Saturday 13th April
Saturday night marked the start of the seventh series of
Britain’s Got Talent. Seven years is a long time – I’m not sure I can remember a
time before BGT. Where did all these eccentrics go? What did Amanda Holden do? Are
there even any talented individuals left? It’s best not to think about it. BGT
is specially designed bombastic Saturday night fare, and it’s unlikely The
Voice or anyone else can do anything about it.
Though a sleek and glitzy Cowell product, a few years back BGT
was drifting into irrelevance, and a recent regeneration of the judging panel
that introduced David Walliams and Alesha Dixon has given the show a new lease
of life. Walliams is undoubtedly the star, bringing warm-hearted anarchy to the
proceedings and, along with national treasures Ant and Dec, counteracting the
arrogance of Cowell. Arriving to the menacing strains of Star Wars music,
Cowell has become so nonchalant with his ownership of the television crown that
he was often eating whilst casually throwing out comments to star-struck
contestants. Make no mistake, we are dealing with the Dark Lord of
entertainment here, and it is only the combined cheekiness of Walliams and the
Geordie duo that deflate his self-importance.
The selection of contestants is as predictably and
gloriously bizarre as ever. Clearly we need to acknowledge at the outset that
nothing is going to top last year’s winner; it’s common knowledge that you
literally can’t get better than a dancing dog, but there are still some humans
keen to try. The best acts (ie the contestants that could claim to fulfil the
basic remit of talent) were a sneak attack gospel choir, a genuinely funny young
comedian, a couple of singers, and a troupe of shadow dancers, if that is even
a thing. The audition stages flourish, however, because of the reliability of
the Great British public to look at the word “talent” and well and truly
believe that dancing with a mop qualifies. The highlight was a man who came on
stage, crouched down and barked like a dog. After a couple of barks, he got to
his feet and said apologetically: “That’s all I’ve got.” God bless him.
Obviously, the standard caveats apply to this sort of show –
it is formulaic, painfully noticeably scripted, and deploys music at strategic
moments to tell you how to feel. The baying audience can get uncomfortably
Roman-amphitheatre-esque when an act displeases them, and it is one of those
shows that annoyingly tries to start a conversation with you by suggesting
hashtags. However, the inclusion of David Walliams, the only man with the gall
to get away with wrestling Cowell on stage to participate in a dance act, means
that BGT is the most palatable of the Cowell stable of shows. If you don’t like
it now, you never will, but as The X Factor looks ever more unappealing,
against all odds a show that lets a dancing dog rise to the top of the showbiz pile
remains a solid Saturday night choice.
