TV – World Cup Live with James Corden
Submitted by admin on July 13, 2010 – 3:44 pmNo Comment
by Tom Williams
During the introduction of James Corden’s World Cup Live (ITV1), as Corden shouted and paced through his hot, cramped studio, my television reception cut out. For a few seconds, a blank screen hovered, as if an ITV producer had made some cruel, snap decision. The visuals had flicked to black just as our host’s opening address was comprehensively drowned out by the braying of his audience.By the time the reception had kicked back in, Corden was seated in the safety of his desk and chair. To either side of him, “James Corden’s World Cup Live” was spelled out in two completely different logos, one in impact red and black, the other in a more delicate, but no less garish, pink and yellow: a flagrant design conflict, with Corden’s beaming face sitting in the middle. It was an early indication of the mismatch of tones that occupy his late-night show.
The idea is simple enough: Corden is the proud, happy English lad, chatting to football-loving celebrities, and stirring up his audience into the same frothy celebration of the game which Baddiel and Skinner’s Fantasy Football managed so effortlessly in the nineties.
Corden, however, sits alone. His assistant, WAG Abbey Clancy, is largely off-camera in his audience, though with her mic constantly switched on, one experiences the unnerving noise of a husky Scouser laughing and panting with ambition. For his guests on the couch, Corden welcomes Simon Cowell and Katy Perry, whose enthusiastic plugging of their new singles just about excuse their patent lack of interest in football. Elsewhere, within the audience, sit two actual footballing guests: goalkeeping veteran Gordon Banks, smiling with bemusement and dressed far too smartly for the occasion; and depressed England reject Adam Johnson, who hunches forward, barely able to lift his gloomy gaze above the polished floor.
So nothing quite fits. Corden takes us through a jarring schedule of witless shouting and the occasional po-faced moment of interview, before the realisation that he has entered a serious conversation sets in, and Corden starts looking around and screaming again. One moment Katy Perry is screaming “I’m an American!” and detailing her and Russell Brand’s sexual preferences; immediately, Corden turns, attempts a frown and asks Adam Johnson “How did you feel not being in the squad?”, as the studio descends into an uneasy hush. Corden admirably attempts to rouse his audience throughout proceedings, usually employing the technique of clapping, tilting his head back as if to stop a nose bleed and shouting “OH WE LOVE THAT DON’T WE”; it does the job, though by half an hour in, when the audience are having to cheer the fact that Katy Perry has even heard of West Ham, one wonders if there is anything more to the show than this.
The idea is simple enough: Corden is the proud, happy English lad, chatting to football-loving celebrities, and stirring up his audience into the same frothy celebration of the game which Baddiel and Skinner’s Fantasy Football managed so effortlessly in the nineties.
Corden, however, sits alone. His assistant, WAG Abbey Clancy, is largely off-camera in his audience, though with her mic constantly switched on, one experiences the unnerving noise of a husky Scouser laughing and panting with ambition. For his guests on the couch, Corden welcomes Simon Cowell and Katy Perry, whose enthusiastic plugging of their new singles just about excuse their patent lack of interest in football. Elsewhere, within the audience, sit two actual footballing guests: goalkeeping veteran Gordon Banks, smiling with bemusement and dressed far too smartly for the occasion; and depressed England reject Adam Johnson, who hunches forward, barely able to lift his gloomy gaze above the polished floor.
So nothing quite fits. Corden takes us through a jarring schedule of witless shouting and the occasional po-faced moment of interview, before the realisation that he has entered a serious conversation sets in, and Corden starts looking around and screaming again. One moment Katy Perry is screaming “I’m an American!” and detailing her and Russell Brand’s sexual preferences; immediately, Corden turns, attempts a frown and asks Adam Johnson “How did you feel not being in the squad?”, as the studio descends into an uneasy hush. Corden admirably attempts to rouse his audience throughout proceedings, usually employing the technique of clapping, tilting his head back as if to stop a nose bleed and shouting “OH WE LOVE THAT DON’T WE”; it does the job, though by half an hour in, when the audience are having to cheer the fact that Katy Perry has even heard of West Ham, one wonders if there is anything more to the show than this.
As it happens, there is. Two pre-planned segments punctuate the show: one, a wall of fans representing each competing nation, which serves little purpose other than making the point of including an Irish bloke rather than the “cheating French” (about the most well-received quip of the night); the other, a continuing feature called “Back the Beard”, very much a case of name-before-idea as Corden assures that the entire England squad, and apparently everyone else in England, are refusing to shave for the duration of the World Cup. You can imagine the production meeting going wild over that one, ignoring the fact that the World Cup isn’t necessarily long enough for anyone to develop particularly shocking facial transformations. The segment does produce the most hysterical moment of the show, however, with Katy Perry’s leaping up, pointing to her crotch and screaming “I will not shave my bush!”. Gordon Banks didn’t know where to look; I doubt Adam Johnson even saw it.
I do find this programme mesmerising, and have tuned into later episodes, which increasingly involve Corden’s mother, whether it be having her take a penalty against David Seaman or just being the polite butt of Corden’s occasional “WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THAT MUM?” asides. (Among other developments, the Irish fan accidentally reveals in one episode that he comes from Belfast. Political complications are hastily not dwelt upon.) My favourite continuing drama, however, is the dilemma of Corden’s inaudible introduction to each show. By the second episode, Corden’s opening monologue was slightly more decipherable, before the radio mic struggled and wilted under the increasing noise of the crowd. By the third episode, Corden had resorted to holding an oversized hand-held mic; sadly for him, it wasn’t switched on.
