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May. 20th, 2012
Watching Tales of Television Centre
May. 20th, 2012 08:44 pmBefore the Sky box pointed out that I'd asked it to record two other channels and it only had one pair of hands, thank you so much. Maybe they'll repeat it again.
And it occurred to me. You can make, say, an alien planet using thousands of pounds worth of computer hardware, populate it with hundreds of CGI extras, whip up a futuristic soundtrack using Cubase and all the latest virtual synths, and have the finest actors in the land pasted into it all emoting their socks off, and if you're all good at your jobs it'll look and sound jolly impressive. And that's fine.
But if you can make an alien planet in a grimy, stuffy soundstage on a wet Thursday afternoon with two dozen milk crates, a roll of silver foil, a collection of alleged musical instruments cobbled together from old wartime radar equipment and that bloke off Z Cars, on a budget of whatever's left over at the end of the month...that's magic.
It may not be fair, but that's the way it is. That's why we're jaded. That's why the more amazing CGI becomes the more people kvetch about how unconvincing it is. Nobody complained about Milk Crate Planet being unconvincing, and it wasn't because we were all eight years old. Not all of us were.
We'll happily allow a stage conjuror to misdirect us and be amazed when he pulls a flower out of our ear. But if we ever come to think that he might be trying to tell us the magic's real--that actual supernatural forces are involved--then it's a very different story, and it'll be a cold day in hell before he convinces us. And while we're at it, we never really believed that thing with the milk crates either. I mean, it was obvious.
You can't unopen people's eyes, or undestroy their innocence. Maybe, when it's all gone smash, and travelling troupes of players go from city to ruined city reciting old Dixon Of Dock Green scripts on sets improvised from non-biodegradable milk crates, a new generation will recreate the old Punch-and-Judy glamour in which performer and audience are complicit, and nobody will be standing at the back saying loudly "It's not real, you know." And maybe in time there'll be a new Television Centre, and no Thatcher this time to wreck it and turn it into just another business.
Well, I can hope.
And it occurred to me. You can make, say, an alien planet using thousands of pounds worth of computer hardware, populate it with hundreds of CGI extras, whip up a futuristic soundtrack using Cubase and all the latest virtual synths, and have the finest actors in the land pasted into it all emoting their socks off, and if you're all good at your jobs it'll look and sound jolly impressive. And that's fine.
But if you can make an alien planet in a grimy, stuffy soundstage on a wet Thursday afternoon with two dozen milk crates, a roll of silver foil, a collection of alleged musical instruments cobbled together from old wartime radar equipment and that bloke off Z Cars, on a budget of whatever's left over at the end of the month...that's magic.
It may not be fair, but that's the way it is. That's why we're jaded. That's why the more amazing CGI becomes the more people kvetch about how unconvincing it is. Nobody complained about Milk Crate Planet being unconvincing, and it wasn't because we were all eight years old. Not all of us were.
We'll happily allow a stage conjuror to misdirect us and be amazed when he pulls a flower out of our ear. But if we ever come to think that he might be trying to tell us the magic's real--that actual supernatural forces are involved--then it's a very different story, and it'll be a cold day in hell before he convinces us. And while we're at it, we never really believed that thing with the milk crates either. I mean, it was obvious.
You can't unopen people's eyes, or undestroy their innocence. Maybe, when it's all gone smash, and travelling troupes of players go from city to ruined city reciting old Dixon Of Dock Green scripts on sets improvised from non-biodegradable milk crates, a new generation will recreate the old Punch-and-Judy glamour in which performer and audience are complicit, and nobody will be standing at the back saying loudly "It's not real, you know." And maybe in time there'll be a new Television Centre, and no Thatcher this time to wreck it and turn it into just another business.
Well, I can hope.