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Plagued by the terrible
vision of a four-eyed beast
Date: 09/07/2002
Words: 806
Publication:Sydney Morning Herald
Section: News And Features
Page: 18
Dean Felton can see clearly now the spectacles have come, but he still
thinks they make him look like the class nerd.
Forty! Can it really be? Quicker than you can say ``cholesterol", this fondly
imagined, lean, tanned gadfly with the dissolute would-be playboy lifestyle has
metamorphosed into pasty, pudgy, mid-life-crisis-ridden Family Man.
And the latest humiliation is that I require glasses.
Tired of months of ``encouragement" from The Love Of My Life, I cunningly
decided to obtain indisputable medical evidence of my visual acuity. The only
spectacles likely to appear in my life would be the regular, embarrassing ones,
usually of my own making.
So, doc, I'm really here because of my wife ... Aha! said the optometrist, was my
wife often critical of, say, my driving skills? Well, yes, but this line of questioning
was hardly likely to isolate only those men suffering visual impairment.
Did I often get headaches, were my eyes frequently sore, did I work in front of a
computer screen? I batted these queries away - no headaches, no soreness, and
I barely worked at all, regardless of the proximity of any damn computer screen.
Then, without warning, she turned nasty. I had not counted on her pulling shifty
tricks like asking me to read wall charts with little lines of illegible letters on them.
Fighting a rising sense of panic, I tried to bluff my way through the fine print, with
predictable results.
After a searching examination, the optometrist wrote what looked like copious
notes on what appeared to be a patient file card - but I couldn't be sure. Then
she put down her pen, looked at me sympathetically, and took a deep breath,
much in the manner of a health professional who is about to announce a
procedure that involves some form of amputation. ``Well, I'm afraid you need
glasses," she said.
I don't remember much about the next few minutes.
I thought back to primary school, to peers with Coke-bottle lenses who suffered
the vicious playground cries of ``four eyes!", to the poor unfortunates who
turned up in first year with ridiculously outsized frames on their tiny noses, to the
tough, older kids rendered impotent overnight simply by the addition of
spectacles, to the terminally nerdish library monitor types with the obligatory
broken frame wing taped up, usually with a Band-Aid, and to the chronic
amblyopia sufferers who scored the unwanted double of glasses AND eye patch.
They were the lucky ones. Their humiliation was now at least 30 years behind
them. Mine was just about to begin.
The optometrist seemed to mouth words in slow motion, some of which were
``astigmatism", ``macular degeneration" and ``danger to other road users".
She led me, trembling, to a wall covered with hundreds of frames. Having single-
handedly ruined my week, she tried to redeem herself by suggesting a few
choices. She began by offering a pair with low, rectangular lenses and bold, thick,
dark frames -- very trendy. ``I dunno, what do you think?" I asked her.
``Well, they make a statement," she replied. Yes, they certainly do, and the
statement is ``hey, look at the total dork".
I tried on nearly every pair in the shop, rejecting as absolutely unsuitable only
those which put me immediately in mind of Dame Edna, or the insect-housewives
in Gary Larson cartoons. Square, oval, round, black, blue, horn-rimmed - it didn't
matter, they all made me look like Fearless Fly.
``What about contact lenses? Are they an option?" I asked.
I remembered an ex-girlfriend whose eyes I thought were the deepest, most
beautiful shade of emerald I'd ever seen.
Our relationship blossomed until the day she removed her tinted contacts and I
found myself gazing into a pair of unremarkable olive-drab irises almost as
shallow as I was.
``Try the glasses for a while, then we'll see about contacts," suggested the
optometrist.
This wasn't working at all. I glanced down at the bill which the receptionist had
unobtrusively slid in front of me. The print swam crazily in front of my eyes, and
the dollar figure looked to be an impossible $484. I took the glasses off, polished
the lenses, rubbed my eyes and looked again at the price.
Damn!
Back at work, my day failed to improve. Workmates either stifled explosive
laughter or studiously avoided eye contact. One girl actually seized the tea urn
and began furiously scrubbing it.
This was all some months ago now. I'm still not happy about wearing glasses.
And I simply refuse to respond to that reminder card from my dentist.
- Dean Felton
====================================================
Election Night Coverage - Seven Network
Reviewed by Dean Felton
Published on Crikey.com.au
Seven’s brave and ultimately clever decision to inject some entertainment value
into the traditionally stodgy election night telecast was always going to be a
difficult balancing act – trying to combine the irreverent satire of Roy & HG with
the gravitas of national political reportage by Glenn Milne and Chris Bath.
In the event, “The Nation Dumps” worked surprisingly well. One key may have
been that all egos seem to have been checked at the door.
Highlight of the night was undoubtedly Roy’s 10pm launch of the Seven dirigible –
a helium filled 1.5 metre toy airship which was sent sailing across the tally room
in the direction of rival broadcasters. Sure enough, a quick channel change
revealed the dirigible floating ominously behind Kerry O’Brien’s oblivious head to
the accompaniment of uproarious and unexplained tally room laughter which
appeared to leave ABC electoral analyst Antony Green quite rattled.
The dirigible lasted just ten minutes before a roving sound recordist used the
sharp end of a microphone boom pole to deliver a Hindenburg-style end to the
venture.
Other dirigibles spotted in the tally room during the election telecast included
Nine’s Sphere of Influence, Laurie Oakes, and Amanda Vanstone.
The latter spent much of the evening on HG & Roy’s panel, and distinguished
herself with a completely brainless defence of Peter Reith’s role in the Telecard
Affair, which basically revolved around what a good bloke Reithy was to actually
repay the 50 large, considering the fraud hadn’t been brought to his attention for
five years. Incredible.
Speaking of Reithy, his impending retirement afforded him a carefree aura and
the latitude to gleefully needle less fortunate former colleagues from the other
side of politics. His contribution was hard not to enjoy. His playful demeanour
was tested only twice – first, as the Coalition surged toward victory, when
someone asked him whether his decision to get out of politics was now looking,
in hindsight, a little hasty; then second when his Seven panel colleague Lindsay
Tanner raised the spectre of the asylum seekers, hissing, “Tell us about the
video!”
The overall quality of the Seven telecast was patchy. Play-ons from commercial
breaks comprised the pollies’ most embarrassing and inept televisual moments of
the campaign. This was good. The tally room content was broken up with short,
pre-recorded (and poorly edited) studio interviews conducted by 7’s Sydney
sports poppet Kylie Gillies. These were not good. They were meant to be
amusing but turned out to be irrelevant, puzzling, and embarrassing – comedy
spots devised by a writer devoid of humour.
