My wife and I have just returned from a holiday in Egypt where, among the many enjoyable pleasures of the Red Sea resort, my wife was able to catch up with the delights that are Russian television, available in glorious technicolour on a wide screen TV in our hotel room. Choosing not to subscribe to satellite TV in the UK it is only rarely that she is able to watch television in her native tongue. Being unable to speak a word of the language has never proved an issue for me since I tend to put my own words to the pictures and Lambeth has told me that often my plot lines are better than the actual script.
To be honest technicolour is rather wasted on Russian TV since sets generally come in one of two varieties. Either the sets and the costumes are varying shades of brown or the entire screen looks like a psychedelic nightmare which even the most modern TV sets cannot cope with.
Let me make it clear that we did not go on holiday simply to watch Russian TV, though it did prove a useful distraction while winding down from a hard day of snorkelling and flopping out on the sunbed.
Russian TV may not be the greatest spectacle in the world though it does have its moments which strike a chord for all the wrong reasons.
Perhaps the makers of ‘Judge Judy’ could learn from their Russian counterpart – not only do the cases invariably descend into a verbal free-for-all but the police guard, toting a Kalashnikov rifle from his hip, stands meekly by looking completely bored by proceedings.
They have their own forensic crime series, The Force, (or as prefer to call it ‘The Farce’) which is just as glossy and high-tech as CSI though the actors seem to be unaware of what they are trying to achieve. No one appears to wear gloves when collecting evidence. Obviously contaminated evidence doesn’t count for much in a criminal system of questionable moral stature. I love the way that one of the senior female investigators routinely turns up at a crime scene in her 6 inch stiletto shoes.
Russian cosmetics must be the best in the world, especially the mascara. Whereas English soaps are predominantly a series of shouting matches linked by a few weak plots, Russian soaps consist largely of people crying. I am not sure whether there is actually any plot or story line, it just seems that each episode focuses on a different member of the cast crying for one reason or another. The strange thing is that this never seems to affect their makeup – no streaks or red eyes and not even a hair out of place. Every expense seems to have been spared on these soaps because not only are the sets very basic but it is not unknown for some of the actors to wear the same costume throughout. I guess it makes continuity easier but it is hard to take a character seriously when they wear the same thick roll-neck sweater in all conditions, be it Summer or Winter, rain or shine. One of my favourite soap characters is ‘Boris’, a middle–aged man who always wears the same black trousers, black shirt and plain brown tie. Even in a passionate love scene the tie would not be removed. He always seemed to be given a hard time by most of the other characters. I guess I felt sorry for him because, when I last stayed in Russia, I almost sent him a new tie because he appeared in a new series in the same clothes as he had worn in every episode of the previous one.
In truth, none of the TV channels was particularly good and the exterior walls of Shanks’ Palace will remain unblemished by cables or satellite dish.
By way of fostering a spirit of entente cordiale, and to pass the time, Lam and I would daily play a game where we would assess the merits or demerits of individual nations in a global tourist league. This largely consisted of nominating 2 particular nationalities to be love and hate figures for the day. We would then spend the day thinking of all the good and bad things about those countries. Initially it was to be restricted to countries that we had visited, though this rule was later relaxed to allow the inclusion of certain countries that we considered worthy of scrutiny. Each country selected was given the opportunity to be assessed as the love and hate figure for a day, those considered favourably in the first week being subject to the reverse assessment in the second. Not only did this provide us with 2 champions as favourite and least favourite nation but a whole raft of other awards to individual countries for selective traits, such as natural beauty, friendliness, transportation, cuisine, historic interest, etiquette, dress sense or culture.
To prevent the Eastern block countries ganging up against the rest of the world only Russia and Croatia were taken into consideration. Belgium was excluded on grounds that (other than giving the world Tintin and Jacques Brel) it is not really a country, just a place that people drive through on the way to somewhere else. This may come as a surprise to most Belgians but could explain why they treat their roads as a race track.
Australia scored highly as the penal colony of choice, fighting off a strong challenge from Cuba. The natural beauty and number of tourist attractions were a positive selling point though the country lost ground because of bush tucker and the number of creepie-crawlies. While air miles was deemed a bonus travelling to the other side of the world to be insulted by whinging, tattooed, lager-swilling, sport-obsessed bar staff was considered a trek too far and one that could be experienced for a fraction of the cost in almost any Earls Court pub.
Our conclusion was that ultimately money talks, which meant that the wealthier nations tended to rank highly in both leagues for all the wrong reasons. The USA may have a great number of worthy attractions though this needed to be offset against the crime of introducing the world to McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken. The fact that the country is a financial powerhouse does not give their citizens the right to behave as if they own the entire world. The Germans may have lost their desire for global domination though their appetite to commandeer the sunbeds remains undiminished. Rich, loud Muscovites, splashing the cash did little to endear the Russian tourist in either league. Needless to say, the England never wins anything; Britain is expensive, the weather is awful, transportation unreliable, and the English are too polite or lazy to argue about the results. Surprise winners of the Hate League for 2010 were, Iceland, on grounds that neither of us has ever met an Icelandic tourist, we have no wish to visit a geyser, glacier or mud pool, and their gifts to the world seem to have been a major banking crisis, a cloud of volcanic ash and Bjork – all of which would lend weight to the argument that they are worthy winners of this accolade.
