,
panoramic mega-fauna, but Springwatch has tapped into a growing sense of
mystical patriotism, a sort of Edwardian golden-ageism, a way of feeling
proud and connected to the nation without being tainted by politics or
social division. It is not about the commercial cynicism of pop music and
movies or the jingoism of the military abroad. It is about an older,
constant Britain that is quieter and more sustained; about a yearning that
has given us those terribly repetitive walks — round the coast, to islands,
up mountains or re-creating history — and now this simple, hyper-real,
virtual nature, and the simple and sad pleasure of sitting in a Suffolk wood
listening to the dawn chorus while you’re actually 15 floors up in a housing
estate in Birmingham or Wandsworth.
There is an associated sense that this may be our last chance to see and touch
a country that is vanishing, not only because of global warming and chemical
factory farming, but because it’s being buried under a tide of division and
anger, of restrictions and lies and self-seeking. Springwatch is just a
bird-table of a programme, of the sort that has been made on radio and TV
for 50 years. But, underneath, it touches something elegiac, something
profound.
Last week, for the first time ever, the English cricket team was booed at
Lord’s by an indigenous British Indian crowd, at the Twenty20 contest.
Because I’m a traditional self-loathing, intellectual, metropolitan elitist
and liberal socialist, I found the sight and sound contrarily uplifting. It
shows the breadth of diversity and malleable sophistication in our
definition of belonging. Of course, the less socially evolved among you may
well have found it deeply insulting and a symptom of some condition you feel
is a national malady, but I think is a national panacea. What I’m most happy
about, though, is that Norman Tebbit has lived long enough to hear it.
I hope everyone who started watching Occupation invested the time in
seeing it through to the end. Indeed, the timing of this drama about
soldiers in Iraq couldn’t have been more apposite, as last week we were
promised another secret, need-to-know, grudging investigation into the war.
This long tragedy (the one on television, not in Iraq) was a perfect
illustration of what the country really needs and wants. Not another dossier
of tiny vindications and lawyerish explanations, but a catharsis. Occupation
followed three soldiers through a tour in Basra and then examined the
different reasons each decided to return. It was well made, nicely shot in
Morocco and Northern Ireland; the pace of it kept up the pressure, without
being hectic or lethargic or getting in the way of the narrative. The cast
was better than good — it was as good as you’ll get on television. But I
couldn’t help noticing they were all a lot older than the sad casualty
photos that daily grin from the TV news.
What made this the best drama on television for a very long time was the
quality of the writing, the depth and the contradictions of character, the
complexity of the plot, the finely interwoven stories and the utterly
believable emotions and heartbreaking dilemmas. But what was best was that
it was a truth without being about the facts. It was a real drama, not a
docudrama. It didn’t have that smug little typed encomium telling us these
events were based on real events or informing us at the end what had
happened to the real people played by actors.
James Nesbitt, who has done more than his fair share of time impersonating
real people in factualised dramas, gave us by far and away his best-ever
performance on a small screen. He created a character of compelling human
strength and fallibility who was the instigator and the victim of a
relentless string of events that he carried with commitment, conviction and
a quality of true bravery. It is one of the few programmes we could point to
and say: “This is how good television drama can be, and this is the quality
of writing all script editors should be demanding.” It also begged the
question: would it be possible now to make a gung-ho prowar television drama
or movie? Until recently, the vast majority of films about war were about
heroism and patriotism and glory. Television newsreel has made all those old
tales of valour immoral propaganda.
I would like to know who’s paying for I’m Running Sainsbury’s.
If it is Sainsbury’s, I don’t mind. I think Channel 4 should be able to get
financing from wherever it can, and ultimately I only really care about the
quality of the show. But if this is one long infomercial, we should be told.
Well, actually, it is one long infomercial — we should be told if they are
getting it for free or paying full commercial rates. This is another of
those institutional day-in-the-life shows they make about airports and vets
and holiday reps. Television is particularly good at elevating the mundane;
it’s one of its nicest characteristics. You really can’t get more ordinary
than a supermarket, despite the voiceovers desperately trying to crank up
the drama and the plight of commerce in a recession. Supermarkets are doing
just fine — don’t lose any sleep over the Sainsbury’s bottom line.
What lifts this ever so slightly out of the familiar formula is the idea of
the little man fighting his way out of the humdrum to earn riches and
success. This is a classic story line of the Depression. There were dozens
of American films made in the 1930s that were just about this, the triumph
of good ideas and hard work. In Britain we tend to get them as comedies:
George Formby improbably getting the contract and the girl; Norman Wisdom
winning the milk round.
There was something very Norman Wisdom about this week’s episode. A keen and
lovable but laughable young manager was a classic little man. He lived with
his mum and dad, had problem skin and three fistfuls of gunk in his hair.
His big idea was to bring customer feedback kiosks to every Sainsbury’s, and
this idea, trusting the common sense of Everyman, is also very feelgood
1930s. The chairman of Sainsbury’s did a good job of reprising Mr Grimsdale,
with a lizard, smiley patronage. Of course he would agree to customer
relation tents, of course they’d be a success, of course our young man would
be promoted to head office.
Corporations know the importance of happy endings, the commercial gold in
appearing to be bested by the little guy from the tills. You think of all
the hideous publicity supermarkets get: this chap could’ve suggested
shoulder massages in the checkout queues and Bangkok ladyboys carrying your
bags to the car: they would’ve turned out to be a happy ending as well.
Springwatch (BBC2, Monday-Thursday)
Occupation (BBC1, Tuesday-Thursday)
I’m Running Sainsbury’s (Channel 4, Tuesday)