When it came to graphics, Seven’s were less fancy, but far more comprehensible
than Nine’s. Nine’s stats screens were way too busy, changed too quickly, and
their numerical tally of “Seats Won” rose, then dropped, then rose again –
appearing to indicate that seats were won, then lost, then won again in the
space of minutes.
HG & Roy’s examination of individual seats included a “Bludger Rating”, calculated
according to the perceived industriousness of the incumbent. And their “State Of
The House” analysis was instead dubbed “Bums On Seats.”
Other highlights:
- HG’s claim that the Tasmanian seat of Bass was “named after the bloody big
fish that lurks down there.”
- The bizarre live crosses to Mad Bob Katter and Cheryl Kernot, both of whom
appeared to be delirious, but for different reasons.
- Roy’s description of the Nationals’ loss of Tim Fischer’s former seat of Farrer to
the Libs as “a boot to the date of John Anderson.”
- Beazley’s concession – the best, most statesmanlike political speech I’ve heard
in years
- Howard’s victory speech: fine, if somewhat familiar by now – but we could
have done without the revolting Lady Hyacinth grinning like a split watermelon at
his elbow
- Glenn Milne’s greying thatch, and spectacles, perched on the end of his nose,
which combined to give him the appearance of a schoolmasterly Pepe Le Pew.
- The total absence, as far as I’m aware, of Pauline Hanson
- Roy’s early prediction of Labor by 27 seats
- North Qld MP De-Anne Kelly’s criticism of “political elites” from “down south” –
and HG’s endorsement of her comments: “Those ELITES! They’re writing letters
to newspapers, they’re speaking out of turn… Anyone with a high school
education should be weeded out and SHOT! They’re BAGGAGE!”
The telecast overall: 7 out of 10.
====================================================
Letter to the Editor/TV Review:
McLeod's Daughters
Published in The Age Green Guide
Author: Dean Felton
The sound you hear rending the quiet country air is that of the eponymous
McLeod turning in his grave, aghast at his daughters’ collective lack of talent.
Where does the frustrated viewer begin – with its join-the-dots scripting, its
matinee melodrama acting, its penny-dreadful plots, its weak humour, its
cardboard cutout characters and the corresponding absence of any remotely
likeable ones, its wildly inappropriate incidental music, its adolescent peep show-
style flashes of sexuality, its often-bizarre lighting, or its edgy stop-frame editing
effects that have no place in drama.
Talented performers like John Jarratt and Sonia Todd must have had pressing
debts indeed to become entangled in such tripe.
I read where the Nine Network purchased the property where the series is
filmed, thereby giving local relevance to the American expression “buying the
farm.” But such is the depth of its investment, Nine will probably make the show
work in spite of itself.
=========================================================
Night Out:
Daryl Braithwaite Show & Dinner, Nepean Hotel
Reviewer: Dean Felton
The menu prepared for the Daryl Braithwaite dinner-&-show package at the
Nepean Hotel last Saturday night flagged that the venue would be hosting more
such events in coming months.
But it’s unlikely we’ll be among the patrons. Sorry.
The potential for a truly great night out was sapped by sloppy delivery, mainly in
the food and beverage area. Despite booking for 7.30pm, we, like others we
spoke to, were asked to wait nearly 20 minutes before being seated at a table,
which – again, like many others – had been vacant throughout.
The crowd size seemed no more than average, especially for a Saturday night,
but the clear impression was that the wait, bar and kitchen staff simply were not
up to the task. Our first drinks came 10 minutes after ordering (and re-ordering)
them. Entrée, 30 minutes. Main course? An hour.
The food, when it arrived, was uniformly very good, if a little cool. Salt & pepper
calamari expertly cooked and prepared with style, followed by a delightful dish of
rockling topped with chunky mango chutney on a bed of coconut-washed rice. My
dining companion enjoyed a traditional Italian involtini, vegetables and cheese
wrapped delicately inside a thinly sliced steak roll, tender and cooked rare,
accompanied by thick sliced kipfler potatoes. All worth waiting for - just not for
that long.
My partner’s dessert almost redeemed the night, a light-as-air sticky date
pudding varnished with smooth toffee sauce. My mini pavlova, topped with
mango (is there a glut?) was otherwise pleasant, but the packet-prepared shell
suffered from a near-impenetrable chewiness and a resistance to cutlery that
culminated in explosive, crumby volatility when at last it yielded.
The wine list is extensive, as you might expect in a hotel, with a reasonable
range of decent reds, whites, & bubbles available by the glass.
The large dining room itself has potential, but is spartan and badly needs more
warmth in the décor. A dining companion marvelled that the passing highway
traffic was inaudible inside - but then, so was the conversation on our side of the
glass. Bare timber floors, a highish ceiling and a lack of sound absorbent material
create a din that devalues the overall experience.
On with the show. A fascinating mix of ageing boomers, and a sprinkling of the
raging barfer set, to whom the word Sherbet implies a child’s sweet and nothing
more. A support act endowed with more enthusiasm than actual talent warmed
up the crowd with a series of near-identical self-penned ditties.
Daryl, when he sauntered on stage about 10.45pm, ran through a few new
songs (CDs and t-shirts available from the table near the door) followed by the
more familiar tunes most had come to hear, some covers, and even a brief
Sherbet flashback. His awkward stage patter aside, Braithwaite’s vocals are as
pure as ever, soaring the upper registers with ease, although this night it was
frequently overpowered by a troublesome audio mix which was never
satisfactorily resolved, despite frequent entreaties from the performers.
Overall the concert was enjoyable enough, but I couldn’t shake the impression of
a former superstar who, having performed at his best to auditorium audiences in
the 70s & 80s, was now prepared to turn in a middling, bordering on lazy, set in
a suburban beer barn. Perhaps like many of his fans of years ago, Daryl’s
performances have grown a little soft and flabby.
=========================================================
TV Review:
CSI: Las Vegas - Crime Scene Investigation
Published on BlogCritics.org - September 1, 2005
Author: Dean Felton
What is it with CSI?
Given the seemingly endless global proliferation of the franchise, no doubt the
good citizens of rural Victoria are preparing for the cameras to roll on CSI:
Yackandandah - but it is the origin of the species that I speak of here. CSI: Las
Vegas.
I'm sorry. I simply cannot watch it any more.
