Reel lives

Those who haven't spent the last few weeks nit-picking in the back of beyond have probably heard of The Da Vinci Code. But I think it's safe to assume that not many have yet heard of its spoof, The Albino Code. Dennis Hurley, an actor who just happens to be an albino, wanted to correct the misrepresentation of people with his condition by Silas, the villain in the aforementioned film.

On the (true) premise that the pen is mightier than the sword, he mish-mashed together a monk, a murder, a pizza (!), Ian McKellen, and a Mona Lisa Smile, among other things, and asks for starters, "What if Dan Brown has spent even ten seconds researching albinism?"

Ironically, during the shoot, director Aaron Howland was accosted by a woman in the street, who indicated Hurley and said that he needed "more white on his face" if he wanted to look like a real albino.

Then there's the another Media-on-Media film, He Said, She Said, in which Kevin Bacon as rotter, right-wing journalist Dan Hanson, and Elizabeth Perkins as vulnerable, liberal Lorie Bryer, find themselves competing for the same vacant column in a newspaper.

Eventually, they end up being carried side by side, since their opposing views under the aforesaid byline gain readership; and eventually, they transfer to television with their programme retaining their name, a sort of "agreeing to disagree" production.

It is inevitable that affairs of the heart intrude - but it looks like ending when she chucks her mug at him... on air. Interestingly, the film had two directors; Ken Kwapis for the "He Said" part, and Marisa Silver for the "She Said" sections.

We can only dream on; Maltese television hardly comes close to this type of satire.

John Cleese, currently writing a book on the history of humour on the small screen, was recently quoted as saying that too much current television comedy was targeted at "American teenage kids". I would gainsay that; because in Malta it seems that the only people who are catered for are those with nothing better to do than slouch in front of their television sets, age immaterial.

I have often said that some of my most interesting conversations have been with people I don't even know; only this week I met a lovely old lady who used to work with Shell in her youth, and a doctor who has recently graduated. The conversation with both somehow turned to the dire situation of Maltese television.

One of them mentioned a particular young lady who is always rolling her eyes to look at the studio monitor; the other decried the number of times people said biex nghidu hekk when they would have said something anyway, and other unprofessional expressions that, despite one's interests in the subject being tackled, are enough to make one zap.

Some time ago, indeed, I asked a "popular" (not my description) disc-jockey why he felt obliged to abort a record rather than fading it out, why he interrupted songs with his inane comments, and why he just spun discs without giving any worthwhile information whatsoever about them. The only answer I got was the supercilious one that there is such a thing as Performing Rights, and that, because of his antics, no one could record the songs off the radio.

With the advent of downloading any sort of material from the Internet, this explanation no longer holds water. Besides, just as music during dinner is an insult both to the cook and to the musician, so I would say that talking over records, and slurping on sweets loudly enough to be caught by even a microphone that is not highly directional, are unprofessional actions.

And with the World Cup hogging airtime in many households, this column gets a chance to beat the carpets. Suggestion No. 9 in a pull-out poster that came with my birthday card reads: "Television is not real life. Your life is not a sitcom. Your problems will not all be solved in 30 minutes, minus time for commercials. In real life, people actually have to leave the coffee shop to go to jobs..."

A slice of real life, indeed, appears to be on the horizon with Fil-Pjazza tar-Rahal, which will be, literally, a "roadshow" that travels from one village square to the next. There are going to be talent shows, with persons who have not yet acquired the habit of hogging the limelight like the afore-mentioned DJ. I did ask whether a "rahal" excluded towns and cities, but so far I have not been told what gives.

A quirky section will involve people who take a chance on their 15 minutes of fame by proposing a stunt they think they can carry out, with a prize for them if they do manage it.

There will be the inevitable interviews and information slots - and the whole thing will be live. Now that takes courage, commitment, and a hefty dose of elbow grease. The presenters will be Peter Carbonaro and Joe Debono, who bears a striking resemblance to... ah, but that would be telling.

Meanwhile, I wonder why there's all this fuss about the KDZ campaign; in my youth, we were told the succinct sentence True love waits, and that's all there was to it. It's just like the anti-drugs campaign, with a poster depicting a gaunt teenager's face and the words "skincare by Heroin", an allusion to the adverts by a well-known cosmetics company extant at the time.

Meanwhile, we've had nies ta' nisel Afrikan, u Gharab, come to Malta.

I was shopping, the other day, when the assistant asked an actress in a particular serial whether it would be taken up in the next schedule. Le, hi. Ma gbarniex bizzejjed riklami.

So much for art for art's sake. Is that why we have a xelta of things from which to choose?

And the other disc jockey told us that when Amedeo Minghi visited, it was a gurnata vera tal-Magnificat.