TVReview: If there was ever a programme that exposed the trembling anxieties at the heart of modern womanhood, it's What Not To Wear.
Back for a new series, "fashion witches" Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine are confronted by a small woebegone army of "dressed to depress" divorced women, who compete for the services of the glossy double-act.
"Do you think the way you dress might have anything to do with your divorce?" coos Trinny sweetly. Only two, Bev and Sarah, out of a line-up of five women were selected.
Any remaining shreds of self-esteem the women might possess are quickly torn away by Trinny and Susannah's trademark scorn. "Utterly hideous," says Susannah, holding up a soiled dress she has discovered in Bev's wash-basket. "And where did she get those stains on it?" That turns out to be Bev's wedding dress, which has languished in the laundry pile for more than three years since her husband left her.
And so the ritual humiliation begins. Tearful Bev has the contents of her wardrobe systematically ridiculed and her favourite leopard-skin top ceremonially burnt on the barbecue. In a final act of indignity, she's forced to confront her self-loathing head-on by entering a mirrored cubicle wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of tired old knickers. Tough love indeed.
Malleable Bev bows meekly to Trinny and Susannah's demands, but Sarah puts up more of a fight. "Am I not allowed to have my own opinion?" she asks. Bad idea - it's a point of principle on this programme that participants must submit to total humiliation before they can be redeemed by the messianic interventions of Trinny and Susannah. "You're resisting us, but we only want the best for you. Let go, let go!" exhorts Trinny. Yet the pair have never been known to fail, and soon both Bev and Sarah are twirling happily before the mirror, ready to go forward with their lives. "I'm really kinda moved," drawls Susannah, wiping away a tear.
What Not To Wear: Divorce is pitiless television, peddling quick-fix fashion advice as life-changing therapy to fragile women. You're left wondering what happens after the cameras have stopped rolling and the transient joy of a flattering new outfit has worn off.
MARY O'HARA IS a woman who has no time to worry about the fripperies of appearance. This week's Meet the Family provided an insight into the day-to-day reality of her life as the mother of five sons, four of whom are autistic. Mary and husband Padraic, from Kells in Co Meath, were front page news in March this year when their children were taken into care for a week, after the couple highlighted their difficulties in finding support services for the children. Yet this determinedly upbeat documentary rarely directly addressed their hurt, anger and bewilderment.
Padraic and Mary are evidently delighted that their two youngest children, Séadna and Cionnaola, have finally been offered appropriate schooling, and are looking forward to a restorative holiday in Morocco with their three eldest children. But they often seem stunned, still incredulous that their lives could have turned out this way.
The programme is punctuated by sequences from Mary and Padraic's wedding, a "magical September day" when, according to Mary, "she was nice and thin and extremely happy". These inserts mark the painful disjuncture between that young, carefree time and the intense responsibilities of parenting autistic children. The periods of child-free time that most parents take for granted are a rarity for Mary and Padraic. After dropping Séadna and Cionnaola off for their first day at school, the couple share a coffee together. A tentative euphoria glimmers behind the tiredness on their faces: it's the first time in six years that all five children are out of the house and at school. You sense that the fleeting pleasure of small moments like these sustain them in the lonely chaos of their home life.
HOWEVER HARROWING THE domestic dramas taking place behind Ramsay Street's doors, the feel-good sunshine patina of Neighbours always prevails. The long-running soap offers its army of devoted fans a kind of catharsis-lite; enough ongoing tragedy to keep them gripped, but nothing that's going to make them wail over their TV dinners. But the compilation of agonising deaths suffered by the soap's characters in 20 Years of Neighbours: A Celebration is not so much tragic as cartoonish - and unwittingly hilarious.
"It's a bit weepy," smirks host Andi Peters, as he introduces the litany of hammy chest-clutching and shocked faces around the flat-lining heart-monitor. The classic moment when gravel-voiced Madge discovers the missing Harold's glasses in a rock pool is there too, of course. Peters plays up the role of fake ingénue, as veteran Neighbours actor Stefan Dennis shows him around Ramsay Street. "You mean it's not real?" he asks, opening a wobbly on-set door "Don't come any further," he advises viewers. "It will only shatter your illusions".
And who could resist the chance to revisit Scott and Charlene's wedding? Recently voted the best TV nuptials of all time, it was watched by millions when it was shown in 1988. Kylie Minogue's gypsophila-strewn bubble-perm is as winsome as ever. The moment when a sweetly youthful Jason Donovan slides the ring on to her finger is supremely naff, yet curiously innocent and endearing. It epitomises the clunky charm of Neighbours.
In the special anniversary episode, Friends for Twenty Years, luscious-lipped Annalise (Kimberley Davies) returns to film a documentary about the families on Ramsay Street. It's an oddly self-referential postmodern affair - a programme within a programme.
Many faces from the past two decades pop up (in character, naturally), including Joe Mangel (Mark Little), Doug (Terence Donovan) and even Plain Jane Superbrain (Annie Jones). Die-hard fans may be disappointed that Mr Udagawa, the shadowy bit-part character who was perpetually engaged in tortuous business deals with Paul Robinson, didn't make an appearance.
But where was Bouncer, the slobbery Labrador? Viewers may recall that the faithful Ramsay Street canine was something of a miracle dog, surviving road accidents, house fires, and even a nasty poisoning with some suspicious mushrooms that caused him to behave very oddly. He also managed to bark up a rescue for baby Sky on the phone, and was awarded a bravery medal by Toby. Surely a strong case for inclusion in Friends for Twenty Years?
JAMIE OLIVER SHARES some of the cartoonish appeal of the Neighbours characters. Long before he developed a grown-up social conscience over school dinners and disadvantaged teenagers, he had carved a niche for himself as an affable young geezer-chef, encouraging a rough and ready "chuck-it-all-in" approach to cooking. Jamie's Great Escape is a return to that persona. In the opening episode, wife Jools tearfully packs him a pink polka-dot toilet bag, and waves him off on a four-month culinary tour of Italy in his beloved Combi camper van. "I need to top up," says Jamie. "I've had a mental four years". Why then, you wonder, did he choose to head off accompanied by a camera crew? Like many celebrities, it's as if he feels compelled to constantly document his life. But unlike many celebrities, Jamie is refreshingly unpretentious, happy to appear ridiculous or confused.
On the way to Sicily, he smells burning oil coming from the camper van. With characteristic nonchalance, he decides the answer to that is "go a bit faster so I can't smell it any more".
At first, Jamie's Great Escape threatens to be yet another of those increasingly tedious shows that eulogise the food and lifestyle of Italy, while despairing of our own pathetic and unhealthy cuisine. There are plenty of shots of Jamie caressing artichokes in picturesque Sicilian markets, and waxing lyrical about the street food, which - according to a rapt Jamie - surpasses that of the best restaurants back home.
When he gets a chance to man a street grill in Palermo, he's surprised to discover the locals turning up their noses at his bream filled with fennel fronds. They don't appreciate this enthusiastic interloper messing with their recipes. So it turns out that Italians are just as single-mindedly unadventurous about their food as any Pot Noodle-muncher. It was a satisfying moment; a pleasant antidote to the ubiquitous foodie genuflection before all things Italian.
Hilary Fannin is on leave