The acting is amateur-standard and overblown, the scripts cliched and
melodramatic, the plotlines frequently ridiculous, and - most infuriatingly of all -
the series relies for its impact not, on traditional dramatic elements such as plot
or characterisation, but on a liberal display of gore to which the counterpoint is a
prevailing attitude of world-weariness from the principal players. This mass
disembowellment of a middle class family in their own home sure is shocking, but
hey, I'm with the Las Vegas CSI team, and I'm far too experienced, and, hey, let's
face it, too cool, to be shocked by any of this.
Splashing the screen with blood and bodies is the bluntest of blunt instruments
with which to bludgeon an undemanding audience.
CSI's other tried'n'true technique is a regular-as-clockwork weekly piece of
technical whizbangery in which the viewer is televisually thrust through a victim
or killer's arteries, intestines, brain, or alimentary canal to disclose the scientific
detail behind the CSI team's breakthroughs. It's Hollywood special effects at its
small-screen best, but, for all its dazzlement, it can't blind us to the shortcomings
of the rest of the show.
We are meant to believe that police forensic scientists routinely pack weapons
and interrogate suspects. The reality is that the people CSI glorifies are more
often nerdy, bespectacled scientists who provide technical information to real
police, who do the actual crimefighting.
But that would make CSI just another cop show.
Can anyone take Gus Grissom seriously? This pasty lardarse struts around in
shades, quoting classical literature and dropping what the scriptwriters evidently
consider to be heavily ironic remarks about morality and the woeful state of the
world in general. He is the sort of person you would duck into a broom closet to
avoid, if you saw him in the corridor at work.
His supporting cast includes three females, two young and one old, both of whom
are readily interchangeable. They are evidently modelled on Sgt Pepper
Anderson, circa 1973, from Policewoman - but they lack her depth of character.
Then there are the men - one black, one white, both painful. All the team
members are unarguably good guys without any personality flaws. Oh, the black
cop had a gambling problem once, but that's pretty much it.
Backing up this sorry assortment is - and here's a surprise - the veteran
hardnosed cop. Bad haircut, unfashionable clothes, etc. You know the drill.
Yet CSI is a global phenomenon, which has spawned a clutch of identical shows
differing only in location. There is endless potential to clone the program. Its
popularity is unquestionable. But I'm happy to mark myself out in this case as
different from the tens of millions of fans who love the show. However faint your
voice in the wilderness, sometimes you just have to take a stand against
mediocrity. Or, in this case, against trash.
=========================================================
TV Review:
Strictly Dancing: Extremely Annoying
Strictly Dancing, ABC TV
Reviewer: Dean Felton
Published: August 29, 2005
Ballroom dancing has experienced an upsurge in popularity since the Australian
film Strictly Ballroom was released in the 90s.
The ABC has jumped on the bandwagon with a commendable show thoughtfully
entitled Strictly Dancing. OK, 1 out of 10 for originality. What do you expect for
eight cents a day?
Anyway, the program showcases a succession of eager young couples looking for
their big ballroom dancing break. They're put to the test with a series of
searching dance assignments, qualified dance judges rating them on their
technique. At the climax of each episode, their scores may be boosted or toppled
by a mysterious, apparently indefinable showbiz commodity entitled 'the X-
factor'. The ABC's originality comes into play again.
In general, the standard of the dancers' performances is very high. What a
shame the same can't be said for the standard of commentary.
Paul McDermott does an adequate, if slightly forced turn as compere. In the
interests of raising a chuckle, he is unafraid to put himself in situations that
would humiliate a more precious host. McDermott ploughs on unabashed. His
weakness, betrayed by his uncertain delivery, is in his interviewing technique.
The moment he begins asking post-tango questions of the night's winning
couple, you feel he wishes he hadn't. Thankfully, the interlude, like a bad prawn,
usually passes quickly but unpleasantly.
These flat spots can be cheerfully ignored in the interests of watching the
considerable talent on display.
What can't be overlooked, however, is the endless, asinine carping of two
unseen commentators whose role it is, apparently, to distract viewers from the
actual dancing so that we can all more fully appreciate the sparkling personalities
of these disembodied voices.
What they should be doing, of course, is helping to enlighten those viewers who
aren't conversant with the finer points of ballroom dancing. What they are doing,
of course, is enlarging their own already bloated egos without adding one jot to
the enjoyment of the event.
The ABC publicists would say they are there to provide a counterpoint to the
serious business of dance and competition, to ensure the program benefits from
both light and shade.
Of course, they are not.
They simply cannot wait for the music to begin so that they can open the
floodgates for their stream of mindless, ill-considered babble. The female voice,
Angela Gilltrap, used to confine herself to technical appraisals of the dancers'
techniques, a task for which she is admirably qualified. But of late she has begun
to assume the irritating habits of her male counterpart, Lex Marinos.
Lex's acting career reached its zenith several decades ago, in a minor role as the
son-in-law of Ted Bullpitt on Kingswood Country. Since then, he has moved
through theatre, film, TV and radio, achieving some plaudits as a director. Good
on him. In his lengthy online biography, he lists his current occupation as 'events
coordinator' for the Wagga Wagga City Council. But nowhere does it boast that
Lex enjoys any qualifications in dance.
In which case, might it not be advisable for him to shut the hell up and allow us
to enjoy someone who does?
If Lex's asides and interjections were amusing, and believe me when I say they
are not, he might be tolerable. In any case, one might reasonably assume that
viewers specifically seeking light relief might not make a dance program their first
port of call.
Marinos is snide, patronising, and, most unforgivably, unfunny. He fails in his
primary task, that is, to make us laugh. In the context of the program, he is
inappropriate and superfluous.
His criticisms give every indication that they have been recorded and dubbed
over the dance footage after the judging has been completed. This, of course,
allows him to tailor his comments accordingly - praise for the winners, smartarse
denigration of the rest. If this is, as it appears, what happens, it is cowardly and
unfair.
Take your ego and your attempts at drollery, Lex, and stop polluting what is
otherwise an admirable show. Wagga beckons.
=========================================================
TV Review:
Time to Kick Sam Off The Footy Show
The Footy Show (Nine Network)
Reviewer: Dean Felton
Published: August 26, 2005
While the NRL version of The Footy Show continues to record its lowest audience
figures yet, especially in Brisbane, the Melbourne-based AFL variety shows little
sign of imminent death.
But its glory days are far behind it, in terms of viewers and program quality.
The decline - ironically - can be traced to about the time the Nine Network, in
concert with Ten and Foxtel, acquired the rights to telecast AFL matches. Before
this, the producers and on-air talent had to come up with at least 90 minutes
(usually more) of television, without the benefit of owning any of the footage of
the actual games on which they were commenting.
