SEVERAL disadvantages undermine my ability to give an objective assessment of Bonekickers, a new archaeological drama series on BBC1: first, I am a veteran of more than 40 digs; second — as far as this first episode (Tuesday of last week) was concerned, which was all about how the chance discovery of a fragment of the True Cross played into the hands of a fanatical right-wing Christian organisation eager to start a new crusade to drive the infidel (Muslims) out of England’s green and pleasant — I know something, if not much, about religion; third, I possess a more-or-less functioning brain.
It requires only a moment’s thought to dismiss this as a farrago of nonsense. Hardly a line of dialogue rose above time-worn cliché; characterisation was ludicrously conventional; and the plot was an uneasy mixture of would-be naturalism and fantasy (for example, within, supposedly, one of England’s finest medieval dovecotes, under a large stone, they discovered an underground chamber, about the size of the British Museum Reading Room, which had apparently escaped everyone’s notice).
It is difficult to know where to begin listing the travesties of archaeological method: finding a single Saracenic coin does not mean it must have been dropped by a Saracen — the Middle Ages was a period of international trade and commerce, and odd coins turn up all over the place.
If bodies fall in a skirmish, they do not decompose whole, on the spot, then, 800 years later, show up, limbs clearly marked, on a geophysical survey. Only properly buried bodies remain intact; if they are left on the surface, they are dismembered by scavengers.
Does all this matter? Is there not, pace Indiana Jones, a respectable genre nowadays for drama that straddles the boundaries between cod archaeology, fantasy, and drama? Yes, there is, but they are played tongue-in-cheek. This was deadly serious.
The essence lies in the title. Archaeology is indeed full of drama; wonderful and fascinating things are being discovered all the time by larger-than-life characters. It would make a splendid TV series. But here the process has to be sexed-up, given urgency and drama. Let’s not waste time trowelling gently, brushing away to disclose fragile evidence. Let’s go out and kick some bone! You might as well call a series about clergy Chaliceknockers.
What could be more admirable than a nationwide competition devoted to choral singing? Last Choir Standing (BBC1, Saturday) impressed by its eagerness to demonstrate that, nowadays, choirs come in every age and type.
Efforts had been made to attract the widest possible range of choral outfits for the preliminary sing-offs. But the selection process was dire, and the judges seemed to care more what the ensembles looked like than how they sounded.
The best choir was dismissed because the girls wore frumpy evening dress; wildly out-of-tune combos were applauded because they caught some sentimental nerve; the music chosen was almost all ghastly. Once again, everything had to be sexed up, and the true joy of singing together was strangled by the hysteria that TV seems to think is the only mode that will attract an audience. |
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