In Excess (Channel 4, Tuesday)
Masters of the Universe (Channel 4, Sunday)
Home Ground (BBC 2, Tuesday)
Questions and Answers (RTE 1, Monday)
Seeking Pleasure (BBC 2, Wednesday)
Possessing, allegedly, "the Taj Mahal of crotches", the late Michael Hutchence was not stingy with his architectural gem. As vocalist for the rock band INXS, Hutchence was ideally-placed to indulge in sexual thrill-seeking and, by most accounts, he applied himself with a diligence well beyond that of the mere dilettante. "Twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, hidden cameras - Michael was into all that," said his friend, Nick Egan. How about sado-masochism, choking and tieing-up? "Yeah, yeah, he did everything," said his lover, Paula Yates.
Ever since Hutchence was found dead in room 524 of Sydney's Ritz-Carlton hotel, on November 22nd, 1997, there's been speculation that he choked to death while engaged in a bizarre sexual act. The official verdict of the New South Wales coroner Derrick Hand is that the singer committed suicide. However, In Excess: Death Of Michael Hutchence maintained that a bout of "autoerotic asphyxiation" resulted in the singer accidentally strangling himself. The programme, even though it was almost as narcissistically portentous as the carryon it indicted, made a strong case.
Autoerotic asphyxiation hit the headlines in the early 1990s, when it was blamed for the death of British Conservative MP, Stephen Milligan. The process, designed to increase the intensity of orgasm, involves the use of apparatus to produce asphyxiation. Apparently, by reducing or cutting-off the flow of oxygen to the brain, the Taj Mahal of sexual thrills can be experienced. In Britain alone, about 200 people - men and women - die every year seeking such ecstasy.
We met Stephen Hucker, described as "the leading expert in the world on autoerotic asphyxiation". The simple facts that Michael Hutchence was found naked, that a belt and a ring-bolt screw were involved, that there was no final note and that he clearly enjoyed risk, were enough to convince Hucker this was not a case of suicide. "He would have hated to be found naked. It means a loss of dignity," added Paula Yates.
Indeed it does. But there was not a great deal of dignity in any aspect of this sordid story. We saw reconstructions of the hotel room scene, when the singer's body was discovered. We heard that on the fatal night, Hutchence had drunk wine, beer, vodka, champagne and cocktails to wash down the Valium, Prozac and other antidepressants he took with his cocaine. Clearly, Michael liked a buzz. His was an archetypal story of sex 'n' drugs 'n' rock 'n' roll and it was impossible not to feel voyeuristic watching In Excess.
An excerpt from the Big Breakfast interview between Yates and Hutchence was screened. The pair lay on a bed, their legs entwined, their mouths uttering banalities. According to Yates, they had sex half-an-hour later. "I know a lot of people were asking Michael: `How can you leave a supermodel for a fat housewife?'," she said. Indeed they were but she insisted that Hutchence became besotted by her and their baby daughter Heavenly Hirani Tiger Lily. Mention of the child reminded you that it's possible to be in excess in names as well as in behaviour.
Anyway, as investigative documentary, this one was convincing. The pity, however, was that the absurdly ominous tone, complete with funereal music and the teaser-warning that "this programme contains descriptions of sexual behaviour that some people may find disturbing" added marketing hype to a sad and sordid story. Worst of all though was, given the context, the insensitively breathless style of narration. In a tale concerning asphyxiation, this compounded a sense of degradation, not revelation. Certainly, it, like Hutchence's life, was in excess - not so much the Taj Mahal as a cheap, concrete tower-block of documentary technique.
While it's difficult to imagine people more self-aggrandising than pop stars and TV/cinema faces, the crowd who like to be known as Masters of the Universe are unlikely to win any shrinking violet awards. Masters, no less . . . of the bloody universe! There's self-confidence for you. The masters, stealing their title from the Wall Street jerks in Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vani- ties, are management consultants. It would appear from the opening episode of Channel 4's new series that we are facing a serious infestation of the breed.
Michael Hammer is, I suppose, a master master. He modestly describes his "re-engineering" idea as: "the most important economic theory since Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations". (Smith, by the way, died in 1790.) Hammer's hype reminds us of contemporary business culture's poverty of notions. To hammer home how great he is, Michael charges $70,000 per "seminar". He defines re-engineering as "the radical redesign of business processes for dramatic improvement". Like rationalising, downsizing and rightsizing, re-engineering never admits that it's centrally about sacking people in order to make fewer do more.