That hurdle was removed some years ago, which, you might think, would improve
the content of the show. But, oddly I think, the show continues to make little use
of on-field footage, preferring its traditional format of panel chat, variety, and,
where possible, comedy.
Which brings me, inevitably, to Sam Newman.
If not for the fame and riches that his TV persona has delivered him, one might
feel sorry for Sam. Essentially he is a vain man in his late 50s, who has been
unable to sustain a permanent relationship, lives apart from his children, and
whose personal life lurches from crisis to crisis regularly.
His job on The Footy Show means striving to re-create each week an episode of
the confected enfant terrible behaviour which brought him to public notice
originally.
Trouble is, Sam's a one-trick pony, and the trick wasn't that good to begin with.
Sam's trick, such as it is, is to shock. The shock might come via a calculated insult
to a studio guest, or vaudevillian antics on set, but the effect is the same. Last
night he set out to nourish his notoriety by trying to upset a decorated footballer
who had announced his retirement from the game. Each question was predicated
on the assumption that the player had underachieved, and was intended to goad
him into an angry response.
It didn't work, thankfully, so Sam was reduced to jostling for the camera's
attention with his favourite playmate, Hawthorn's former captain Shane
Crawford. Crawford fairly burns with the desire to be a star of the screen, but
lacks the talent required. Someone should counsel him to stop making a fool of
himself so publicly and so regularly. There's still time for him to salvage some
dignity.
Sam, meanwhile, challenged Crawford to punch him in the stomach, whch
Crawford duly did. Sam fell over backwards. Ho, ho. That Sam! He's just
incorrigible!
Unfortunately, Sam's ability to make people laugh seems to be evaporating. Too
often now, when Sam jibes, there are gaping, puzzled silences, where there
used to be uproarious audience reaction. His comments, always striving to outdo
their predecessors for negativity, are increasingly arcane.
Eddie McGuire, the most sure-footed and confident MC since Bert Newton,
frequently looks unsure whether to intervene, reprove, or - most frequently
these days - say something amusing to break the uncomfortable hiatus.
Exit the stage, Sam. Please. There are few things sadder than a once-great
footballer who doesn't realise his time has passed - a maxim that applies off the
field as well as on.
=========================================================
TV Review:
A Sad State of (Current) Affairs
A Current Affair/Today Tonight (Nine & Seven Networks)
Reviewer: Dean Felton
Published: August 25, 2005
I used to work in Australia's TV news and current affairs industry.
At various times over the course of 20 years, I was a reporter, producer,
documentary maker, chief-of-staff, and studio presenter. It's now more than five
years since I changed careers, and in some respects, I can scarcely recognise
some of the shows that I used to work on.
What is now called 'current affairs' - A Current Affair, say, or Today Tonight - is a
sad shadow of what it used to be. The frightening thing is, taking the shows'
content WAAAAAY downmarket appears to have paid off for the TV networks.
In the 70s and 80s, even the early 90s, current affairs shows tried to examine
the issues of the day in some meaningful manner. They'd follow up in a bit of
depth the necessarily superficial treatment given to stories on the evening's
news bulletins, which had to summarise the most significant events from around
the world in just 30 minutes, less commercials and the weather forecast.
Now? A predictable, revolving parade of miracle diets, cures for illness,
neighbourhood tiffs and a few other reliable favourites. There are the "consumer
investigations" which typically consist of a product comparison survey conducted
by a dedicated consumer magazine, the result of which can be easily recycled for
television. This could involve anything from plastic food wrap to toothbrushes to
washing powder - usually domestic items, the less important and relevant to the
important issues of real life, the better. Is knowing the precise, minute
differences in saturated fat levels contained in respective brands of frozen potato
chips really going to make a difference to people's health?
The magazine hands over its survey results - often a day or so in advance of the
magazine's publication, to boost sales - in return for five minutes or so of national
TV exposure. The TV program gets its story without having to expend too much
time, creative energy, or money. Win-win. Though maybe not for the discerning
viewer who wants to see something original and meaningful.
Worse still is the recent trend towards 'spoiler' stories. Program A airs a promo
inviting viewers to tune in for a story on the show later in the week - say, on
Thursday night. But Program B, on the rival network, sees the promo, hurriedly
slaps together its own story on the same topic, and airs it on Wednesday night -
thereby 'spoiling' the audience numbers for the opposition.
That's the theory, anyway.
Where are these people who comparison-watch both current affairs shows, on
both networks, simultaneously? The fear of them was a dreaded presence when
I worked in newsrooms - the news director's greatest terror was that the other
channel might have a story that we hadn't. It wasn't professional pride, it was
the belief that the mere appearance of a given story on the opposition bulletin
might somehow persuade tens of thousands of 'our' viewers to abandon Us in
favour of Them.
No one was ever able to explain to me how someone watching our news would
ever know that the other station had a story we didn't, or that we didn't have a
story that they did.
But the theory regularly caused last-minute re-ordering of the evening's bulletin
rundown to accommodate a matching story hastily-assembled from file footage,
or overseas video feeds, and wire copy.
But back to current affairs.
Poor Ray Martin. Night after night he sits there, uncomfortable, awkwardly
imploring his audience to treat seriously a story he is clearly embarrassed to
have to introduce.
The groundbreaking, thoughtful reports he filed for Sixty Minutes in the early
days are a long time ago now. You can steal glimpses of them occasionally, when
he disappears from the screen for a few days 'on assignment', then returns to
introduce his own story a few nights later. But the subject matter usually is
unworthy of the skilful treatment he's capable of giving it, and the lavish post-
production his relaxed schedule allows.
No such angst for his Seven Network counterpart, Naomi Robson. Unlike Ray,
Naomi is not troubled by having a glorious journalistic history to compare
unfavourably against the pap she now fronts each night.
Her hair ironed flat, and her once sharply attractive face now valiantly resisting
the onset of middle age, Naomi intros each story with the shrill, righteous
indignation of the morally unimpeachable, notwithstanding her recent torrent of
recorded profanity, which is still doing the office email rounds.
Naomi is living proof of the TV maxim that suggests that regardless of actual
journalistic talent or experience, if you are attractive enough, and you hang
around a TV station long enough, that eventually you will prosper. With
Melbourne's edition of TT now networked to Sydney and Brisbane, and gaining on
or overtaking the former market leader ACA, she is the apotheosis of this theory.
