Haven't got a Clooney
Off track ... not even Guy Pearce could save Jack Irish. Photo: Janet Briggs
Clearly I'm missing something with the Nespresso ads. Have they paid George Clooney a lot of money to endorse a coffee machine that comes from a base of very low credibility, by making ads where a variety of pretty but ball-crushing women either fail to recognise or find attractive the most famously recognisable attractive man in the world?
This does not make me believe that a brand, which I associate with cheap, instant, bad office experiences, has successfully located its pretentious ''ristretto'' or ''voluto'' roots. It just confirms every hunch that those little capsules are a con.
The women, who don't know he's a movie star and have intuited that he has a tiny penis and no idea what do with it, drink Nespresso, smugly. Do we want to be like them? I don't think so. People love those Nespresso machines. People love George Clooney. Who likes the ads? The whole thing eludes me, like Herve Leger dresses or perfumes ''made'' by Britney Spears, or Fanta. I just don't get it.
There's a lot on TV I've simply not understood this year. Why do some shows gain traction while others fail to find a home? Why are some productions award magnets and others just miss?
Smash was a beloved hit on pay TV, yet nobody mentioned it when it ran later on free-to-air. It's simply not possible that every Debra Messing and musical-theatre fan saw it on Showcase.
Did House Husbands only find an audience because there is always a mild show like All Saints or Packed to the Rafters that attracts a following of people who were possibly breast fed in front of A Country Practice?
Jack Irish found an audience. Admittedly, most of that audience was attached to an iron lung, on a valium drip, and so might be considered captive. I really wanted to love it because what's not to love about Guy Pearce? But, for excruciatingly bad racetrack dialogue alone, Jack Irish failed. So many cliches of gumshoe crime TV were woven so effortlessly into this quilt it could have been made by ABC Friday night crime-watching Amish ladies.
Killing Time was slightly stale material, because it had aired but was barely seen on TV1. Aside from some ordinary bogan acting, David Wenham and Diana Glenn turned in the performances of the season, and the show should have found a good following.
Puberty Blues is proving to be an awards darling, but did it lie down with the dog that was The Shire and wake up with Ten's low-rating fleas? Devotees loved Puberty Blues, but it didn't grab the ratings this ambitious and thoughtful work deserved.
Rightly or wrongly, it was a bang-up year for Leigh Sexton, Jennifer Evans, Margie Cummins, Brad Cranfield and Lara Welham; Andrew De Silva, Andy Allen, Callum Hann, Andrew Thoday and Shane Haw; Mike Snell, Ben Norris, and Chard Oldfield; Karise Eden and Johnnie Ruffo.
No, they weren't wearing sideburns in Howzat! They were the winners of every dopey reality show that hijacked ratings and attention from some excellent work done this year. They built, sang, danced, dragged, cooked, slimmed, skimmed and scammed their way into our hearts, until we moved on. None of them even have enough qualifications to sit in a red spinning chair. Inexplicably, 2012 has been their year.
That's not another existential musing on television. It's the tagline for those idiotic Clooney ads. What else? $2.4 million for his first year, is what else. Did George Clooney need that little chunk of change or does he just enjoy the novelty of being an unrecognisable coffee drinker with a tiny penis?
Just don't get it.