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"READY, AMIS, FIRE"
A.A. Gill reviews Amis's TV talk with Saul
Bellow
The Times (London) 2 August, 1998
Posted by Vivian Droptrou
viviandroptrou@hotmail.com
Monday, January 03, 2000
06:29 PM
Martin Amis interviewed Saul Bellow in the States for
Bookmark (Saturday, BBC2). Poor Martin takes such a lot of stick in the British
press. I thought as a gesture of goodwill we'd award him today's 'Gary', just to
show we think he's quite as good as Will Self, who got Gary-garlanded a couple
of weeks back. I did promise myself I wasn't going to join the posse and have a
go at him, but you know, that smug, petulant little face turns up on the screen
and you just feel the palms of your hands prickle. I'm sure he's very nice, a
decent father, loyal friend, bon viveur and all-round good fellow. But on
screen, my God, he's the most irritating little tyke.
Notting Hill's Jeffrey Archer donned a simply frightful
raincoat and went and did that deeply infuriating arts documentary thing of
picking up his bags, locking the door and getting into the cab to drive to the
airport. Look, I know how you get to America. I already understand
intercontinental travel, I don't need to be shown it like illustrations in a
children's book. See Martin, see Martin in the taxi, see the aeroplane, see
Martin in the hotel. And have you noticed how uncannily like a new Labour
version of the Tories' Archer he actually is? They are both perky bantams, with
skin like rhino hide and the same game, slightly hurt air of why-me? And both
their names begin with 'A'. Sending Amis to interview Bellow is a marginally
better idea than sending Archer to interview Grisham, although not as good as
sending them both to Oshkosh, Nebraska, to interview each other.
The first problem with Amis interviewing Bellow was that he
can't interview. He somehow failed to understand that an interview generally, as
a rule of thumb, involves asking questions, as opposed to floating statements.
Now, I understand that asking questions feels embarrassingly like exhibiting
ignorance, while making statements shows us what a smart Mart you are. But then
Q&A is the way things are done, I'm afraid.
The other problem was the hero worship. For a boy to have
heroes is, of course, commendable and, in your forties, rather touching. To
confront him with the object of his adoration and then film the genuflection is
on a scale of embarrassment right up there with Noel Edmonds's gloop tank.
Bellow and Amis grinned and nodded and sent each other "love you to
death" vibes, while floating non-sequitur statements like little pink
Cupids.
The rest of the programme was made up of dramatised excerpts
of Bellow's books, which made you think he might be worth a bit of a holiday
read. And a lot of very pointless shots of Mart walking, see Mart walk, Mart
getting into a lift, see Mart in the lift, and Mart rolling his own...no, don't
look at that. I'm afraid this was the moment when I realised it was going to be
impossible not to have a pop at Mart. Is there anything more screechingly
annoying than watching a $1m-advanced author of diminutive stature roll his own
snouts? I think not.
Is there conceivably anything more ripely yearning for a sock
full of billiard balls in the kisser than a cool new Labour man of letters
coming on like a Borstal laddy for the cameras, apropos of nothing, except to
show a little moment of faux-proletarian wide-boy street-smart dexterity. Know
what I mean? Sorted.
All too soon, it was over. See Mart come home, see Mart open
the door, see Mart drop his suitcase. Note to continuity: love, the bag was
quite plainly empty. But then, as a metaphor for this programme, perhaps it was
done on purpose.
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