=========================================================
=
vision of a four-eyed beast
Date: 09/07/2002
Words: 806
Publication:Sydney Morning Herald
Section: News And Features
Page: 18
Dean Felton can see clearly now the spectacles have come, but he still
thinks they make him look like the class nerd.
Forty! Can it really be? Quicker than you can say ``cholesterol", this fondly
imagined, lean, tanned gadfly with the dissolute would-be playboy lifestyle has
metamorphosed into pasty, pudgy, mid-life-crisis-ridden Family Man.
And the latest humiliation is that I require glasses.
Tired of months of ``encouragement" from The Love Of My Life, I cunningly
decided to obtain indisputable medical evidence of my visual acuity. The only
spectacles likely to appear in my life would be the regular, embarrassing ones,
usually of my own making.
So, doc, I'm really here because of my wife ... Aha! said the optometrist, was my
wife often critical of, say, my driving skills? Well, yes, but this line of questioning
was hardly likely to isolate only those men suffering visual impairment.
Did I often get headaches, were my eyes frequently sore, did I work in front of a
computer screen? I batted these queries away - no headaches, no soreness, and
I barely worked at all, regardless of the proximity of any damn computer screen.
Then, without warning, she turned nasty. I had not counted on her pulling shifty
tricks like asking me to read wall charts with little lines of illegible letters on them.
Fighting a rising sense of panic, I tried to bluff my way through the fine print, with
predictable results.
After a searching examination, the optometrist wrote what looked like copious
notes on what appeared to be a patient file card - but I couldn't be sure. Then
she put down her pen, looked at me sympathetically, and took a deep breath,
much in the manner of a health professional who is about to announce a
procedure that involves some form of amputation. ``Well, I'm afraid you need
glasses," she said.
I don't remember much about the next few minutes.
I thought back to primary school, to peers with Coke-bottle lenses who suffered
the vicious playground cries of ``four eyes!", to the poor unfortunates who
turned up in first year with ridiculously outsized frames on their tiny noses, to the
tough, older kids rendered impotent overnight simply by the addition of
spectacles, to the terminally nerdish library monitor types with the obligatory
broken frame wing taped up, usually with a Band-Aid, and to the chronic
amblyopia sufferers who scored the unwanted double of glasses AND eye patch.
They were the lucky ones. Their humiliation was now at least 30 years behind
them. Mine was just about to begin.
The optometrist seemed to mouth words in slow motion, some of which were
``astigmatism", ``macular degeneration" and ``danger to other road users".
She led me, trembling, to a wall covered with hundreds of frames. Having single-
handedly ruined my week, she tried to redeem herself by suggesting a few
choices. She began by offering a pair with low, rectangular lenses and bold, thick,
dark frames -- very trendy. ``I dunno, what do you think?" I asked her.
``Well, they make a statement," she replied. Yes, they certainly do, and the
statement is ``hey, look at the total dork".
I tried on nearly every pair in the shop, rejecting as absolutely unsuitable only
those which put me immediately in mind of Dame Edna, or the insect-housewives
in Gary Larson cartoons. Square, oval, round, black, blue, horn-rimmed - it didn't
matter, they all made me look like Fearless Fly.
``What about contact lenses? Are they an option?" I asked.
I remembered an ex-girlfriend whose eyes I thought were the deepest, most
beautiful shade of emerald I'd ever seen.
Our relationship blossomed until the day she removed her tinted contacts and I
found myself gazing into a pair of unremarkable olive-drab irises almost as
shallow as I was.
``Try the glasses for a while, then we'll see about contacts," suggested the
optometrist.
This wasn't working at all. I glanced down at the bill which the receptionist had
unobtrusively slid in front of me. The print swam crazily in front of my eyes, and
the dollar figure looked to be an impossible $484. I took the glasses off, polished
the lenses, rubbed my eyes and looked again at the price.
Damn!
Back at work, my day failed to improve. Workmates either stifled explosive
laughter or studiously avoided eye contact. One girl actually seized the tea urn
and began furiously scrubbing it.
This was all some months ago now. I'm still not happy about wearing glasses.
And I simply refuse to respond to that reminder card from my dentist.
- Dean Felton
====================================================
Election Night Coverage - Seven Network
Reviewed by Dean Felton
Published on Crikey.com.au
Seven’s brave and ultimately clever decision to inject some entertainment value
into the traditionally stodgy election night telecast was always going to be a
difficult balancing act – trying to combine the irreverent satire of Roy & HG with
the gravitas of national political reportage by Glenn Milne and Chris Bath.
In the event, “The Nation Dumps” worked surprisingly well. One key may have
been that all egos seem to have been checked at the door.
Highlight of the night was undoubtedly Roy’s 10pm launch of the Seven dirigible –
a helium filled 1.5 metre toy airship which was sent sailing across the tally room
in the direction of rival broadcasters. Sure enough, a quick channel change
revealed the dirigible floating ominously behind Kerry O’Brien’s oblivious head to
the accompaniment of uproarious and unexplained tally room laughter which
appeared to leave ABC electoral analyst Antony Green quite rattled.
The dirigible lasted just ten minutes before a roving sound recordist used the
sharp end of a microphone boom pole to deliver a Hindenburg-style end to the
venture.
Other dirigibles spotted in the tally room during the election telecast included
Nine’s Sphere of Influence, Laurie Oakes, and Amanda Vanstone.
The latter spent much of the evening on HG & Roy’s panel, and distinguished
herself with a completely brainless defence of Peter Reith’s role in the Telecard
Affair, which basically revolved around what a good bloke Reithy was to actually
repay the 50 large, considering the fraud hadn’t been brought to his attention for
five years. Incredible.
Speaking of Reithy, his impending retirement afforded him a carefree aura and
the latitude to gleefully needle less fortunate former colleagues from the other
side of politics. His contribution was hard not to enjoy. His playful demeanour
was tested only twice – first, as the Coalition surged toward victory, when
someone asked him whether his decision to get out of politics was now looking,
in hindsight, a little hasty; then second when his Seven panel colleague Lindsay
Tanner raised the spectre of the asylum seekers, hissing, “Tell us about the
video!”
The overall quality of the Seven telecast was patchy. Play-ons from commercial
breaks comprised the pollies’ most embarrassing and inept televisual moments of
the campaign. This was good. The tally room content was broken up with short,
pre-recorded (and poorly edited) studio interviews conducted by 7’s Sydney
sports poppet Kylie Gillies. These were not good. They were meant to be
amusing but turned out to be irrelevant, puzzling, and embarrassing – comedy
spots devised by a writer devoid of humour.
