Oh dear, oh dear; so bad, so bad

Press, 4 May 1984, Page 11

Oh dear, oh dear; so bad, so bad

r Review 1

Ken Strongman

It is cloth cap time again, with jacket collars turned up against the driving snow. Howard Spring has sprung once more, and fame having been spurred last year, we are now being booted in the stereotypes with a television adaptation of “My son, my son." Oh dear, oh dear. As usual, in Howard Spring’s world, young men claw and scrape their way up and out of their ’umble origins. They burn, either with zeal and endeavour or with resentment and envy. In this case, the first episode has set the scene with all the lightness of touch of a tramp in the rain. The other seven episodes (that is 420 minutes) will centre on the sons, jOst born and having apparently already shaken hands at the age of three weeks. The first hour was a masterly interplay between a vast range of cliches and stereotypes. Class clashed

with gender and gender crossed swords with region. All was achieved with that tedious flashback technique that leaves one lost somewhere between now and then. Everything was bits and pieces of timeless, patternless vignettes and formless caricatures. Such visual richness and power of plot were reinforced by a largesse of language rarely heard on television. “Ah’ve never ’ad a fire in me bedroom all me life.” “Neither ’ave I.” “Ah’m tryin’ to write a booook.” “A proper booook. Eee, but that’s marvellous.” It might get better of course, but so far everything is wrong with “My son, my son.” The pace is a confused mixture of fits and starts and the story is as hackneyed as only Howard Spring could make it Above all, the acting is monochromatic. Out of context, the expressions on the actors’

faces could mean anything at all, and as it was, meant very little. Independently of the action, eyes widened and narrowed, brows furrowed and rose, lips pursed and puckered and cheeks puffed and hollowed. Even the nostrils had no flare.

The events were as predictable as gravity and as boringly down-to-earth. The real problem is that although “My son, my son” is awful it is not quite awful enough. If it were truly hopeless, then it would be laughable and could vie for the title of worst series of

the decade. Amusement, however, is the least likely reaction as one moves from one moronic platitude to the next All one can do is to bewail the passing of “The Barchester Chronicles” and hope that whatever comes next is better. It will be the end of June before a new series can possibly start An enormous gulf has been opened up in the middle of Sunday evenings on One, its edges crumbling under the combined efforts of “Bounder” and “Sunday.” What of the alternatives? Last week it was a film about a high school student troubled by bullies. This was followed by the vacuous “Sink or Swim” in which Peter Davison (Tristan; “Dr Who”) demonstrates that high-calibre actors sometimes make mistakes in what they agree to do.

‘On Line’ Finally, just to make the point that this review is not simply a verbal bilious attack at Sunday television, the day began quite well “On Line,” the new talkback programme at 11.30 a.m., could just be quite successful. It had a smooth and well-designed format and the producer had chosen well with the easy, articulate Bob Jones as its first guest Rodney Bryant in his new role is surely in his flying-by-the-seat-of-his-pants element although he did look a bit grim at times when he was surprised by the camera. He need not have worried. It went well ‘ enough for a first programme and was certainly far more interesting, worth while, etc., etc., than “My son, my son.”