Jonathon Delacour the heart of things

30,000 cretins Britons and an American con artist

Via Arts & Letters Daily came news of “a list of the 100 greatest Britons of all time, chosen by a sample of 30,000 people” for a proposed television series.

The B’s alone provide a clear sense of the whole ghastly project:

Baden-Powell, Robert: founder of the World Scout Movement (1857-1941)

Bader, Douglas: Second World War fighter pilot (1910-1982)

Beckham, David: England and Manchester United player (1975-)

Bell, Alexander Graham: invented the telephone (1847-1922)

Benn, Tony: Left-wing stalwart and former Labour MP. (1925-)

Berners Lee, Tim: developer of world wide web. (1955-)

Bevan, Aneurin: father of the NHS (1897-1960)

Blair, Tony: Prime Minister (1953-)

Blake, William: poet and painter (1757-1827)

Bono: lead singer of Irish band U2 (1960-)

Booth, William: founded the Salvation Army (1829-1912)

Boudicca: Queen of the Iceni (?-AD60)

Bowie, David: singer (1947-)

Boy George: singer (1961-)

Branson, Richard: businessman and founder of Virgin group (1950-)

Bruce, Robert: King of Scotland (1274-1329)

Brunel, Isambard Kingdom: engineer and designer (1806-1859)

Burton, Richard: actor (1925-1984)

Various commentators have noted the absence of Byron (Jeff Ward will no doubt be relieved that Blake made it in). In his telegraph.co.uk op ed, Daniel Johnson suggests why there are so many inexplicable omissions:

By abdicating from the duty to select its own list in favour of an opinion poll, the BBC made the triumph of the lowest common denominator certain.

And so it has proved. The Great Britons list lurches from the idiosyncratic to the idiotic, from the sublime to the ridiculous. For every genuinely great man or woman included, there are more who belong on another list entirely: that of the greatest nonentities of all time. Instead of Robert Peel, the statesman, we have John Peel, the disc jockey.

Part of the trouble is that the contemporary notion of “celebrity” seems to have left people genuinely confused about what greatness is. Many perhaps suppose that to be great is the same as to be famous. The legions of stars from television, pop music, sport and film - almost all of them ephemeral - fall into this category.

Odd that on the same day, I read about the Great Britons list in the morning, and in the evening watched Schtick Happens, the sequel to Original Schtick:

If you think you’ve come across the most annoying, manipulative and egotistical person you’re ever likely to meet, then think again, because you’re about to be introduced to Bob Fischer. Original Schtick follows the path of destruction and chaos carved through the lives and careers of Melbourne’s fine arts community by this one-man nouveau-pop art tornado. Fischer is a brash, hyper-confident American artist who plunges himself into a whirlpool of self-hype and media frenzy with unconcealed ambition, egotistical zeal, and an unshakeable belief in his own greatness…

In Original Schtick, made by Maciej Wszelaki in Melbourne three years ago, Bob Fischer cons a succession of gullible artists and gallery owners, leaving behind him a trail of bitterness, resentment, and grudging admiration for his relentless pursuit of fame. Towards the end of filming, Fischer hates the director, the producer, and the film itself but cannot bring himself to withdraw from the project.

Three years later, in Schtick Happens, we catch up with Wszelaki and his producer at the Sundance Festival where Original Schtick has been entered—not by the production company, but by Bob Fischer himself. Fischer detests the film yet he’s seen it 25 times; he resents the fact that it portrays him as a thoroughly despicable prick but relishes the attention of the audience; and, in a fleeting moment of self-awareness, he realizes that this artful piece of character assassination posing as a documentary offers his best chance at achieving the fame he so desperately desires.

As painful as they are to watch, both these films are riveting. There’s no character arc—Bob Fischer is an arsehole at the beginning of the first documentary and he remains one at the end of the second. Nothing really happens: he just tromps all over one sucker after another. Fischer appears to learn nothing, either about himself or those around him. He alienates almost everyone with whom he comes into contact. And yet at some deep level it’s impossible not to feel a degree of sympathy for his (entirely self-created) predicament. Anyone who has thirsted for fame or recognition (who hasn’t?) can’t help but recognize the Fischer that lurks within. Perhaps that’s why the Great Britons list is stacked with nonentities. They pose little threat to our fragile sense of self-worth.

Permalink