The Power Five and the Glory
liked Deal or No Deal when it first started. After years of throwing any item I could find at the telly during shows like The Late Late Breakfast Show and Noel's House Party, I was actually quite pleased to see Noel back on the TV. The intervening years had been kind. He still had the beard, the jovial demeanour and didn't appear to have gained any weight. Although wearing shirts a few sizes too small may have contributed to that. He had it seemed taken on the appearance of a trendy, older, university lecturer. The sort of man who would gladly crack open a bottle of wine if you paid a visit to enquire about a time extension for your essay.I liked the unfamiliarity of the format. A seemingly disparate group of people standing behind a hat box waiting for Noel to bring them into the game. These weren't veteran quiz players, chomping at the bit to answer a question on The Carry on... films but people who had by the look of them just come straight from work with a chance of winning money.
The quirkiness of the banker and in particular the phone itself seemed to work. The Spanish version of the show, despite winning huge ratings, involved the contestant in the hot seat speaking into a bog standard Nokia mobile phone. It therefore lacked the theatrics of Noel teasing the audience as he spoke into a prop from an episode of Miss Marple. Even the ever burgeoning catch phrases such as "East Wing" and "West Wing" , although a little cheesy at first, did eventually add to the drama.
It was refreshing that there was absolutely no skill involved, although some contestants would try to convince us that they had a pre-prepared fool proof system based on the number of houses in their street times the number of cats they owned. This they promised would lead to untold glory. The contestants would add to the tension by revealing insights into their make up. Were they a gambler by nature or overtly cautious? Information freely volunteered under the gaze of the studio lights. Before long, Noel became a local confidant, held in higher trust than a G.P or a Justice of the Peace.
But the biggest draw was the scale of money involved for comparatively little work.Millionairehad some years previously set the standard for prize winning but the participantsstill had to have some quiz knowledge, they still reserved the right to stop if the questions got too tricky. There was no disgrace to walk away with £32,000 in your back pocket. But with Deal, faced with accepting the sort of offer that would make a tramp blush or ploughing onwards towards a potentially life changing sum, the tension was unbearable. And all this rested not on knowing when Cliff Richard came second on the Eurovision song contest but on the toss of a coin or in this case the flip of a box.
So where did it all go wrong? Where did this seemingly indestructible format start to show chinks in it's armour? Well, it wasn't the format that became tiresome, more the way it was presented. Like a rock star, high on the continual flush of success, it became aware of it's self importance. The people standing, patiently waiting in the wings to offer advice when called upon were suddenly plucked from the shadows and given a leading part in the play. The short pre-ambles suddenly became confessionals. Husbands, wives, brothers and sisters were invited down from the audience to join in with the re-telling of woe and strife. The back story became more important than the story being told on stage. And before long the flood gates opened.
The people on the wings started to get nick names, David became Big Dave, unassuming Stuart from the North East became Geordie Stu, like some larger than life caricature from that corner of England. Sometimes the nicknames were slightly abstract, Sue in the hot seat would ask advice from "Armitage", so called because he fell asleep drunk in the hotel bath. The banker would then ring up to say he approved, like an office winding down on a Friday afternoon and all the while the subtlety and distance that made the show what it was, was quickly evaporating. It was being humanised when it didn't need to be. Like a punch line to a joke having to be explained over and over again, each time losing less and less of it's impact.
The hot seat, so sinister on shows like Mastermind became overnight The Crazy Chair,making it beguiling rather than terrifying. The high end sums of money - £30,000, £50,000, £75,000
became the Power Five, making it sound like a political movement intent oneradicatingpoverty and famine. I'm sure if you asked Noel he would have said it was next on his agenda.
The banker, so long a mysterious figure who no one would dare oppose suddenly became a figure of ridicule. His aura seemingly stamped out. Humbling reverence that had normally been displayed when being offered the equivalent of a years salary in Venezuela was tossed aside with disdain. Trepidation had now given way to cockiness. I stopped tuning in way before the East Wing and West Wing started to link arms like women at a C.N.D protest. My stomach just couldn't take it any more.
