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
