Television: Mama’s Little Monster

By Paul Whitelaw

House of Saddam, Wednesday, BBC2, 9pm Arena – Cab Driver, Today, BBC4, 9pm First Cut: Saving Britney Spears, Friday, Channel 4, 7.30pm

DID SADDAM HUSSEIN REALLY sound like a Middle-Eastern cousin of Inspector Gadget’s arch nemesis Dr Claw? He did, according to Igal Naor’s growling portrayal in House of Saddam, a new four-part dramatisation of the moustachioed monster’s rise and fall. He also appeared to spend a lot of time puffing fat cigars while looking solemnly contemplative. Ruling over a bloody dictatorship evidently requires a lot of thought.

Other things you will learn about Saddam during episode one: his 1979 ousting of the then Iraqi president appeared to be a simple case of taking him aside and announcing, “I’m the daddy now”; he and his cabinet ministers unwound after a hard day’s dictating by drinking whisky and indulging in extended bouts of throaty chuckling; when he wasn’t muttering dark oaths about loyalty and honour, the man who put the “I” in Iraq liked nothing better than descending upon his palace ballroom in a glass elevator; and since every powerful villain requires a shrewd, disapproving mother offering advice in times of crisis, you’ll be pleased to note that Saddam was no exception.

He apparently didn’t like his mama very much (“you gave me nothing!” he hisses as she expires on her deathbed), which considering how annoying she seemed, is hardly surprising. What’s more, poor little Saddam was beaten by his stepfather – no wonder he grew up to become a homicidal despot.

Despite these risible aspects, House of Saddam is actually quite absorbing, and since co-writers Stephen Butchard and Alex Holmes (whose credits include the Bafta-award-winning Dunkirk) claim to have undertaken two years of extensive research, I’ll tentatively accept this as an accurate depiction of events as they happened. If not quite the compelling marriage of The Godfather and King Lear the writers intended, it still manages to grip, in spite of its questionable fringes.

Showing as part of an evening devoted to taxis (there is literally nothing – udders, wigs, trepanning – that BBC4 can’t turn in to a theme night), Arena – Cab Driver offers an affectionate tribute to the humble London cabby.

Not known for their reticence, it’s no surprise that the cabbies featured are bursting with anecdotes and opinions. Ninety-one-year- old ex-cabby Roy Perkins, who delivered his first fare in 1938, offers good value with stories, such as when the Bank of England deposited some gold bullion in the back of his cab and told him where to take it. This Roy dutifully did, of course, since cabbies, as we all know, are the most trustworthy public servants on earth.

The initially light-hearted tone eventually gives way to ruminative melancholia, as the various drivers talk openly about their feelings of angst and depression. Contemplating the photographs of dead drivers which adorn the wall of the cabbies’ canteen at Heathrow, Len Fox suddenly realised that he was never going to achieve anything more in life other than ferrying strangers around London. I’m surprised more of them don’t go crackers like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver.

Almost identical in feel to the recent Arena documentary about London bus conductors, Cab Driver is peppered with archive clips, which is fine when they’re included to give a sense of historical context, but the near-constant use of snippets from Carry On Cabby is annoyingly intrusive. The soundtrack featuring Neil Young, Nick Drake and The Who, is, however, a peach.

Beyond the prurient interest of witnessing a celebrity lose the plot in public, what is it about vapid pop dummy Britney Spears that causes people to post histrionic appeals on her behalf on You Tube? Director Bruce Fletcher attempts to find out in First Cut: Saving Britney Spears, the first in a new series of stand-alone films from TV newcomers.

Unsurprisingly, Fletcher (an acolyte of the bumbling Broomfield/ Ronson/Theroux school of journalism) encounters rank opportunists like paparazzo Sheeraz Hasan, who claims God told him to hound Britney while he was on a pilgrimage to Mecca. He also meets self- publicist (and buddy of Snoop Dog) Don Magic Juan, who – no hint of irony – says his campaign to save Britney is a way of securing his own radio show. When Britney appears to be getting better, he decides to save Lindsay Lohan instead.

Then there’s the ghoulish woman who appears to gain a weird thrill from the plights of “doomed” stars. “I feel like I know Britney better than people I actually know,” she beams. If you can sit through all this without once screaming “get a life!” you’re a stronger soul than me.

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