Your Name and Title
| Dean Felton Media |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
Sample Copy
Learning Matters Online article
Sydney Morning Herald feature article
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.
===============================================
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.
===============================================
Entertainment Review:
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 - but 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, crumbly
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 quite 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 Gil 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, all 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 please
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 both
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, all in well-
informed hindsight. 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 of his questions 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 requisite talent. 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
A disclosure: 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 a panicked 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.
===============================================
Learning Matters Online article
Sydney Morning Herald feature article
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.
===============================================
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.
===============================================
Entertainment Review:
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 - but 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, crumbly
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 quite 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 Gil 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, all 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 please
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 both
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, all in well-
informed hindsight. 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 of his questions 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 requisite talent. 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
A disclosure: 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 a panicked 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.
===============================================