(First published in The Dominion Post, November 30.)
IN HIS WILDEST imaginings, J
R R Tolkien could hardly have envisaged a world stranger than the real one.
The weirdness takes multiple
forms. Busloads of overseas tourists descend on a dairy farm near Matamata to
gasp in awe at a few holes in the ground; Tolkien obsessives from around the
world travel to Wellington so they can they dress up in Hobbit costumes and
hairy feet to attend a Hobbit party; and not least, star-struck reporters
abandon all semblance of journalistic detachment – not to mention all sense of
proportion – in their gushing coverage of the Hobbit premiere.
Somewhere along the line,
reality and fantasy have converged to such an extent that it’s hard to know
where one stops and the other begins.
Someone should have gently
explained to the awe-struck fans pressing in on actor Elijah Woods at Monday
night’s party that Woods isn’t really Frodo Baggins. He’s just an
unusual-looking bloke pretending to be Frodo Baggins. This point sometimes
seems lost on them.
Similarly, you have to wonder
whether the tragic tourists gawking at the Hobbiton film set realise that Bilbo
Baggins doesn’t actually live there.
It’s all harmless, and a handy
boost for a beleaguered economy, but mystifying to anyone not gripped by Hobbit
mania.
No doubt the experts can
explain the popular obsession with fantasy as evidenced by the popularity of
Tolkien, Harry Potter and the infantile comic strips that Hollywood has
inflated into big-screen epics.
One theory is that they fill
the belief void created by the decline of religion (something of an irony,
given that Tolkien was a devout Catholic). Another is that people are so
disenchanted with the real world that they seek refuge in an alternative
universe.
Whatever the explanation, you
have to hand it to Sir Peter Jackson and his associates. They have taken the
work of a bookish Oxford don and built it into a billion-dollar franchise – although
whether Tolkien would recognise his work, or feel comfortable with what has
been done to it, is another matter entirely.
* * *
THE MOST important two hours
on television are between 8am and 10am on Sunday mornings. That’s when TV3
screens The Nation and TV One follows
it up with Q&A.
No other programmes take the
time to illuminate important political and economic issues or expose
politicians to in-depth examination.
Sometimes the result is that
you find yourself forced to revise previously held views. A recent interview
with John Key on The Nation, for
example, may have come as a revelation to anyone who previously dismissed him
as a lightweight with limited command of policy detail.
On the other hand, existing
prejudices can be reinforced – as when David Cunliffe, ahead of his thinly
disguised play for the Labour Party leadership, came across on the same show as
smug and evasive.
A diminishing segment of the
population can remember when TV channels showed programmes like these in prime time.
There was no competitive pressure then; viewers watched because they didn’t
have dozens of other channels jostling for their attention with foodie porn,
talent quests and home renovation shows.
Virtually everyone in the
country saw the famous 1970 Gallery programme
in which Brian Edwards mediated in the resolution of a long-running Post Office
industrial dispute. Similarly, the exchange between prime minister Robert
Muldoon and the fearless young upstart Simon Walker on Tonight in 1976 (“You’re not going to set the rules, my friend”)
was a talking point for days.
We were probably a
better-informed democracy then. These days, serious current affairs attracts a
pitifully small audience. The ratings-driven networks have succeeded in their
long-term mission to turn viewers’ brains to mush. Most people probably don’t
even know the Sunday morning programmes exist.
Of the two, my preference is
TV3’s The Nation. It’s less flashy
and production-driven than Q+A, and all
the better for it. Presenter Rachel Smalley manages the unusual feat of being a
sharp interviewer while also looking elegant and cool.
The Nation
also benefits from its regular media panel consisting of the aforementioned
Edwards, who is nearly always witty and insightful, and Bill Ralston – although
I’m amused at how Ralston, an absolute bodgie in his heyday, has reinvented
himself as some sort of elder statesman of journalism.
* * *
IN MY last column I feigned
indignation at the ageing BBC correspondents reporting on television from world
trouble spots, and asked why the illustrious Beeb didn’t follow the example of
our own TV networks by employing attractive young women.
I had hoped it would be
obvious that I was writing tongue-in-cheek, but no – I have been condemned by some
readers as ageist and sexist.
My apologies to anyone whose
sensibilities were offended. Clearly such items should come with a warning that
they are not to be taken seriously.
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