I was genuinely excited to tune into the first installment of ITV2's 'The Exclusives' last night. So much so it pained me to wait the extra couple of hours (I am without the luxury of a tv) while a flurry of running commentary inundated my twitter feed.
But wait I did and that initial pain was soon exchanged for anger, similarly to ‘The Exclusives’ hash tagged tweets I was reading a few hours previous. Suffice to say 140 character reviews leave a lot to the imagination so I am (blissfully) unaware of the consensual response to the show.
Agree, disagree or don't give a fuck, this is my analysis.
Who are these people?
The 30 second trailer was enough to garner hate for every single one of them which can confidently be alluded to the poor casting choices exhibited by the explicit stereotypes of the chosen six– bolshie girls, posh boy, sob-story, he thinks he’s a bit cool older man etc etc.
The first episode shows the stereotyped youths thrown into the deep end (or fashion cupboard in the case of Felix and Ellie) at More! magazine. Watching a straight boy get tangled up in a dress (“or is it a sarong?”) in the magazine’s fashion cupboard was the probable highlight and illustrated exactly why you don’t come across many male fashion interns – they are clueless. Meanwhile, glamour model (iknowright) Hayley, lathers Johnson’s onto the torso of some non-list seleb as Stuart (last chance saloon older man) struggles to understand why said so-called selebz are worthy of a photo shoot he’s at to steam clothes (“ball ache”) and tie laces, in the first place.
The first rule of journalism:
1. Know your field.
Granted it’s far from his ideal job but faaaacking hell I swear the brief featured a requirement of expertise somewhere. Oh there it is sat comfortably alongside: tenacity, initiative and creativity…
All the while the other two - sob story (foster kid) and ghetto gal - lament over transcribing interviews: “I mean I wasn’t expecting to be interviewing Beyonce”, says Shiny. She clearly was.
Rule number two:
2. Erm I think that’s a fundamental part of the journalist job description love.
They were then told they were going to the Brits, that is, hang around outside the after parties screaming like banshees to physically grab the attention of aforementioned non-list celeb’s friends. It transpires Felix cannot use a dictaphone - major school boy error but it’s fine ‘cos Hayley’s “just happy to be here.” While Ellie reckons her battle with the paparazzi for a (probably blurry) photo of Caroline Flack’s legs puts her a cut above the rest.
ITV2 does The Apprentice
In the words of my house mate: “Are you for fucking real!?”
Apparently some people are, namely, the broadcast agency who promised the show would be "The Apprentice for journalists" - a promise which was broken into a million pieces five minutes into the opening episode.
The only mirroring similarity the two share is the quotient of token twats – except they all are so it’s not really a token novelty is it? Rather, instead, their infuriating ignorance pisses all over any entertainment value potential.
Who is your Lord Sugar? Channy (Editor) or Abbie (Senior Features Writer)? The latter looks in disbelief at forgot-what-his name-is’s directing skills in the final task to only unanimously congratulate them afterwards. Constructive critiscm at its best. Lord Shugz would not stand for that even in the toddler version of the show he’s brash but brutaully honest with each individual hopeful.
In summary there are scores of more talented aspiring journalists who warrant a place on the show and who would have made better, more credible TV. But their cringing ignorances struck a comedic bell as it is a sight I am all too familiar with.
It had every potential to be a decent reality TV show but I think at its best it's a (6-week) feature length, ad campaign for Bauer Media. I can deal with that; print should be shouted about. I cannot deal with the apparently nameless, glorified interns lapping up the ‘glamour’ of the fashion cupboard because you “love clothes”.
I know where to go if I want to watch clueless girls fanny around fashion cupboards convincing themselves, through the power of a 160-character twitter bio, they're magazine journalists. And it ain't on my sofa in the throes of a mid-week slump.
What did y'all think?