TELEVISION: Hazel Friedman
THERE’S an old Greek saying which, roughly translated, goes: “If the cake rises, who do you thank? The recipe or the cook?” Director Gray Hofmeyr used to have the answer to that one. After all, he was the chef who propelled Greek cooking into The Big Time with his acclaimed television series. In his latest directorial venture into comedy, Hofmeyr might have got the ingredients down pat — a hot cast, a neat concept and precision timing — but the biggest rise he seems to be getting is in viewer irritation levels. In short, Suburban Bliss — billed as South Africa’s first home-brewed sitcom — is less a hit than a miss.
I’ve been agonising over whether I should do the patriotic thing and join the ticker-tape parade celebrating the debut of Suburban Bliss or run the risk of being branded a party pooper. But after three episodes of this 104-part series, I’ve yet to catch sight of the pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow
American in format and South African in flavour, Suburban Bliss explores the tale of two families — the white Dwyers and the black Molois — who attempt to live a new version of the old South African dream by purchasing posh houses in the suburbs near the city — Sandton City, that is — and land up living next to each other. Call it Flip and Flossie Foster meet Gatiepie and Patience in the new suburbia.
Without exposing the subtler nuances of the plot, it is safe to say that the inter-neighbourly relations are less than blissful, as past prejudices clash with present biases and old clichs bash heads with new stereotypes. But its depictions of inter-racial conflict are about as convincing as the hollow laugh-track accompanying the one-liners, and its characters remain in the realm of caricature.
Suburban Bliss has chosen to emulate the very worst aspects of the American sitcom genre — its laugh-track a case in point. Yet for all their sentiment and shlocky plot turns, American sitcoms possess more naturalistic elements which are worth borrowing.
I mean, Roseanne Barr might not be your average prime-time role model, but she wears her white-trash status so convincingly, you can’t help being impressed. Fran the nan might be the prototype for the SAP (South African Princess) pretensions of Thando Moloi (Motshabi Tyelele), but you could hardly describe both characters as sisters in shtick. Fran wears her kugeldom as a badge of honour; Thando pads hers like an oversized bra.
The scriptwriters of Suburban Bliss seem to equate progressiveness with racist jokes recycled in reverse. The show might talk the talk and walk the walk, but thus far it has succeeded less in exploring South African issues than treating them like a series of farcical sound-bites.
Inexperience lies at the core of the sitcom blues afflicting Suburban Bliss. Despite their undisputed talents, the Suburban Bliss crew are versed in the tradition of theatre and have not yet learned to make the transition from big stage to small screen. Every gesture looks exaggerated; each sentence seems to be directed towards the back of an auditorium.
Sadly, this is also the case with Mama’s Love, written and directed by theatrical maestro Gibson Kente. Deprived of the performance strategies of song and dance to bridge its brittle dialogue and erratic screenplay, Mama’s Love reduces Tuesday night’s viewing to a heart-cringing experience.
But it should be remembered that, when America’s first TV sitcom, I love Lucy, was screened in 1951, the US movie industry had progressed to such a degree that television was perceived as an inevitable link in a well-established chain. In general — though this may change — South African actors and directors have been deprived of a local film culture to ease them into television. Intead they have taken a quantum leap from a live genre to a pre-recorded one. And it shows.
Suburban Bliss is on TV1 on Mondays at 7.30pm; Mama’s Love is on CCV on Tuesdays at 8pm