THE REPAIR SHOP – THE ART OF SCRIPTING RAW EMOTION

The BBC television programme, The Repair Shop, (BBC 1), looked interesting. The cute image of the workshop ‘nestled deep in the British countryside’, (https://www.bbc.co.uk/showsandtours/take-part/the-repair-shop ), was beguiling. The promoted presentation of the progress of the repairs by skilled, specialist craftsmen, made the show one to be watched; not to be missed. The unusual and varied items that were being rehabilitated, and the techniques used, were fascinating; potentially informative; intriguing. With time, the programme became a regular viewing event; but the old saying proved to be true yet again: familiarity breeds contempt - well, maybe not contempt, but certainly vocal criticism of a charade created merely to pull the heart strings of the audience, to captivate viewers with emotional entertainment. The idea of repair was only an excuse for heart-warming distractions, where loved, broken heirlooms could be brought back to life. The catchphrase could have been: broken hearts can be mended here; lost memories recreated. This redemptive, ‘feel-good’ strategy seems to have become a common core in popular television programming, what with This Is My Song, (BBC 1), and the Choir of Hard Knocks, (ABC TV), etc. Does this say something about our era? Rather than being empathetic, the programming style appears to be more interested in what seems to be something close to perving than anything else; enjoying, in the context of some disadvantage, others’ emotional reactions, managed, mangled, or otherwise, just for entertainment, in the safe, remote comfort of home.

On location

The 'characters' of the plot

One soon learns to understand the pattern of the structure of the Repair show, and slowly comes to know more of the ‘secret’ shop itself, as the randomly-revealed pieces of the set that has been built just for the programme are progressively revealed in piecemeal parts. The building is not quite what it seeks to be, even with its illuminated sign brightly declaring it to be The Repair Shop. Maybe its ‘secret,’ elfish location best discloses the intent; the guise. The programme gives the impression that it is indeed a ‘repair shop’ where anyone can bring in things to be fixed up; but no. The people and items to be a part of the occasion are all carefully chosen by the programmers; it is all very contrived, a very controlled event, managed, so it seems, to maximise emotional responses for the audience’s delight. This shop is not a public operation, or a commercial enterprise for repairs, but a private venue for a television production team interested in stimulating emotions: it is a set and is set up. As such, the building is never on display itself other than being the PR piece, and the background for the activity; the format for the forum.

The workshop set - note the cunningly located graphic, The Repair Shop.

The name usually pops up in most frames from different angles, inside and out.

The workshop itself is an enigmatic place. It is styled almost as a gingerbread house, cute and traditional – quaint and attractive. Little Red Riding Hood would have been pleased to find it. Is the idea to establish some cute sense of the ‘old times’ when craftsmen were craftsmen, and had the interest, patience and skills to care for, and to fix anything? - “Ah! Those were the days!” The camera shots of the interior are all shrewdly framed and heavily edited with a cut-and-paste technique, giving a collage of framings for one to create one's own image and identity of the place. The actual wholeness of the interior, its integral completeness as a space and place, is always concealed, suggesting that it is not what it pretends to be. One is constantly mesmerised by the arrangement that at times appears coherent, like a solid, reliable, old oak barn, but at other times, purely fake, a make-believe fantasy assembled by the eye. The question is constantly being raised in the mind: how much work actually goes on here? There is something flighty and flimsy in the presentation of these parts. Is this really the workplace of ‘the repair shop,’ or is it just a front, a configuration for the cameras; an elaborate prop?

The cast - the programme is all about people and place, not repairs.

Jay at the bench

The core of the space is the large bench on which things are received and returned. Here one gets the sense that the cameras and the lighting must be scattered around the interior at prescribed locations as the shots of profuse welcome and emotional thanks get covered in every intimate detail, even from above. One never sees another camera or any lighting at any time: but what true craftsman in any workshop can tolerate lighting, sound, and cameras while real, ‘ancient’ caring crafts are being concentrated on? What genuine, ‘honest’ craftsman wants to put up with this pretend hullabaloo? The open core of the workspace suggests that there is a perimeter of work stations - how many? - an arrangement that allows clever camera angles to catch workers from time to time in the background during a meet and greet, to make things look real, busy.

Jay and the craftsman called in to help. "Duja tink it'll eva work agin?"