When it came to graphics, Seven’s were less fancy, but far more comprehensible
than Nine’s. Nine’s stats screens were way too busy, changed too quickly, and
their numerical tally of “Seats Won” rose, then dropped, then rose again –
appearing to indicate that seats were won, then lost, then won again in the
space of minutes.
HG & Roy’s examination of individual seats included a “Bludger Rating”, calculated
according to the perceived industriousness of the incumbent. And their “State Of
The House” analysis was instead dubbed “Bums On Seats.”
Other highlights:
- HG’s claim that the Tasmanian seat of Bass was “named after the bloody big
fish that lurks down there.”
- The bizarre live crosses to Mad Bob Katter and Cheryl Kernot, both of whom
appeared to be delirious, but for different reasons.
- Roy’s description of the Nationals’ loss of Tim Fischer’s former seat of Farrer to
the Libs as “a boot to the date of John Anderson.”
- Beazley’s concession – the best, most statesmanlike political speech I’ve heard
in years
- Howard’s victory speech: fine, if somewhat familiar by now – but we could
have done without the revolting Lady Hyacinth grinning like a split watermelon at
his elbow
- Glenn Milne’s greying thatch, and spectacles, perched on the end of his nose,
which combined to give him the appearance of a schoolmasterly Pepe Le Pew.
- The total absence, as far as I’m aware, of Pauline Hanson
- Roy’s early prediction of Labor by 27 seats
- North Qld MP De-Anne Kelly’s criticism of “political elites” from “down south” –
and HG’s endorsement of her comments: “Those ELITES! They’re writing letters
to newspapers, they’re speaking out of turn… Anyone with a high school
education should be weeded out and SHOT! They’re BAGGAGE!”
The telecast overall: 7 out of 10.
====================================================
Letter to the Editor/TV Review:
McLeod's Daughters
Published in The Age Green Guide
Author: Dean Felton
The sound you hear rending the quiet country air is that of the eponymous
McLeod turning in his grave, aghast at his daughters’ collective lack of talent.
Where does the frustrated viewer begin – with its join-the-dots scripting, its
matinee melodrama acting, its penny-dreadful plots, its weak humour, its
cardboard cutout characters and the corresponding absence of any remotely
likeable ones, its wildly inappropriate incidental music, its adolescent peep show-
style flashes of sexuality, its often-bizarre lighting, or its edgy stop-frame editing
effects that have no place in drama.
Talented performers like John Jarratt and Sonia Todd must have had pressing
debts indeed to become entangled in such tripe.
I read where the Nine Network purchased the property where the series is
filmed, thereby giving local relevance to the American expression “buying the
farm.” But such is the depth of its investment, Nine will probably make the show
work in spite of itself.
=========================================================
Night Out:
Daryl Braithwaite Show & Dinner, Nepean Hotel
Reviewer: Dean Felton
The menu prepared for the Daryl Braithwaite dinner-&-show package at the
Nepean Hotel last Saturday night flagged that the venue would be hosting more
such events in coming months.
But it’s unlikely we’ll be among the patrons. Sorry.
The potential for a truly great night out was sapped by sloppy delivery, mainly in
the food and beverage area. Despite booking for 7.30pm, we, like others we
spoke to, were asked to wait nearly 20 minutes before being seated at a table,
which – again, like many others – had been vacant throughout.
The crowd size seemed no more than average, especially for a Saturday night,
but the clear impression was that the wait, bar and kitchen staff simply were not
up to the task. Our first drinks came 10 minutes after ordering (and re-ordering)
them. Entrée, 30 minutes. Main course? An hour.
The food, when it arrived, was uniformly very good, if a little cool. Salt & pepper
calamari expertly cooked and prepared with style, followed by a delightful dish of
rockling topped with chunky mango chutney on a bed of coconut-washed rice. My
dining companion enjoyed a traditional Italian involtini, vegetables and cheese
wrapped delicately inside a thinly sliced steak roll, tender and cooked rare,
accompanied by thick sliced kipfler potatoes. All worth waiting for - just not for
that long.
My partner’s dessert almost redeemed the night, a light-as-air sticky date
pudding varnished with smooth toffee sauce. My mini pavlova, topped with
mango (is there a glut?) was otherwise pleasant, but the packet-prepared shell
suffered from a near-impenetrable chewiness and a resistance to cutlery that
culminated in explosive, crumby volatility when at last it yielded.
The wine list is extensive, as you might expect in a hotel, with a reasonable
range of decent reds, whites, & bubbles available by the glass.
The large dining room itself has potential, but is spartan and badly needs more
warmth in the décor. A dining companion marvelled that the passing highway
traffic was inaudible inside - but then, so was the conversation on our side of the
glass. Bare timber floors, a highish ceiling and a lack of sound absorbent material
create a din that devalues the overall experience.
On with the show. A fascinating mix of ageing boomers, and a sprinkling of the
raging barfer set, to whom the word Sherbet implies a child’s sweet and nothing
more. A support act endowed with more enthusiasm than actual talent warmed
up the crowd with a series of near-identical self-penned ditties.
Daryl, when he sauntered on stage about 10.45pm, ran through a few new
songs (CDs and t-shirts available from the table near the door) followed by the
more familiar tunes most had come to hear, some covers, and even a brief
Sherbet flashback. His awkward stage patter aside, Braithwaite’s vocals are as
pure as ever, soaring the upper registers with ease, although this night it was
frequently overpowered by a troublesome audio mix which was never
satisfactorily resolved, despite frequent entreaties from the performers.
Overall the concert was enjoyable enough, but I couldn’t shake the impression of
a former superstar who, having performed at his best to auditorium audiences in
the 70s & 80s, was now prepared to turn in a middling, bordering on lazy, set in
a suburban beer barn. Perhaps like many of his fans of years ago, Daryl’s
performances have grown a little soft and flabby.
=========================================================
TV Review:
CSI: Las Vegas - Crime Scene Investigation
Published on BlogCritics.org - September 1, 2005
Author: Dean Felton
What is it with CSI?
Given the seemingly endless global proliferation of the franchise, no doubt the
good citizens of rural Victoria are preparing for the cameras to roll on CSI:
Yackandandah - but it is the origin of the species that I speak of here. CSI: Las
Vegas.
I'm sorry. I simply cannot watch it any more.
