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WHEN LOUIS
MET ... MAX CLIFFORD |
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WHEN LOUIS MET JIMMY |
So this is how it ends? Not with a bang but a whimper. When Louis Met ... Max Clifford was undoubtedly the one that I was looking forward to - but what a disappointment. At least on this occasion, no blame can be attributed to Louis. Whereas in previous shows I've carped that, perhaps, our erstwhile host has allowed himself to become a little too close to his subject matter, it was clear from the off that Max Clifford was not going to allow that to happen. Indeed, Max seemed to be at pains to remain as detached as possible during the film - or as detached as one can be when Louis and crew are mirroring your every move. Ultimately unfulfilling, the programme served no real purpose other than to reinforce the widely held negative views we have of Max. The lines were drawn from the opening meeting between the two protagonists with Clifford unmistakably bent on confrontation as soon as was indecently possible. Whether this was his natural style or his defence mechanism remains open to interpretation but, either way, a clear signal was emitted that Louis was regarded as no more than a minor irritant, a media leech to be consumed and spat out by a larger parasite. Max evidently believes that motive lies at the heart of everything - and a twisted, grubby motive at that. His dystopian outlook is a poor man's David Lynch take on England's seamy underbelly (one which he feeds and strokes at will), and one at odds not only with reality but also at odds with his own proselytising brand of logical moralism. Clifford clearly expects all things to fit neatly into the prearranged synthesis of his train of thought. Citing to Louis that he thought, "he [Louis] gave people enough rope to hang themselves", this was classic catenaccio from the PR guru. The true stars of the show were - let it not be said that Clifford is anything less than a wonderful opportunist - Simon Cowell and Declan Galbraith (indeed, the latter's signing to EMI was splattered all over the press the day after transmission). The programme was merely a vehicle for two of Clifford's hottest properties. It was almost as if Max had made the show and Louis was merely narrating. Indeed, it seemed to merely segue from one of Clifford's clients to the next, with Louis being taken along - literally and metaphorically - for the ride. Unlike previous escapades with Anne, Keith and - especially - Chris, there was not a sniff nor scintilla of chemistry between Louis and Max. This impeded the natural drive of the show whilst simultaneously arresting any interest from the, by now, recalcitrant and reluctant viewer. Max seemed to realise this salient fact and attempted to inject humour in the form of a throwaway line during a phone call: "he was shagging that Christine Hamilton". There was some form of a point being proved here but I struggled to understand it. One thing that I have garnered from this current run is that Louis seems genuinely not to be in the least bothered if people don't have a clue who he is. There's an earnest playfulness in the lad that not even Max Clifford could deprive us of and it was Theroux's sheer chutzpah that carried this one through to the bitter end. Between bumping into Simon Cowell (again and again) and establishing the career of the hideously precocious (Tot Idol) Declan, we learned very little about Max other than he sees himself as a gatekeeper for the nation's love of filthy headlines and saucy stories. His wife seemed almost disengaged from the circus of her husband's life, their normality being almost quintessentially stereotypical. Unlike the last few weeks, going inside the Cliffords' home became a chore rather than a pleasure. This was filler television - something, I'm sure, Louis would never have envisaged occurring. At times, the sheer stiltedness of what was happening on screen reduced the level of entertainment to the banal. The only time Clifford became a watchable object were those occasions when he attempted to manipulate the presence of Theroux. Not being a Mirror reader, I can say that my only knowledge of the 3am Girls is from Private Eye. Thus I do know that they are piss poor at what they do. So by planting a story with typical trademark posed snaps in the Mirror to prove a point was a fairly facile and aimlessly unamusing diversion on Max's part. The later attempted set up, utilising a bloke from The Guardian (who was either stoned or the most stupid looking man I've ever seen) was mildly interesting but only in the sense that Max and the journalist were enacting an unravelling farce, complete with covert soundtrack. Had this been the opening programme in this current series, then perhaps I could have accorded it more latitude and afforded it greater respect. But this was, perhaps, the weakest Louis Meets thus far. Despite the best and valiant efforts of Louis, we were left with the inescapable fact that Max Clifford is simply an uninteresting bloke with a rather paranoid outlook on life. That's 50 minutes of my life that I'll never get back. |
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