I felt myself fluff up and nestle down happily like a hen on an addled egg for The Hunt (ITV). Absolutely no teeth are needed which, for a hen, is handy. We are in upper-crust country. In the local the yokels are making a book on how long it will take the squire to have his way with Amanda Holden. Not, the clever money says, very long.
Cream has been poured over this trifle with a lavish hand. The skies are enormous and opalescent. There is a lot of galloping along the skyline. The fox actually is quick and brown. The hounds pour out like spilled milk. Piers Haggard directs. There are some perfectly respectable actors involved. Sometimes you wonder how they can face themselves in the mirror but actors never seem to have any problem doing that.
So tally-ho, off we go! Sarah (Amanda Holden) and Rob (Philip Glenister) have moved from London to a country estate. If you wonder where they got the money, and I always do wonder, Rob promotes rock concerts. The cock of this particular walk is the Hon Hugh (Adrian Lukis): banker, bonker, and dashed good-looker. He looks lovely in hunting pink and even better in the buff. Hugh never can resist the thrill of the chase and zeroes in on Sarah, a rather snappy little blonde, pale as a peeled twig.
Which brings me to the sad fact that Amanda Holden is seriously undergunned for the part. Observe how she tries to inflame the Hon Hugh by twiddling her hair. She is not helped by the dialogue, which seems to be hacked out of hardboard. I particularly enjoyed Lady Diana's autocratic "Enough! I want to show Rob the escritoire!"
More next week, if you can stomach it.
The sad thing is that The Hunt is in direct competition with The Cops (BBC 2), the best thing on TV at the moment. You need a sweet tooth for The Hunt. You need teeth for The Cops. It is drama that looks and sounds like documentary. You never catch anyone acting. You can look away casually then turn back quickly, when they least expect it, and still not catch them at it. The camera noses here and there like an eager but confused dog. The dialogue sounds improvised. The story whizzes past your ear like a bullet. Nothing is explained, you have to work at it.
For instance, it started with Roy and Mel, whom we already know, which is just as well, arriving at some kerfuffle at the Caffreys'. "What's happening here then?" says Roy. "You can fuck off", is the instant rejoinder. The inspector arrives when things have calmed down a bit. He says, "What's happening here then?" You could hit him.
It is a small world. Cops and robbers are on first name terms. They have their own language. The law-abiding seem to live on a different planet. As the girl in the back of the police car said, staring out of the window, "The world looks different from in here."
The Cops is hardly a recruiting poster for the police, but truth and gallows humour come off it in great waves. It is quite wonderful and - stick with it - it gets better.
In The Human Face (BB C 1) John Cleese confessed, with more candour than common sense, to a couple of hair transplants. Really? Your eyes rose irresistibly. This week he was enthused by the theory that beauty is a matter of proportion: 1 to 1.618. This is the dullest discovery since America. Parkinson struggled to look interested. Cleese has the dazzling deafness of the true enthusiast. I've shared tables at all-night cafés with men like that.
It would, however, be a mistake to shake your watch crying, "Heavens, is that the time!", because suddenly Cleese will bring a haymaker up from the floor. Pierce Brosnan was complaining what a burden it was to be a thing of beauty. "It pisses me off when they say I'm pretty. I always wanted to be rugged. I thought I'd be a much more talented actor if I had a broken nose." "Would you", asked Cleese, "like me to punch you now?" And the great thing is, with Cleese, he just might.
Barry in EastEnders (BBC 1) is one of life's major losers. He has cloudy, grand ambitions and a supportive and brighter wife, Nat.
Barry: "I want to be someone."
Nat: "You are!"
Barry: "But I want to be someone else."
If that appeared anywhere but in a soap, it would make it into a book of quotations. Attributed to Carey Andrews. Carey, you never know nowadays do you, is a woman.