The acting is amateur-standard and overblown, the scripts cliched and
melodramatic, the plotlines frequently ridiculous, and - most infuriatingly of all -
the series relies for its impact not, on traditional dramatic elements such as plot
or characterisation, but on a liberal display of gore to which the counterpoint is a
prevailing attitude of world-weariness from the principal players. This mass
disembowellment of a middle class family in their own home sure is shocking, but
hey, I'm with the Las Vegas CSI team, and I'm far too experienced, and, hey, let's
face it, too cool, to be shocked by any of this.
Splashing the screen with blood and bodies is the bluntest of blunt instruments
with which to bludgeon an undemanding audience.
CSI's other tried'n'true technique is a regular-as-clockwork weekly piece of
technical whizbangery in which the viewer is televisually thrust through a victim
or killer's arteries, intestines, brain, or alimentary canal to disclose the scientific
detail behind the CSI team's breakthroughs. It's Hollywood special effects at its
small-screen best, but, for all its dazzlement, it can't blind us to the shortcomings
of the rest of the show.
We are meant to believe that police forensic scientists routinely pack weapons
and interrogate suspects. The reality is that the people CSI glorifies are more
often nerdy, bespectacled scientists who provide technical information to real
police, who do the actual crimefighting.
But that would make CSI just another cop show.
Can anyone take Gus Grissom seriously? This pasty lardarse struts around in
shades, quoting classical literature and dropping what the scriptwriters evidently
consider to be heavily ironic remarks about morality and the woeful state of the
world in general. He is the sort of person you would duck into a broom closet to
avoid, if you saw him in the corridor at work.
His supporting cast includes three females, two young and one old, both of whom
are readily interchangeable. They are evidently modelled on Sgt Pepper
Anderson, circa 1973, from Policewoman - but they lack her depth of character.
Then there are the men - one black, one white, both painful. All the team
members are unarguably good guys without any personality flaws. Oh, the black
cop had a gambling problem once, but that's pretty much it.
Backing up this sorry assortment is - and here's a surprise - the veteran
hardnosed cop. Bad haircut, unfashionable clothes, etc. You know the drill.
Yet CSI is a global phenomenon, which has spawned a clutch of identical shows
differing only in location. There is endless potential to clone the program. Its
popularity is unquestionable. But I'm happy to mark myself out in this case as
different from the tens of millions of fans who love the show. However faint your
voice in the wilderness, sometimes you just have to take a stand against
mediocrity. Or, in this case, against trash.
=========================================================
TV Review:
Strictly Dancing: Extremely Annoying
Strictly Dancing, ABC TV
Reviewer: Dean Felton
Published: August 29, 2005
Ballroom dancing has experienced an upsurge in popularity since the Australian
film Strictly Ballroom was released in the 90s.
The ABC has jumped on the bandwagon with a commendable show thoughtfully
entitled Strictly Dancing. OK, 1 out of 10 for originality. What do you expect for
eight cents a day?
Anyway, the program showcases a succession of eager young couples looking for
their big ballroom dancing break. They're put to the test with a series of
searching dance assignments, qualified dance judges rating them on their
technique. At the climax of each episode, their scores may be boosted or toppled
by a mysterious, apparently indefinable showbiz commodity entitled 'the X-
factor'. The ABC's originality comes into play again.
In general, the standard of the dancers' performances is very high. What a
shame the same can't be said for the standard of commentary.
Paul McDermott does an adequate, if slightly forced turn as compere. In the
interests of raising a chuckle, he is unafraid to put himself in situations that
would humiliate a more precious host. McDermott ploughs on unabashed. His
weakness, betrayed by his uncertain delivery, is in his interviewing technique.
The moment he begins asking post-tango questions of the night's winning
couple, you feel he wishes he hadn't. Thankfully, the interlude, like a bad prawn,
usually passes quickly but unpleasantly.
These flat spots can be cheerfully ignored in the interests of watching the
considerable talent on display.
What can't be overlooked, however, is the endless, asinine carping of two
unseen commentators whose role it is, apparently, to distract viewers from the
actual dancing so that we can all more fully appreciate the sparkling personalities
of these disembodied voices.
What they should be doing, of course, is helping to enlighten those viewers who
aren't conversant with the finer points of ballroom dancing. What they are doing,
of course, is enlarging their own already bloated egos without adding one jot to
the enjoyment of the event.
The ABC publicists would say they are there to provide a counterpoint to the
serious business of dance and competition, to ensure the program benefits from
both light and shade.
Of course, they are not.
They simply cannot wait for the music to begin so that they can open the
floodgates for their stream of mindless, ill-considered babble. The female voice,
Angela Gilltrap, used to confine herself to technical appraisals of the dancers'
techniques, a task for which she is admirably qualified. But of late she has begun
to assume the irritating habits of her male counterpart, Lex Marinos.
Lex's acting career reached its zenith several decades ago, in a minor role as the
son-in-law of Ted Bullpitt on Kingswood Country. Since then, he has moved
through theatre, film, TV and radio, achieving some plaudits as a director. Good
on him. In his lengthy online biography, he lists his current occupation as 'events
coordinator' for the Wagga Wagga City Council. But nowhere does it boast that
Lex enjoys any qualifications in dance.
In which case, might it not be advisable for him to shut the hell up and allow us
to enjoy someone who does?
If Lex's asides and interjections were amusing, and believe me when I say they
are not, he might be tolerable. In any case, one might reasonably assume that
viewers specifically seeking light relief might not make a dance program their first
port of call.
Marinos is snide, patronising, and, most unforgivably, unfunny. He fails in his
primary task, that is, to make us laugh. In the context of the program, he is
inappropriate and superfluous.
His criticisms give every indication that they have been recorded and dubbed
over the dance footage after the judging has been completed. This, of course,
allows him to tailor his comments accordingly - praise for the winners, smartarse
denigration of the rest. If this is, as it appears, what happens, it is cowardly and
unfair.
Take your ego and your attempts at drollery, Lex, and stop polluting what is
otherwise an admirable show. Wagga beckons.
=========================================================
TV Review:
Time to Kick Sam Off The Footy Show
The Footy Show (Nine Network)
Reviewer: Dean Felton
Published: August 26, 2005
While the NRL version of The Footy Show continues to record its lowest audience
figures yet, especially in Brisbane, the Melbourne-based AFL variety shows little
sign of imminent death.
But its glory days are far behind it, in terms of viewers and program quality.
The decline - ironically - can be traced to about the time the Nine Network, in
concert with Ten and Foxtel, acquired the rights to telecast AFL matches. Before
this, the producers and on-air talent had to come up with at least 90 minutes
(usually more) of television, without the benefit of owning any of the footage of
the actual games on which they were commenting.