Might the arrangement be like that of Letters and Numbers that uses a six-pointed star arrangement with a camera or two on every second point capturing the frame directly opposite while avoiding all other shooting locations? With the huge main entry doors positioned dramatically in the centre of one long wall, it appears as though the work stations are located only on three sides of the interior of this little place, at best. What permanent facilities are there in this setup? How many craftsmen and women are catered for? Is the arrangement like hot desking in an open plan office? It looks as though special craftsmen are brought in as required by the specialist tasks; where do these folk work? Are other venues used? This circumstance concerning the accommodation of appropriate work areas is never clarified: one has to constantly believe that things are right, somehow: one never knows. An act of faith is required to settle the doubts and fill in the gaps. Everything is piecemeal apart from the ‘centre-stage’ events: the place is indeed just a stage made to appear as a workshop: a set for performance. Is the lack of natural light a way to better manage the production? Many programmes are shot in the evening: why?

A craftsman

The half of the half-door is rarely opened more than this.

Exiting the half-height door at night. The programme's graphic is always carefully located for the shots.

It all seems to be a charade, make-believe. One hesitates to give credence to the word ‘fake’ these days as Trump has faked even this meaning; but it could be applied here, in its sense of a thing that is not genuine; a forgery or sham, for there is a lingering uncertainty in everything, even with the ‘always-successful’ repairs. “Oh my God! That’s amazing!” The entry doors are enormous, reminding one of the ancient barn doors made especially large for the tasks involved in farming in older times – perhaps the accommodation of huge hay carts: but the entry is really only half the height of the doors, with only one leaf seeming to be operational! The cameras never linger on this fact; they cunningly flick away from any possibility of detailed scrutiny. The door, the one leaf, is usually opened against the camera angle, concealing this mean half-height cheating. Only occasionally, from time to time, does one get a glimpse of the limited, low entry space if one is looking for it, concentrating on the relevant angles. The gable mass that accommodates the height of the doors is just an added-on, decorative structure that has been placed on top of the main gable slope, purely as an exotic, visual prop. The height is not continued into the interior. The suggested rigour and integrity of the ‘honest,’ internal oak framing seen in the pretty interior shots, do not continue through to this doorway element. It is a pretend mass, like the large doors themselves; a pretend enclosure. The doors open up to a low, half-height void with a solid wall above the eaves line. Everything is there purely for the image, the appearance alone. It seems that the whole set has been designed to have a ‘ye olde worlde’ feel about it, suggesting ‘true craftsmanship,’ the stuff of things inside, known in days gone by – the lost arts of manual skill, personal civility, and ordinary reliability. “They don’t do it like this any more!” One might argue that there may be coherence, but only in the pretense.

An external open workplace, with the partly-opened Repair Shop door in the background.

Is this a juxtaposition created for the cameras?

Sadly, it is this fakery that creates doubt about the intentions of the programme that appears to be a way of scripting sob, hard-luck stories that always have positive, joyous outcomes. Is this ‘Mills and Boon’ TV only pretending to have an interest in repairs and techniques? The biggest disappointment is that the actual rigour of the repair process is never completely revealed: one just gets glimpses of the visually ‘interesting’ parts. This is not a technical programme at all. That the voice-over sounds like that used for the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, leaves one with a strange feeling about the show: that it might indeed only be a grand SHOW like that put on in Edinburgh; all song, pipes, and dance. Ironically, the Edinburgh Tattoo, too, has been faked, put on in Sydney, Australia in front of a cardboard/plywood castle - alas! - and acted out on the grass of the sports field! The critical matter appeared to be the associated seating for tens of thousands of people.

The voice.

Squeezing in; the door is rarely opened more than this.

Note the concealed package, the mystery object heading for the centre bench.

Repetition over time reveals the pattern of the Repair programme that has much the same framework as Grand Designs and House in the Country shows, where personal dramas of interest always end appropriately, with lots of “WOW!”s, all to a fixed formula. Each session starts with the delivery to The Repair Shop of a mystery item that is accompanied by the rhythmic voice-over lovingly telling about the person who is on camera, walking up to and through the huge door with a concealed bundle: it is always hidden. Inside at the table, Jay is usually the person to greet the visitor with his brash, cheeky Cockney accent. He is introduced as a furniture restorer, but he never does anything but spruik and interfere, intrude into things to make sure that the scripted issues are made clear, stimulated, often asking: “Daja tink it mite effer wurk agin?” as he appears over the shoulder of the craftsman who has just dismantled the object. He is like the ringmaster. His costume is a black cap and coat, and sometimes a brand new leather apron that has never been touched by any artful craft, let alone simple housework.

