In this era of 24-hour multichannel connectivity, there are few events on terrestrial television in the United Kingdom that still have the ability to catch communal attention. But one event last week proved sufficiently potent to have UK residents craning their collective necks. I speak of the revamped Top Gear.
The show has been back in the garage in recent months, undergoing a full service and steam clean before its new series, following the much-publicised exodus of its three main presenters, Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James May.
Now fronted by media star Chris Evans and American actor Matt LeBlanc, the new version was driven onto the forecourt last Sunday. Whether it would prove to be a revolutionary new model or merely an old banger patched up with go-faster stripes, remains to be seen.
In truth, the months of preparation had been bumpy, with Lisa Clark, one of its top producers, leaving the show without explanation in January, followed by rumours that Evans himself was having trouble presenting and driving at the same time (a skill set, you’d have thought, that would be something of a prerequisite for the job).
Then in April some bright spark decided it might be a good wheeze to film Matt LeBlanc driving at ferocious speed along Whitehall, one of London’s most famous thoroughfares. But Whitehall is also the location of the Cenotaph, the country’s most sacred war memorial, and the sight of LeBlanc obscuring it in clouds of acrid smoke and burnt rubber provoked furious criticism and accusations of disrespect, which forced an unreserved apology from Evans.
So how did the first episode of the new series go? Well, on the evidence of last weekend, the jury is still out.
There were lots of fast cars, of course, and lashings of the show’s trademark laddish humour, yet in the hands of Evans and LeBlanc the once-spontaneous format now seemed forced and stagy, while the centrepiece of the episode, a wild and wacky race across half the length of England in a couple of supercharged three wheelers, proved as laboured and trundling as the vehicles themselves.
And while Evans expended enough energy for two, his compatriot seemed leaden and inarticulate.
Le Blanc is a fine comedic actor, but is usually reliant on other people’s words to give him life. Thrown back on his own his efforts, as he was here, he had little in the tank.
Yet, perhaps the underlying issue was more fundamental than mere first-night nerves. Above all else, Top Gear is founded on blokeish banter, a very British trait, and one which Messrs Clarkson and Co had transformed into something of an art form.
If, as was famously stated by George Bernard Shaw, Britain and America are “two countries divided by a common language”, the same may be said for its humour. LeBlanc seemed uneasy with, and bewildered by, the parochial put-downs and adolescent asides in which he was forced to partake.
Fans of the show have pointed out that the first few episodes of the original programme were similarly strained, and that this new incarnation will also improve, especially if Evans and Le Blanc stop trying to ape their illustrious predecessors and remake their relationship in their own image.
The irony is that the programme’s new sister show, Extra Gear, seemed to hit every target that its more important sibling overshot, with hosts Rory Reid and Chris Rogers appearing relaxed, informal and, most crucially, to be genuinely enjoying themselves.
Those who love the BBC and all it stands for will be crossing their fingers that the show finds its second wind, and soon, for with the corporation facing an uncertain future, and both its remit and its budget under threat from government legislation and commercial rivalry alike, Top Gear may soon be the BBC’s only guaranteed source of revenue.
Michael Simkins is an actor and writer in London
On Twitter: @michael_simkins