That hurdle was removed some years ago, which, you might think, would improve
the content of the show. But, oddly I think, the show continues to make little use
of on-field footage, preferring its traditional format of panel chat, variety, and,
where possible, comedy.
Which brings me, inevitably, to Sam Newman.
If not for the fame and riches that his TV persona has delivered him, one might
feel sorry for Sam. Essentially he is a vain man in his late 50s, who has been
unable to sustain a permanent relationship, lives apart from his children, and
whose personal life lurches from crisis to crisis regularly.
His job on The Footy Show means striving to re-create each week an episode of
the confected enfant terrible behaviour which brought him to public notice
originally.
Trouble is, Sam's a one-trick pony, and the trick wasn't that good to begin with.
Sam's trick, such as it is, is to shock. The shock might come via a calculated insult
to a studio guest, or vaudevillian antics on set, but the effect is the same. Last
night he set out to nourish his notoriety by trying to upset a decorated footballer
who had announced his retirement from the game. Each question was predicated
on the assumption that the player had underachieved, and was intended to goad
him into an angry response.
It didn't work, thankfully, so Sam was reduced to jostling for the camera's
attention with his favourite playmate, Hawthorn's former captain Shane
Crawford. Crawford fairly burns with the desire to be a star of the screen, but
lacks the talent required. Someone should counsel him to stop making a fool of
himself so publicly and so regularly. There's still time for him to salvage some
dignity.
Sam, meanwhile, challenged Crawford to punch him in the stomach, whch
Crawford duly did. Sam fell over backwards. Ho, ho. That Sam! He's just
incorrigible!
Unfortunately, Sam's ability to make people laugh seems to be evaporating. Too
often now, when Sam jibes, there are gaping, puzzled silences, where there
used to be uproarious audience reaction. His comments, always striving to outdo
their predecessors for negativity, are increasingly arcane.
Eddie McGuire, the most sure-footed and confident MC since Bert Newton,
frequently looks unsure whether to intervene, reprove, or - most frequently
these days - say something amusing to break the uncomfortable hiatus.
Exit the stage, Sam. Please. There are few things sadder than a once-great
footballer who doesn't realise his time has passed - a maxim that applies off the
field as well as on.
=========================================================
TV Review:
A Sad State of (Current) Affairs
A Current Affair/Today Tonight (Nine & Seven Networks)
Reviewer: Dean Felton
Published: August 25, 2005
I used to work in Australia's TV news and current affairs industry.
At various times over the course of 20 years, I was a reporter, producer,
documentary maker, chief-of-staff, and studio presenter. It's now more than five
years since I changed careers, and in some respects, I can scarcely recognise
some of the shows that I used to work on.
What is now called 'current affairs' - A Current Affair, say, or Today Tonight - is a
sad shadow of what it used to be. The frightening thing is, taking the shows'
content WAAAAAY downmarket appears to have paid off for the TV networks.
In the 70s and 80s, even the early 90s, current affairs shows tried to examine
the issues of the day in some meaningful manner. They'd follow up in a bit of
depth the necessarily superficial treatment given to stories on the evening's
news bulletins, which had to summarise the most significant events from around
the world in just 30 minutes, less commercials and the weather forecast.
Now? A predictable, revolving parade of miracle diets, cures for illness,
neighbourhood tiffs and a few other reliable favourites. There are the "consumer
investigations" which typically consist of a product comparison survey conducted
by a dedicated consumer magazine, the result of which can be easily recycled for
television. This could involve anything from plastic food wrap to toothbrushes to
washing powder - usually domestic items, the less important and relevant to the
important issues of real life, the better. Is knowing the precise, minute
differences in saturated fat levels contained in respective brands of frozen potato
chips really going to make a difference to people's health?
The magazine hands over its survey results - often a day or so in advance of the
magazine's publication, to boost sales - in return for five minutes or so of national
TV exposure. The TV program gets its story without having to expend too much
time, creative energy, or money. Win-win. Though maybe not for the discerning
viewer who wants to see something original and meaningful.
Worse still is the recent trend towards 'spoiler' stories. Program A airs a promo
inviting viewers to tune in for a story on the show later in the week - say, on
Thursday night. But Program B, on the rival network, sees the promo, hurriedly
slaps together its own story on the same topic, and airs it on Wednesday night -
thereby 'spoiling' the audience numbers for the opposition.
That's the theory, anyway.
Where are these people who comparison-watch both current affairs shows, on
both networks, simultaneously? The fear of them was a dreaded presence when
I worked in newsrooms - the news director's greatest terror was that the other
channel might have a story that we hadn't. It wasn't professional pride, it was
the belief that the mere appearance of a given story on the opposition bulletin
might somehow persuade tens of thousands of 'our' viewers to abandon Us in
favour of Them.
No one was ever able to explain to me how someone watching our news would
ever know that the other station had a story we didn't, or that we didn't have a
story that they did.
But the theory regularly caused last-minute re-ordering of the evening's bulletin
rundown to accommodate a matching story hastily-assembled from file footage,
or overseas video feeds, and wire copy.
But back to current affairs.
Poor Ray Martin. Night after night he sits there, uncomfortable, awkwardly
imploring his audience to treat seriously a story he is clearly embarrassed to
have to introduce.
The groundbreaking, thoughtful reports he filed for Sixty Minutes in the early
days are a long time ago now. You can steal glimpses of them occasionally, when
he disappears from the screen for a few days 'on assignment', then returns to
introduce his own story a few nights later. But the subject matter usually is
unworthy of the skilful treatment he's capable of giving it, and the lavish post-
production his relaxed schedule allows.
No such angst for his Seven Network counterpart, Naomi Robson. Unlike Ray,
Naomi is not troubled by having a glorious journalistic history to compare
unfavourably against the pap she now fronts each night.
Her hair ironed flat, and her once sharply attractive face now valiantly resisting
the onset of middle age, Naomi intros each story with the shrill, righteous
indignation of the morally unimpeachable, notwithstanding her recent torrent of
recorded profanity, which is still doing the office email rounds.
Naomi is living proof of the TV maxim that suggests that regardless of actual
journalistic talent or experience, if you are attractive enough, and you hang
around a TV station long enough, that eventually you will prosper. With
Melbourne's edition of TT now networked to Sydney and Brisbane, and gaining on
or overtaking the former market leader ACA, she is the apotheosis of this theory.
=========================================================
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