SO, FINALLY it’s here — the raved-about disaster drama that plans to render us all agog and keep us watching in amazement deep into the autumn and beyond. Apparently, even those of us who aren’t specifically fans of the genre won’t be able to resist getting drawn into the narrative of another season with Newcastle United in the Premiership.
But how good, in fact, is this new series? How highly will we come to judge it? The advance word is that the show is destined to become appointment viewing and a water-cooler conversation topic across the nation. But how much of that is hype? Are Newcastle really fit to rank alongside The Sopranos, the early runs of ER or the first series of 24? Or are they just Eldorado with a bigger budget?
Time will tell, obviously. But certainly the pilot episode was something of a mixed bag. It included that memorable opening sequence in which the cast were left staggering about, bewildered, on a distant shore, having crashed out of the Intertoto Cup, and were trying to pick themselves up and reassemble their shattered nerves, while all the time being in danger of getting sucked into a still-spinning turbine (played with enormous commitment and possibly Bafta-winning verve by Graeme Souness).
Will they hold out long enough to be rescued and returned to civilisation, or will they turn all Lord of the Flies on us and end up fighting each other, like last season?
Either way, you can’t fault the production values. This is a show that oozes big-budget expenditure from every frame. It’s always tempting at these moments to beat up British television drama for lacking an equivalent drive and for seeming being relatively narrow in its scope and ambition. But we should remember that British television doesn’t have the kind of money to spend on creating drama that Newcastle do. After all, Newcastle are spending north of £40,000 per week per player on their production and you’d be disappointed not to see some pretty big special effects for that sort of outlay.
Big visual numbers apart, though, some of the character portrayals were excellent. Celestine Babayaro was hugely convincing as the man who stands around looking dazed. Alan Shearer, too, was formidable as the wise old hand who has seen it all before but still manages to be cross about it. I also enjoyed Emre Belözoglu’s depiction of someone who can’t quite believe where he has landed up. It was hard not to be haunted, as well, by the scenes in which Jermaine Jenas distractedly scanned the horizon for the first sight of a rescue party, or any kind of airlift option.
Meanwhile, the sight of dashing, young Scott Parker bravely ignoring his wounds to rush around applying tourniquets to other survivors was stirring to behold, even if it was a little heavy-handed in establishing what is clearly destined to be the main theme for the rest of the series, or for as long as Parker’s ankle holds up.
That said, it doesn’t matter how much you spend, or how good the acting is, if the writing isn’t strong. And in this area, for me, credulity was stretched when a party was dispatched into the wilderness to find and bring back Nicolas Anelka.
Now come on. Even in a situation in which everyone was dizzied and traumatised and hadn’t eaten for hours and was struggling to think straight, this would be almost comically unlikely. Where food is to be gathered and fires maintained, and where a society is to be built, in effect, from the ground up, Anelka is not famous for being your man. Yet we were asked to believe that a group of people trying to cleave together in terribly testing circumstances — and still, in this regard, quietly thanking their stars for the loss of Patrick Kluivert — would actively conspire to bring Anelka into the camp.
It would be like trying to quell a fire on an oilrig by hosing it with petrol — unless the plan was to split him up and make a raft out of him.
Some critics thought the business with Michael Owen was stretching it a bit, in the same way. (A large bonfire has been lit in the hope that a passing Owen will see it and come to the rescue.) Personally, I don’t have a problem with this particular plot device. Of course, it would be an outlandish coincidence if Owen just happened to be in the area with nothing better to do. But the best disaster dramas are built on outlandish coincidences and could barely exist without them. On this, I ’m with Souness, who has described Newcastle’s chances of signing Owen as “more than realistic” — or, in other words, hyper-real. You may not quite believe it in prospect, but it’s the kind of development these dramas go in for, so why not?
Put it another way: it’s going to take more than Owen pitching up in the next episode to make me stop watching. But then, I suppose, either you are entertained by this kind of thing, or you are not.
A word in your ear, Zinedine
ZINEDINE ZIDANE making himself available for selection for the France team again is most welcome — not least for the mystical circumstances surrounding the decision. Zidane revealed that he was persuaded out of international retirement by “a voice”, which spoke to him in the middle of the night.
Inevitably, in the absence of further enlightenment from the Real Madrid playmaker, intense speculation attaches to the question of whose voice it was. We await a consensus on this matter, which is still subject to investigation by experts in the paranormal. But, in the meantime, can I at least put forward my own hunch — that the voice Zidane heard was that of Raymond Domenech, the France coach?
Or, if it wasn’t him, what about Zidane’s agent? Both, presumably, know Zidane well enough to contact him at any time and both, I imagine, have the number of his mobile.
US team gain sax appeal
FEW surprises in the European team, announced this week, for the inaugural All Star Cup, a celebrity golf match modelled on the Ryder Cup and taking place at Celtic Manor over the August bank holiday. Sir Steve Redgrave, Jodie Kidd, Catherine Zeta-Jones . . . it’s all pretty much as one would expect.
The startling news was that Kenny G has got the nod for the Americans. An indelible presence in the world’s lifts, the curly-haired purveyor of jazz-lite saxophone instrumentals has yet to stamp himself with authority on a golf major. Yet he appears to have found favour ahead of Alice Cooper, the legendary chicken nibbler who plays off a handicap of five and was once described as “fiercely determined” by no less a golfing authority than Peter Alliss. Let’s hope the selectors know what they are doing.
