AGEING entertainers such as Ronnie Corbett must regard the alleged honour of being profiled by The South Bank Show as something of a double-edged sword. Discussing your long and illustrious career with Melvyn Bragg may confirm that you've achieved na
tional treasure status, but it also heavily implies that soon you'll be dead. The adenoidal arts nabob might as well greet his elder subjects in a cowl and scythe.
These tributes are rarely enlightening, mainly because of Bragg's uselessness as an interviewer. The urbane, avuncular Corbett was gently encouraged to trot out the same old anecdotes, of which he must surely be sick to death. Copper-bottomed pro that he is, however, he politely obliged his listless inquisitor. The only time he appeared to veer off-script was when he became visibly emotional fondly eulogising his parents (though even then he seemed loath to go into detail).
An exceedingly dapper little man, it was no surprise to hear that Corbett is fussy and fastidious when it comes to maintaining his wardrobe. And did you know that the pastel-hued dandy enjoys the odd round of golf? Startling stuff, I'm sure you'll agree.
I would love to have learned more about the Two Ronnies' working methods, as only during a brief discussion of their professional relationship did I feel I was about to hear something new.
As is usually the case with virtually every comedy documentary, the archive footage gave the impression that the subjects only ever performed about half a dozen sketches (although I was perplexed by a brief clip of them playing Pakistani restaurateurs, not because I found it offensive, but because it passed without comment, almost as if its inclusion was intended as a misguided broadside against the casual racism of all old-school entertainers). And why bother interviewing the likes of Michael Palin and David Frost if all they're allowed are miniscule soundbites?
That said, the absence of the ubiquitous Barry Cryer (who wrote for every single British comedian during the 1970s and 80s) was genuinely astonishing – I can only assume he was being interviewed for yet another Kenny Everett documentary at the time.
Corbett is an expert comedian with a wonderfully idiosyncratic style (it takes real skill to elicit laughter from scripted digressions and knowingly knackered jokes). He deserved better than this pointless, functional tribute.
Although Australia's leading Aboriginal artists hadn't dipped their brushes in acrylic paints until as late as the 1970s, they're now at the vanguard of a multi-million dollar industry. Except, according to Outback Art: the Gold Rush, most of them are at the mercy of money-grabbing art collectors who pay them a pittance for paintings worth thousands.
This restrainedly critical documentary showed how artists such as octogenarian Tommy Watson – dubbed the Aboriginal Picasso – can be so easily exploited by art-world scum. Illiterate, innumerate and speaking very little English, Watson obviously has no idea how much money he could be earning from his work.
The thought of some moneyed banker proudly showing off his latest Watson, while the artist himself endures a fairly thankless lifestyle on the other side of the world, is quite nauseating. The Australian government has at least got behind a resale royalty scheme, although its potential probably won't be reaped by the artists who continue to be exploited by the avaricious white man.
The full article contains 581 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
