"ELVIS," said Elvis impersonator Ben Somers, "had the unique ability of being Elvis." It was the sort of assertion that you might expect to be followed by "Discuss". Certainly, if any college ever offers a module in "Elvis And Existentialism" (and no doubt, one will) Mr Somers's contention will require serious debate.
Doesn't it negate though, the whole point of impersonating Elvis?
Not that futility has ever stopped fanatics zipping themselves into Las Vegas jumpsuits. Sweet Dreams profiled two of them - Dubliner Ben and Belfastman Ken Gribben, who calls himself "Curtis King". Ben `n' Ken present different interpretations of Elvis. This is because Ken looks like Elvis and Ben looks like ... well, like a bloke in an Elvis jumpsuit, who doesn't look remotely like Elvis. But Ben sounds more like Elvis than Ken does. And not just when he's singing.
Ben left his Dublin factory job - where he "used to sing" his "arse off" - because it was "Yawnsville, Arizona". So he has opted to live a fantasy life. "Look," he said, "I'd be a singing method actor." Easy on, Ben.
Ken's interpretation is closer to pure mimicry. "I study tapes for ages," he said, "even to get an eyebrow movement. The true Elvis fan will notice these things."
Ken is a salesman. We saw him driving around singing I Just Can't Help Believin', and when his day's work was done, he got into his white jumpsuit. A white stretch-limo pulled into the suburban close where Ken lives. In suit, shades, wig and side-burns, Ken got into the car. It was impossible to know whether laughing, crying or cheering was the appropriate response.
When he arrived for his gig, a few giggling women began to paw him.
Whether they were motivated, by lust, pity, mockery, or a cajoling director it was, again, impossible to say. But really, the world of Elvis impersonation is beyond the twilight zone. Seeing Ken practise his karate and lip curls in Room 77 of Wynn's Hotel was a remarkable experience, - like a car crash, you couldn't look and yet you couldn't look away.
He was certainly enjoying himself. But referring (as did Ben) to himself as "we" - as though the spirit of the one Elvis, who had the unique ability of being Elvis, had entered him - was dodgy. Surely, this sort of identification puts a strain on mental stability? Added to the aesthetic abomination that is an Elvis Presley jumpsuit, this can hardly be healthy.
Why do almost all these impersonators opt for the Las Vegas Elvis? After all, by that stage the brilliant young Presley had been turned into an overweight slob making money for shysters. And the suits? In all fashion - even showbiz fashion - is there anything more revolting than an Elvis jumpsuit? Maybe kilts for men or that unspeakable national costume worn by Greek males run it close. But for sustained ugliness, over and above the call of duty, the Elvis jumpsuit has got to be a triple platinum number one.
Sweet Dreams was made by Graph Films who in recent years has brought us The Morrison Tapes and Hallelujah, Love And Stuff With this latest, well-paced and slickly edited series, it should have another winner. Good luck to Ben `n' Ken, as Irish Elvis impersonators. But, as with El Vez, the Mexican Elvis, who has Mexicanised the original Memphis schlock, the great leap forward for Irish Elvistry might be in Irishising more. A red-haired Elvis, in a white, rhinestone-encrusted, bainin jumpsuit - now that has appeal. Otherwise, in 1997, it all seems too much like "been there, done that, got the jumpsuit".
PANORAMA reminded us that when we can indulge ourselves in considerations of Elvistry, we're lucky. Fergal Keane's documentary Facing Up To Genocide - Valentina's Story, which focused on the experiences of one orphan girl in Rwanda, was a splendid piece of reporting. In a week when Irish journalism haggled over the prominence that ought to be accorded a court soap opera, this was the right stuff.
It was, of course, a story which did not need to be hyped or made dramatic for the media. The most important thing about it was that it was told. "When you kill rats, you don't spare the babies," Hutu radio had told its listeners. So they didn't. They smashed the heads of the Tutsi babies with rocks and even slashed the stomachs of pregnant women to ensure the unborn babies would remain that way.
Valentina hid under rotting corpses from where she saw her father and brother being killed. They were cut to pieces. With ghoulish normality, the killers kept normal working hours, returning home every evening. Echoes of Auschwitz sounded louder as the story unfolded. And yes, of course, the killers, when confronted, said they "were only following orders". They had, after all, been told that it was their "civic duty" to eliminate the "cockroach" Tutsis.
As ever in Africa, the UN sure distinguished itself. Boutros Boutros Ghali arrived, reluctantly and too late, to tell the people of Valentina's village "I want you to know that I share your suffering". He didn't and even if he wanted to, he couldn't. Not unless he was prepared to have his family butchered, undergo a machete attack which would mutilitate him, and at most die of starvation and disease while he lived among rotting corpses.