On a completely different note I must mention the incident that took place regarding a film we purchased for our camera. I was casually relaxing in the sun one afternoon when Lam strolled up dangling the camera from her wrist, disappointment etched across her face. “You would think that you would get more than 27 pictures on a 10 metre roll of film, and why hadn’t I purchased the 30 metre film instead.” Now I may not know my Digital zoom from a Box Brownie but, as I was able to point out to her while suppressing a wry smile, the 10 metres is a reference to the depth at which this underwater camera would operate and since neither of us was ever likely to swim deeper than 10 metres any extra could be considered an overkill. It is always hard to take someone seriously when they are wearing a snorkel and goggles.
Russian TV may not be the greatest spectacle in the world though it does have its moments which strike a chord for all the wrong reasons.
Perhaps the makers of ‘Judge Judy’ could learn from their Russian counterpart – not only do the cases invariably descend into a verbal free-for-all but the police guard, toting a Kalashnikov rifle from his hip, stands meekly by looking completely bored by proceedings.
They have their own forensic crime series, The Force, (or as prefer to call it ‘The Farce’) which is just as glossy and high-tech as CSI though the actors seem to be unaware of what they are trying to achieve. No one appears to wear gloves when collecting evidence. Obviously contaminated evidence doesn’t count for much in a criminal system of questionable moral stature. I love the way that one of the senior female investigators routinely turns up at a crime scene in her 6 inch stiletto shoes.
Russian cosmetics must be the best in the world, especially the mascara. Whereas English soaps are predominantly a series of shouting matches linked by a few weak plots, Russian soaps consist largely of people crying. I am not sure whether there is actually any plot or story line, it just seems that each episode focuses on a different member of the cast crying for one reason or another. The strange thing is that this never seems to affect their makeup – no streaks or red eyes and not even a hair out of place. Every expense seems to have been spared on these soaps because not only are the sets very basic but it is not unknown for some of the actors to wear the same costume throughout. I guess it makes continuity easier but it is hard to take a character seriously when they wear the same thick roll-neck sweater in all conditions, be it Summer or Winter, rain or shine. One of my favourite soap characters is ‘Boris’, a middle–aged man who always wears the same black trousers, black shirt and plain brown tie. Even in a passionate love scene the tie would not be removed. He always seemed to be given a hard time by most of the other characters. I guess I felt sorry for him because, when I last stayed in Russia, I almost sent him a new tie because he appeared in a new series in the same clothes as he had worn in every episode of the previous one.
In truth, none of the TV channels was particularly good and the exterior walls of Shanks’ Palace will remain unblemished by cables or satellite dish.
By way of fostering a spirit of entente cordiale, and to pass the time, Lam and I would daily play a game where we would assess the merits or demerits of individual nations in a global tourist league. This largely consisted of nominating 2 particular nationalities to be love and hate figures for the day. We would then spend the day thinking of all the good and bad things about those countries. Initially it was to be restricted to countries that we had visited, though this rule was later relaxed to allow the inclusion of certain countries that we considered worthy of scrutiny. Each country selected was given the opportunity to be assessed as the love and hate figure for a day, those considered favourably in the first week being subject to the reverse assessment in the second. Not only did this provide us with 2 champions as favourite and least favourite nation but a whole raft of other awards to individual countries for selective traits, such as natural beauty, friendliness, transportation, cuisine, historic interest, etiquette, dress sense or culture.
To prevent the Eastern block countries ganging up against the rest of the world only Russia and Croatia were taken into consideration. Belgium was excluded on grounds that (other than giving the world Tintin and Jacques Brel) it is not really a country, just a place that people drive through on the way to somewhere else. This may come as a surprise to most Belgians but could explain why they treat their roads as a race track.
Australia scored highly as the penal colony of choice, fighting off a strong challenge from Cuba. The natural beauty and number of tourist attractions were a positive selling point though the country lost ground because of bush tucker and the number of creepie-crawlies. While air miles was deemed a bonus travelling to the other side of the world to be insulted by whinging, tattooed, lager-swilling, sport-obsessed bar staff was considered a trek too far and one that could be experienced for a fraction of the cost in almost any Earls Court pub.
Our conclusion was that ultimately money talks, which meant that the wealthier nations tended to rank highly in both leagues for all the wrong reasons. The USA may have a great number of worthy attractions though this needed to be offset against the crime of introducing the world to McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken. The fact that the country is a financial powerhouse does not give their citizens the right to behave as if they own the entire world. The Germans may have lost their desire for global domination though their appetite to commandeer the sunbeds remains undiminished. Rich, loud Muscovites, splashing the cash did little to endear the Russian tourist in either league. Needless to say, the England never wins anything; Britain is expensive, the weather is awful, transportation unreliable, and the English are too polite or lazy to argue about the results. Surprise winners of the Hate League for 2010 were, Iceland, on grounds that neither of us has ever met an Icelandic tourist, we have no wish to visit a geyser, glacier or mud pool, and their gifts to the world seem to have been a major banking crisis, a cloud of volcanic ash and Bjork – all of which would lend weight to the argument that they are worthy winners of this accolade.
On a completely different note I must mention the incident that took place regarding a film we purchased for our camera. I was casually relaxing in the sun one afternoon when Lam strolled up dangling the camera from her wrist, disappointment etched across her face. “You would think that you would get more than 27 pictures on a 10 metre roll of film, and why hadn’t I purchased the 30 metre film instead.” Now I may not know my Digital zoom from a Box Brownie but, as I was able to point out to her while suppressing a wry smile, the 10 metres is a reference to the depth at which this underwater camera would operate and since neither of us was ever likely to swim deeper than 10 metres any extra could be considered an overkill. It is always hard to take someone seriously when they are wearing a snorkel and goggles.
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