CRITICS often complain that celebrity-fronted documentaries (Justin Lee Collins Brings Back the Guildford Four etc) are indicative of plummeting standards in television. They argue that a comedian, say, has no business presenting programmes about a
nything other than comedy, conveniently forgetting that Michael Palin is regarded as one of Britain's finest travelogue guides.
It's not even as if there are that many of them. Most documentaries are presented by enthusiastic academics or historians.
It's true that viewers are more likely to watch a programme about roof tiles if it's presented by someone they recognise, but what's the problem as long as the host is funny, engaging and engaged? Billy Connolly could present a history of the comma and still be entertaining and informative (probably).
Which is why, on paper at least, Paul Merton in India seems quite promising. Merton is a very funny, clever man, so the idea of him poking around the nether regions of Mother India should work a treat.
The fundamental problem, however, is that his producers have contrived an annoyingly artificial format whereby Merton is ushered into a series of unusual confrontations which he tends to regard merely with his trademark quizzical expression.
Take the opening sequence: Merton is plonked into the middle of an apparently uneventful city. No sooner had he complained about this to his translator, when suddenly he's besieged by some dancers dressed as monkeys.
Moments later, he's frowning at a group of transvestite dancers, before taking part in a Bhangra dance-off with the Bathinda police force (first prize: a fridge). Criticised for being overweight, this tough Sikh police squad had been ordered into daily Bhangra exercises, despite the fact that none of them could dance. They looked ridiculous in their lurid tracksuits, like a bunch of Kwik-Fit fitters dancing for their lives as someone opened fire around their feet.
Merton's encounter with the world's smallest body-builder was remarkable only in that Five devoted a documentary to "Romeo" Dev (height 2ft 9in) quite recently. It was only a matter of time before they ran out of physically challenged people to gawp over.
This otherwise shallow programme left the most interesting sequences until last. Disabled people from all over India travel to a free clinic to be fitted with the Jaipur Foot. This marvel of engineering costs just £20 to make, and patients can be fitted within the hour, like a prosthetic branch of Specsavers.
Merton closed with a fraught encounter with some hermaphrodites. Excluded from society, their days consist of aggressively extorting money from shop- owners. Threatening to place a curse on them – or worse, streak naked through their shop – they were an undeniably irritating bunch. And yet Merton's initially condescending attitude thawed with the realisation that these disenfranchised people have no other options.
More of this, and less of the self-conscious clowning, would've made for a far more interesting programme.
In Greatest Cities of the World with Griff Rhys Jones, the ubiquitous comedian penned a sentimental love letter to London. Attempting to explore the city in just 24 hours reduced the effort to a rapid series of pretty pictures and colourful statistics.
Unlike the slightly awkward Merton, however, at least Jones can comfortably engage with people. Decent host, but a disappointing format.
The full article contains 566 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
