I'm not a celebrity, but get me out of here anyway

Kylie Minogue as photographed by Prince Charming; available here.

Last night's strangeness: I dreamt that I was trying to "make it," i.e., be more artistically creative and hopefully successful in the next phase of my life, a thought that has gone from simmer to boiling over in my mind over the last couple of months (the mid-life crisis doth continue . . .).

In the dream, I was trying to put myself out there as an actor, writer, singer, musician, something creative and big and showy and fame-inducing. I was showing my portfolio of work or abilities or what-have-you to Kylie Minogue (of all people), a pop star I've admired in the past (but not necessarily in the present). Truly, there is no accounting for taste, mine or anyone else's.

After examining my work for a period of time, she stopped, looked me square in the eye, and remarked, "Look, the problem is, it's just not very good. I don't think you have what it takes to make it."

Needless to say, I was crushed. In the dream I remember thinking, if a lightweight like Kylie doesn't think I have any talent, then I'm truly hopeless.

And then I woke up.

* * *

I blame it all on The Graham Norton Show. And Chris Kattan's brief appearance on Saturday Night Live last night. And Twitter. And Christopher Hitchens. But we'll get to those.

For now, let's focus on Graham Norton and his guests, then see if I have the energy and time for the others in this little Sunday midday diatribe.

Almost without fail, as much as I try to like them, Mr. Norton and his panel of low-wattage British and high-voltage American celebrities always manage to piss me off.

As to why I get so irritated by the show, I would guess some of it comes down to this: The attention-seeking behavior, sarcasm, and general mean-spiritedness of the host and particularly his British guests. Often it seems to me that he and his guests act like they're so incredibly fabulous and wonderful and clever and smarter than everyone else, particularly anyone not British or anyone not a British celebrity.

Ferchrissakes, you're a celebrity in Britain! And it's not the 1960s or the 1980s, when Brit cool was everywhere and you were able to export yourselves around the globe with pride and good reason. No, instead, you've maybe appeared on EastEnders or Casualty or Strictly Come Dancing or X Factor or Masterpiece Theatre special, and that's about it. Not too shabby for as far as it goes, but it doesn't go that far. And it certainly doesn't mean you have "arrived"--except perhaps that evening at Broadcast House in a taxi. Trust me, no one outside the UK or Ireland has ever heard of you or gives much of a flying fancy-the-luck.

The snarkiness exhibited on The Graham Norton Show seems to me to be a very London approach to the world, but it is an approach I have seen elsewhere in the world, particularly among the self-satisfied and newly monied. Because The Graham Norton Show takes place in the UK, I'm sure the ass-holier-than-thou attitude is a class thing, but it's that awful kind of urban egotistical and aspirational behavior you see in New York, Washington, San Francisco, Toronto (oh no, my Canadian friends, there is no escape for you), and other parts of the developed world, Former British Colony Edition. Too much money, too eager to try to erase the fact that you're just as unfabulous and uninteresting as the rest of us. Been there, done that, bought the overpriced t-shirt. A couple of them in fact.

And yet, these "well-regarded persons" get up on stage along with Graham and smarm and snark and smirk their way along about their marvelous, clever, and successful careers and how "hard" it was for them at school when they couldn't handle a "proper" or "boring" job and wanted to be an actor, singer, TV presenter, what-have-you, growing up in Lower-Snivelsfield-on-Toast, County Bumfork.

Which is exactly the approach taken last night by part-time singer Alesha Dixon (who you've never heard of) and Eddie Izzard (who you no doubt have). Good lordy, you play pretend and dress-up for a living (quite literally in Eddie Izzard's case)!--how damn "hard" can it be?

The previous week's episode was much the same, with the gracious, humble, but, nonetheless, with questionable taste in wives Antonio Banderas on the dais, alongside of the somewhat bemused-but-all-not-that-amused Salma Hayek, and this British excuse for a comedian, Jimmy Carr, whose schtick seemed to be, "treat everyone in the room as if they were stupid; that will show how clever I am."