Jay - "Wadya got there?"

He is always chirpy, and jauntily asks about what has been brought in - as if it might be a surprise. “C’mon; let’s h’va luka it.” “A Butcher’s” comes into use from time to time to make things seem quirky and friendly, layback. His role is to develop the appropriate facts required for the drama. The story of the item is drawn out with a self-conscious, predetermined, controlled effort. It is usually something important to grandma, or great grandma, when she was a child, or a lover. “Ya musta luved ita lot!” The item is always precious, vitally meaningful in an emotional manner; it has always been broken for years, neglected, usually shoved away in a box or a loft; sometimes in a box in a loft. “Oh, no!” It usually has been played with by the children, as if it meant nothing. “Oh, no!” It was once very much loved. The visitor wants the piece to be brought back to how it was once remembered before it was broken, perhaps when as a child when visiting grandma. “She used to play with me using it.” “She musta luved ita lot.” The feelings for the thing are exposed by Jay's standard, scripted, repeated questioning comments. “Whad daja rememba?” “How daja feel 'bout it?” “Musbe verry importand to ya!”

The actors on the set? Google images is all about the cast involved in the show.

Jay, after apparently 'assessing' the task involved, without any on-camera prior review, then calls in the appropriate craftsman who is, of course, standing in the wings ready for his/her role. He, (read also she), notes the very poor condition of the item with feigned amazement, and cautiously promises to do his/her best to bring it back to the condition Jay has quizzed the owners about. There is always some doubt about any success: “It might all fall apart.” “We can’t promise anything.” The cast usually then hugs the owner in a tender embrace, or at least shakes the hand. The owner then leaves the Shop and does an intimate ‘face-to-camera’ commentary as a private aside outside, where the meaning of the piece is repeated: how grandma loved it, etc., and how there is great concern with leaving the piece at the workshop. “We’ll miss it greatly,” even though it might have been in the loft for years. One does wonder if everything has been precisely scripted, such are the set of standard comments that get repeated; perhaps participants have been thoroughly briefed? The owner always comments on the gap that has been left at home with the missing piece, suggesting a critical, emotional void, a lingering longing to be fulfilled; further pointing out how the children will love to see it back; how much it will mean to them to have this history restored for their experience and that of their children, etc., etc. Sob, sob, . . . the heart strings are given a really good yank.

The camera angles always give the impression of a busy place, even if folk in the background are just chatting.

Then the thing is pulled apart, worked on, finished, and returned. The whole process of repair and technique is cleverly edited to give one the impression that one has seen it all, when in fact, one has only had piecemeal glimpses of the parts of portions of the process with a richly voiced commentary suggesting otherwise. Interspersed with one particular repair, as if to give some ‘comic’ or interesting relief, are other items that have been brought in with the same performance, and shots of other repairs at different stages of their processing. The programme is not linear, more spirally circular, intertwined like a Celtic illustration. Glimpses of other sundry interesting repairs that have no particular context or purpose other than being decorative, are interspersed as if to enrich the visuals. Sometimes these are from other programmes. All of this comes with the ‘Tattoo’ commentary, that smooth, rich, assuring Scottish voice that seems to want to smother doubt and criticism with an entrancing, heart-warming emotionalism that predicts a fruitful, loving, and purposeful outcome – the assured redemption.

Jay in his brand new leather apron with one of the craftsmen in the cast, with the graphic theme.

Eventually the repair is complete - one is told this - and the owner is recalled to the centre of the workshop with much trepidation and suggestive concern that Jay heightens with his prompts of doubt: “Whad daja xpectin?” One is encouraged to see the owner as thinking: What might have happened with my cherished item? Could it have fallen apart? Here ‘the mouth,’ Jay, and the repairer, stand and greet the incomer who usually brings a child or mother, maybe even grandma, to heighten the emotional buzz. They are asked what they expect to see - as if this were not self-evident. No one ever says “a complete failure.” The statement is usually modest in its anticipation, ready for the hype. Jay’s eyes are always dancing with a pretend, naive excitement. The owner’s group always wants to see the thing working again, or as they remembered it: grandma would be pleased; and it would be meaningful for the next generation too: this is almost a mantra. Sometimes the ‘next generation’ is there, and is supposed to look excited; but children are difficult to script, and obvious when they have been.