We saw Hammer in action. In an American hotel room of the most opulent bad taste, he combined the motormouth styles of Jim Bakker and Ben Elton with the kind of pinstripe wit and groaning, patronising aphorisms to be heard at IMI conferences and golf club dinners. One British managing director, as a result of listening to Hammer, has managed to cut his company's workforce from 36,000 to 16,000 in three years. That is, no doubt, a huge saving but it would have been telling to hear customers' opinions on the resulting quality of service. We didn't.
Old footage recalled the "time and motion" men of the first half of the century. We saw an austere manager with a clipboard and stopwatch standing over a female machinist sewing clothes. He timed her movements and made notes. Then he moved off with a managerial strut, which, really, didn't look like the most efficient of walks. Perhaps some re-engineering of his knee and hip joints would have produced a more efficient and economical style of movement. Maybe they should have fitted him with wheels or mounted him on rails to maximise his productivity as he moved between the machinists' benches.
Still, the consultants seem here to stay. As in every other endeavour, there are undoubtedly intelligent, sensible, worthwhile ones and a lot of charlatans too. "They're opportunists who've found a niche in the market and good luck to them because they're glorified salespeople," said Alan Sugar. Even the BBC spends about £20 million a year on consultants - about one per cent of licence fee revenue. Clearly, their power and influence is very substantial. But are they self-reflective? Do they ever try a cull on themselves? Is there not a grossly parasitic as well as an efficiency-promoting strain in the breed?
After the opulence of the managerial seminars, Home Ground: Julie's Story dealt with life on the streets of Manchester's red light district. First shown in 1998, this account of violence faced by prostitutes echoed the current debate in this country, which has resulted from the banning of In Dublin magazine. The Irish situation was discussed on the Vincent Browne-chaired Questions and Answers. The rhetoric of a talk-show, though most of the contributions were earnest and logical, couldn't quite match the impact of an on-location documentary.
Julie Jones was murdered on a June Saturday in 1998. She had been severely beaten and her chest cavity was crushed. Her naked body was found in dense undergrowth by a dog. Many prostitutes believe that because prostitutes are widely considered to be second-class citizens, Julie's murder was met with a second-class official response. Naturally, the police deny this allegation although they do admit that, as many prostitutes take Michael Hutchence-style risks, public sympathy for their fates is generally muted.
It's undeniably true. We saw seaside holiday photographs of Julie as a 10- or 12-year-old girl. Her family insisted that before she drifted into severe drug abuse, she had been a happy child. But the mood darkened when the cameras, accompanied by a gently wailing, city-at-night saxophone, went out on the streets. Zoom shots of rain-clogged gutters, reflections of neon-signs shimmering in the water, can produce plaintive atmospherics. Here though, they correctly enhanced a sense of a world that is ominous, seedy and grubby: neon replacing the fog of Jack the Ripper's Whitechapel of 1888.
This was crucial. The romanticised prostitution of Hollywood's vile Pretty Woman or the Playboy-style babes used in ads to market the racket are, arguably, more obscene than the core business of the trade itself. As with management consultants, language, as well as images are mangled. So brothels become massage-parlours where "relief" is sold. Perhaps the clean-up should begin with the advertising industry - but then the upstanding champions of the "free-market" might not be best pleased. After all, they've got a universe to run.
Anyway, between Home Ground and Questions and Answers, television pretty well proved that a more humane, albeit more regulated, official policy to prostitution seems to be about the best answer. Certainly, the dangers to fundamental freedoms from opportunistic censorship are too grave to allow this Irish solution to an Irish problem to continue. Julie Jones's story has happened in Dublin too and, given the usually less-than-caring backgrounds of most prostitutes, arguments about free choice are spurious. RTE could do worse than to buy and screen Julie's Story . . . immediately after Pretty Woman.
Finally, Seeking Pleasure. No, not more Michael Hutchence or red light district carry-on. This one looks at retired people - people who retire from work, not from life. As the US and increasingly, parts of western Europe, continue to corral old people in "retirement villages", it was heartening to meet David and Muriel. They sold their house and used the proceeds, plus years of savings on their modest incomes, to buy a 38-foot yacht to sail around the world. It mightn't be everybody's idea of the Taj Mahal of retirements. But it's pleasing to think that at least a few averagely-incomed oldies can genuinely claim to be masters of their own universe. Beats bingo, don't you think?