And for months and months I didn't watch it and then last year in the run up to Xmas , full of booze and Xmas spirit I tuned in for one last fling. I reasoned that if liked it again I might start watching it more often and just before it started I began to wonder if maybe I wasn't a little bit too harsh , maybe I had grown too cynical in my old age and after all 5 million viewers can't be wrong can they? But no sooner had Noel arrived wearing a Xmas tree imploring people to join the Dream Factory that i realised that my initial instincts were right.
The quirkiness of the banker and in particular the phone itself seemed to work. The Spanish version of the show, despite winning huge ratings, involved the contestant in the hot seat speaking into a bog standard Nokia mobile phone. It therefore lacked the theatrics of Noel teasing the audience as he spoke into a prop from an episode of Miss Marple. Even the ever burgeoning catch phrases such as "East Wing" and "West Wing" , although a little cheesy at first, did eventually add to the drama.
It was refreshing that there was absolutely no skill involved, although some contestants would try to convince us that they had a pre-prepared fool proof system based on the number of houses in their street times the number of cats they owned. This they promised would lead to untold glory. The contestants would add to the tension by revealing insights into their make up. Were they a gambler by nature or overtly cautious? Information freely volunteered under the gaze of the studio lights. Before long, Noel became a local confidant, held in higher trust than a G.P or a Justice of the Peace.
But the biggest draw was the scale of money involved for comparatively little work.Millionairehad some years previously set the standard for prize winning but the participantsstill had to have some quiz knowledge, they still reserved the right to stop if the questions got too tricky. There was no disgrace to walk away with £32,000 in your back pocket. But with Deal, faced with accepting the sort of offer that would make a tramp blush or ploughing onwards towards a potentially life changing sum, the tension was unbearable. And all this rested not on knowing when Cliff Richard came second on the Eurovision song contest but on the toss of a coin or in this case the flip of a box.
So where did it all go wrong? Where did this seemingly indestructible format start to show chinks in it's armour? Well, it wasn't the format that became tiresome, more the way it was presented. Like a rock star, high on the continual flush of success, it became aware of it's self importance. The people standing, patiently waiting in the wings to offer advice when called upon were suddenly plucked from the shadows and given a leading part in the play. The short pre-ambles suddenly became confessionals. Husbands, wives, brothers and sisters were invited down from the audience to join in with the re-telling of woe and strife. The back story became more important than the story being told on stage. And before long the flood gates opened.
The people on the wings started to get nick names, David became Big Dave, unassuming Stuart from the North East became Geordie Stu, like some larger than life caricature from that corner of England. Sometimes the nicknames were slightly abstract, Sue in the hot seat would ask advice from "Armitage", so called because he fell asleep drunk in the hotel bath. The banker would then ring up to say he approved, like an office winding down on a Friday afternoon and all the while the subtlety and distance that made the show what it was, was quickly evaporating. It was being humanised when it didn't need to be. Like a punch line to a joke having to be explained over and over again, each time losing less and less of it's impact.
The hot seat, so sinister on shows like Mastermind became overnight The Crazy Chair,making it beguiling rather than terrifying. The high end sums of money - £30,000, £50,000, £75,000
became the Power Five, making it sound like a political movement intent oneradicatingpoverty and famine. I'm sure if you asked Noel he would have said it was next on his agenda.
The banker, so long a mysterious figure who no one would dare oppose suddenly became a figure of ridicule. His aura seemingly stamped out. Humbling reverence that had normally been displayed when being offered the equivalent of a years salary in Venezuela was tossed aside with disdain. Trepidation had now given way to cockiness. I stopped tuning in way before the East Wing and West Wing started to link arms like women at a C.N.D protest. My stomach just couldn't take it any more.
And for months and months I didn't watch it and then last year in the run up to Xmas , full of booze and Xmas spirit I tuned in for one last fling. I reasoned that if liked it again I might start watching it more often and just before it started I began to wonder if maybe I wasn't a little bit too harsh , maybe I had grown too cynical in my old age and after all 5 million viewers can't be wrong can they? But no sooner had Noel arrived wearing a Xmas tree imploring people to join the Dream Factory that i realised that my initial instincts were right.
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