Cute repairs give added value to the occasion.

The repaired object is on the table covered clumsily with an ad hoc piece of cloth, or a blanket, or drop sheet, ready, standing as a Christo mystery, to be revealed as if by magic. The implication seems to be that the piece has indeed been magically brought back to life; that the craftsmen, (and women), are wizards. Jay chirpily asks if the visitors want to see it. What else? The cover is removed and the “Wow”s are exclaimed. “I don't believe it.” “Grandma would be pleased.” Tears flow; hugs are a plenty, as are the “Thank you; thank you”s. Jay usually squeezes in a "How daja feel?" It must be difficult for the craftsmen. The cameras get over excited with a frenzy of angles and details, closeups: more hugs, kisses, handshakes; then the item is taken. The reaction always makes the work of the repairer feel “worthwhile.” The craftsman stands with a grinning smirk as the piece is removed. “That's what I do it for,” is the usual comment when everyone knows otherwise: he/she is employed by the BBC to do just this. It is not a part of the script to be bored, frustrated or distracted.

The pattern is always the same. Outside, another ‘face-to-camera’ repeats everything said inside. It is a wonderful end. “Why did it take me so long to do?” is the usual indulgent question. Maybe because the BBC show does it for nothing? One does become cynical, but the show generates this critique with its faux emotional exaggeration and amorphous context that generates questions about the cohesiveness of the craftsmanship that is always "wonderful, amazing," even when one can see imperfections in the repair: “It’s a perfect match,” when it is obviously not. The camera is always able to make things ordinary, even less-than-ordinary, appear extraordinary with a quick cut-and-paste glimpse to illustrate the voiced message. Hype is the order of the day – think positive: this show is all about the hiatus with expected failure, and the flux of good feelings and good endings.

The proposition of the programme seems to be unquestioned redemption, atonement; never one of questions, or doubt, or failure other than that necessary for suspense: challenges are always overcome. The owner never says anything but ‘glorification’ statements, oozing praise and compliments in expressions of utter disbelief in the outcome, and with the efforts of those involved. “It’s not perfect, but it’s close,” is never heard. Words like, "It looks just too new," will never be spoken. Meanwhile, Jay delights in the situation that he is there to promote. “How daja feel?” is usually a question that arises yet again, as if one might say anything negative. After all, hundreds of pounds worth of repairs have been done for nothing. Unique pieces and bespoke parts and materials are ordered at the drop of a hat: no worries. "I'll git onta that," is Jay's usual approach to anything and everything that is needed, no matter how unusual or exotic. The BBC does note in response to the obvious questions, that a donation can be made.

The grand, one-leaf doorway slot

Why does one even bother to ponder the circumstances of this show? The answer lies in the lies. If we are to truly enjoy the experience of repair, which is a beautiful, honest, open, caring experience, then it needs clarity and purity rather than connivance and management to achieve an outcome for entertainment; and if the subject is repair, then turn the marvelous technical aspect into a part of its revelation rather than burying it in a mishmash of cut-and-view pieces engulfed in an over profusion of emotion prompted by the cast and the background voice just for the fun of the viewer.

The set -  ‘nestled deep in the British countryside’

The Repair Shop could have been a great show if its sole intention had not been the exuberance of feeling ripped raw in a script. Simple, linear repairs could have been engaging in much the same manner as BBC's Countdown used to be simple maths and words. Alas, this ordinary rigour of letters and numbers is now apparently insufficient. The programme has been turned upside down, inside out, into a fun-and-games jokey show with a couple of numbers and letters used as infill props. The Repair Shop is not as foolishly jokey, but it uses the repairs as a scaffold for extreme emotional hype, when the repairs would have been enough. One might even see its potential in the genre of ‘slow TV.’ Why is our era so lacking in simple rigour?

Is this why our architecture has become fun and games too?

Real farm buildings

Real large doors