Which apparently in the UK equals comedy gold.

Graham Norton. Borrowed with CC permission from here.

I can deal with someone being bemused and befuddled by the world; I can even deal with the I-detest-everybody-and-everything-among-us approach to comedy. There's a lot, in fact, to detest. But the absolute contempt with which Mr. Carr held everyone in the audience, at home, Salma Hayek (he made fun of a thumbs-up hand gesture she used after she told a story about something silly she had once done), and even someone from the audience who admired him ("Well, good for you," Carr retorted in ironic deadpan, then gave a "Who does this cretin think he's impressing?" mug to the camera). Gah. Such an (up)tight little island.

I'm losing you, I'm sure, but here's another case in point that might help shine a UV light on my phosphorescent venom: There's this segment on the show where they have someone from the studio audience sit in this big chair in another room. (Why? can't the non-celebrity breathe the same air as the Anointed?) Via two-way TV, Graham talks with the lesser-light and has him or her tell a story about something funny that happened in his or her life. If Graham and his guests like the story, they are invited back into the studio and onto the dais with the celebs for about 5 seconds at the end of the show. But if Graham & Company vote down the story, the non-celebrity is ejected backwards, that is to say, Graham pulls a lever and the non-celeb is sent arse-over-tea-kettle in the chair and out of the picture.

The studio audience and Mr. Norton and his guests seem to love this. But, really, why is this funny? Despite their rejection, sometimes the stories are quite funny and charming. One older woman last night was rejected after telling in monotone this wonderfully intricate shaggy-dog tale about driving into a wild animal park with her family, having a bear attack the car, having her husband *open the window* to throw peanuts out the car to distract the bear, having the bear rip off the sideview mirror, and finally escaping the bear enclosure, only to decide that they needed to retrieve the sideview mirror ("because what if they police stopped us and asked where our sideview mirror was?") and return to the bear enclosure to attempt to find the sideview mirror, which they were unable to do.

It was a stitch, and she told it in a really charming, low-key, half ironic-half unironic way. But about halfway through, Graham hit the eject button and sent her flying. Only after the audience and some of the panel complained did Graham ask her to continue, "approve" her tale, and invite her onto the dais--a moment they failed to show in the broadcast.

I understand that a major tenet of comedy involves laughing at the misfortune of others. But doing so isn't very sophisticated. Nor is it very mature. Both of which seem to be characteristics that the host and the panel are trying to convey.


It's not that the show is all that highfalutin'. I mean for goodness sakes, I've seen Jason Donovan, Chesney Hawke, Lorraine Kelly, and Barbara Windsor (twice) on this show. Pitiful. Just pitiful.

I suspect the idea is to provide the audience with an hour-long glimpse into a shiny, happy, celebrity-laden cocktail party. But the opposite result is achieved. There are these weird segments from time-to-time, some involving audience participation--"everyone reach underneath your seat and pull out--that's right!--a dildo!" Others involve celebrity participation--"because he played Zorro and Puss in Boots, let's do amateur swordplay with Antonio Banderas!" They make the whole affair seem like episodes of Romper Room hosted by Joel Gray's character from Cabaret or The Mike Douglas Show as produced by Bob Guccione.

* * *

So why exactly did all this spawn my strange, I'm-not-worthy dream? Well, I'll try to figure that out in a more satisfactory manner in Part Two of this diatribe, available soon. It's 1/3rd written, so it should see the light from Rudolph's nose before Christmas.

But for now, let's say that my dreams of "doing something" in the next phase of my life need to be better defined. I want to be heard, to make my mark, to write, to give voice to my thoughts and interests, to be more and consistently creative, and, yes, to find an audience. And more power to me.

But if The Graham Norton Show or Chris Kattan or Twitter or Christopher Hitchens are the measures of contemporary success, I think it best to include me out.

Stay tuned . .  .