This a Red or Black world. And I'm stuck in it.

If you're going to have a random show, make it a random show.

Chance is such a funny thing. Only the other day, I was politely written to by a potential employer and told that, while I had qualified to be shortlisted for a job, they'd picked the interviewees at random, and sadly I hadn't made the cut. My bingo ball hadn't come up. Such is life. This is the world of Red or Black?, the gameshow that everyone's talking about this week.

We're not really talking about it in a spectacularly good way, though. We're talking about it, saying "My god, I never knew television could be so bad." I had thought that, with Epic Win, the BBC had succeeded in doing the impossible - making an updated version of You Bet! that was even worse than the days of Brucie's sofa-chewingly execrable "don't fret, get set" rap, but no, this was worse.

This is everything about gameshows that vaguely involves skill, or knowledge, and boils it down to a binary choice: red or black, 0 or 1, on or off. "The show where luck, and luck alone, can win £1m," chirps Dec, as if it's something to be proud of. People cheer the lucky (or unlucky) wheel, which has its own, somewhat sinister, rococo leitmotif.

Luck, lucky, luck. That's all it is. It's not just me, surely, who finds something a little unsatisfying about that, something that verges on an insulting whiff of pointlessness.

When you're watching some gimp blunder through a gameshow's multiple choice with guesswork, at least you know there's something slightly better than total and utter blind chance deciding whether they're going to progress or not. They're making educated guesses. With Red or Black, you could just submit your guesses before the show. Red black red black black red. Save time.

It's easy, I suppose, to call a turkey a turkey. If it looks like a turkey, it's probably a turkey. And for the avoidance of doubt, I'd say this turkey is a turkey. Gobble gobble. But I'm more interested in the odd debate that sprung up this week about the morality - or otherwise - of letting a convicted criminal win a million pounds. The first winner was revealed to have been previously convicted of an assault, allegedly against a female victim, which led to a bit of red-top mock outrage about whether he should be allowed to have his cheque. That led to more background checks being done on contestants, and others being sifted out.

I suppose we want to believe, wrongly, in some kind of natural justice. We don't like stories like the one about 'lotto rapist' Iorworth Hoare and we want to think that only the deserving will be winners, or should be allowed to be winners. But an awful lot of undeserving people luck out all the time, every day, in every field. It might be unpalatable, but there it is. Luck doesn't morally censure.

Personally, I think if you're going to have a random show, make it a random show. Don't hone it down to a few contestants who are spotless enough not to have embarrassing things in their pasts; open it up, wider, to people who've really done wrong. Robbers, muggers, paedophiles, all sorts. Imagine one of them with a big beaming grin as their lucky numbers come up.

That's luck. It doesn't care who you are; it just rewards the lucky.

 

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
Getty
Show Hide image

Potato and Juliet: how Mark Rylance makes children like Shakespeare

A presenter who speaks freely but in the sort of sentences which can be used as powerful, off-the-cuff links throughout a programme is rare as a unicorn. 

How young can you learn Shakespeare? A rare repeat of a 1998 programme presented by Mark Rylance (27 April, 6.30am, rebroadcast 1.30pm and 8.30pm) asks the question. Not yet a superstar incapable of resisting a part in the new Christopher Nolan film, Rylance was then the artistic director of the Globe Theatre. Just an Abrahamic guy in a silly hat (most likely), sitting all mystical in a class of six-year-olds and asking things like what the word “Romeo” makes them think of.

“Potato,” someone decides. “Now, girls,” giggles Rylance, “would you fall in love with a boy called Potato?”

A presenter who speaks freely but in the sort of sentences that can then be cast into solid chunks and used as powerful, off-the-cuff links throughout a programme is rare as a unicorn. When Rylance talks about hoping that children recognise Shakespeare as a “playful friend, rather than someone they are going to meet on a forced march to an exam”, the unpreening lightness of his delivery suggests one, unscripted take. “He wrote for the ears,” the director went on. “It just sounds interesting. His words have body and form.”

I suppose the question is not so much how young you can teach Shakespeare, but how young you can teach any (great) poetry, because children instinctively take to it. For instance, a big-screen adaptation of T S Eliot’s Cats has been announced. In the fantasies of my friend James, this adaptation will feature Channing Tatum as Rum Tum Tugger and Lady Gaga singing “Memory”, and will be produced by the team behind The Incredibles. In short, a poem with children in mind while the adults sit there thinking: “What the f*** is this? There’s no plot at all!”

Instead, the upcoming Cats will be directed by the sombre Tom Hooper, doubtless brought in to “study” the text. Give me Rylance’s six-year-olds any day, imagining what things Henry V might have noticed the night before the Battle of Agincourt. “Wolves howling,” breathes one. “Bats flapping,” gulps another. Then finally – and this suggestion couldn’t be bettered – just before Henry steps out to claim “. . . I think the king is but a man, as I/am”, he possibly spots “a mouse rolling on his bed”. 

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

0800 7318496