The "I share your suffering", was too bloody easy and offensively inappropriate. Keane's documentary, in opting to show and not comment, chose wisely. Perhaps the extent of the focus on Valentina, though the technique did humanise horror made abstract by statistics, was a little laboured and excessive. But that is a tiny quibble. This was fine, conventional TV journalism.
WHICH Diary Of A Princess was not. Narrated in, the first person by Princess Diana, Britain's self proclaimed wannabe "queen of"hearts", Diary Of A Princess was "good cause" celebrity journalism - the sort of thing that RTE radio now seems keen to promote. OK, there's an argument that, in going to Angola to campaign against landmines, she was directing attention to a cause which needed it. But the happy coincidence that Diana, whose stated intention is to become a sort of "roving ambassador for Britain", would further her aims with this trip, was just too opportunist.
"Actually," she told some Red Cross workers, "I feel more comfortable doing this end of the market than the other. But you have to speak to the people at the top - the prime ministers." It had all the integrity of a Boutros Boutros Ghali platitude.
BACK in freakshow TV, Cutting Edge screened a documentary titled Bounty Hunter. It featured Ted Oliver, a hard case from Luton, England, who works hunting criminals in America. Recently finished a two-year jail sentence in Britain (for stabbing his wife), Ted is back at work. "Once you do that sort of work and you hunt people down with guns, you just can't find a Job like it," he says. Isn't a vocation wonderful?
In super-tight vest, jeans, ponytail and earring, Ted looks the part. The very fat blokes he travels with in Tacoma, Washington state, look like Hollywood versions of middle-American family men. One of them, Bruce Johnston, is a part-time bounty hunter. "Yep, I like to do it for my holidays. I come up here for vacations Do unto others ...
In truth, what the lads really do unto others is to lord it over assorted American lowlifes. Drug addicts, prostitutes, petty criminals - all poor people with problems - are the bounty hunters' prey. Ted and the fat blokes break into the poor peoples houses and bellow. They crouch, their guns held out in front with both hands. Then they handcuff the fugitives, shout a bit and bring them to the police.
There's nothing remotely romantic about it. It's not like a western, it's just urban sleaze and squalor. None of the bail jumpers looked like they had a dollar and why Ted Oliver is so turned on by the gig is suspicious. Perhaps the best bit, at least for those with a Saharan sense of humour, was when Ted brought his friend, Don, out on a job. Ted's description of Don's role was "work experience".
THE quirkiest half hour of the week was provided by Thirty-Five Aside, an oddly engaging film about a 12-year-old boy's first few weeks at a new school. Philip Maguire (James Mahon) has a father in jail, a granny who should be and a despairing mother. When the granny buys Philip a new schoolbag - white, with pink and blue teddy bears on it and big, as a small sofa - you know, he's in for a terrible beating.
And so it happens. "It's probably just their way of saying hello," says his mother. Nerdy Phil plays with his model aeroplanes. His tormentors play football. In a memorable scene, he swaps a model plane for a ball and still ends up playing by himself in a park, to a booming version of You'll Never Walk Alone. But at least his father's coming home.
A human version (well semi human version) of Dustin the Turkey, Philip's father, Frank, enjoys an hilarious two minutes of freedom. "We're out! The boys are back in town! Wha!" he says, before assaulting a bloke in a traffic tiff. After that, Philip tries to hang himself, but just pulls the flex and light socket out of the ceiling. Still, his mother saves the day, terrorising Philip's school tormentors with a butcher's knife. The football jocks learn to see things Phil's way. Written and directed by Damien O'Donnell, Thirty-Five Aside had the zany, comic moralising of the best eastern European cartoons. It also had fine performances from Mahon and Marie Hayden as his mother. It was a kind of Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha . . . only funnier.
FINALLY, On mBreith go Bas. The first programme in a six-part series was titled Birth and dealt with effects of the birth of a child in three different cases - a married, couple, an unmarried couple and a single mother. Admirably honest and flavoured with the right amount of telling detail, it certainly deserved more than the sort of ratings TnaG is pulling in.
But competence - even excellence - is no guarantee for TnaG success at this stage. Many of its programmes are at least the equal of those offered by its competitors. But, competence will not get enough people to zap to an Irish-language station. It's sad to say, but what TnaG needs now is a sustained PR campaign. Celebrity, even, notoriety, not quality, is becoming the currency of too much successful media today.