Louis Theroux: A Place for Paedophiles is due to air at the start of next month. In it, the reporter visits Coalinga Mental Hospital in California, which houses more than 500 of the most disturbed criminals in America – convicted paedophiles.

The BBC’s release reads…

Most have already served lengthy prison sentences, but have been deemed unsafe for release. Instead they have been sent here for an indefinite time. They have only two choices: accept the fact they will never live as free men in society again, or submit to a programme of rehabilitation and therapy run by the hospital’s psychologists.

Louis has gained access to Coalinga to film with patients and therapists, and to consider whether these men – whose history of sexual violence is often long and ingrained – could ever be sufficiently changed by therapy to justify their release.

Spending time with those undergoing treatment, Louis wrestles with whether he can ever allow himself to believe men whose whole history is defined by deception and deceit. At times the honesty of the patients appears disarming and sincere. At others, the language of therapy seems more to mask their true natures than to reveal them.

Among the patients Louis meets is James. After six years of therapy and a physical castration, he appears to have come to understand the enormity of the crimes he committed. He is determined to prove to society that he can be trusted again, and has been recommended for release by the hospital.

Over the course of Louis’ visit, he finds that, out of hundreds of men the hospital has accommodated, only 13 have ever completed the therapy programme. Most refuse even to participate, and many – fiercely deluded about their crimes – talk bitterly about the programme, arguing that the facilities it offers – therapy, tennis, softball, music – are designed less with the intention of rehabilitation than of the long–term incarceration of men who have already served their time.

Louis explores the dark world of Coalinga, and finds an institution committed to helping and treating people but also a place that ultimately offers society a way of confining its most loathed offenders for the rest of their days.

There’s perhaps been a feeling of late that Louis Theroux has just been treading the same old water for some time with his documentaries on the weirdness of the world. Where once Theroux would astonish the viewer with all manner of odd encounters, the most recent film on gambling in Las Vegas (which appeared following a long break from our screens) was fairly weak, insipid and unexciting stuff. Now, however, Theroux more than makes up for any failures with a more promising subject worthy of his examination.

America breeds its fair share of loonies, but the Phelps family are something else. As odious as the white supremacists Theroux encountered in South Africa, and as out of touch with reality as the gun-totin’ hillbillies from the wilds of the USA, here the documentary-makers finds himself as a guest of the Westboro Baptist Church and their appalling attitudes towards the world. These are people who picket the funerals of dead servicemen, upsetting mourning relatives. They parade the streets with home-made placards bearing messages such as “God Hates Fags”, and “Thank God for 9/11″. They don’t like Jews because they “worship the rectum”, and are intolerant of both the rest of society and any other religion, even going to the extent of being happy when a local rival church catches fire.

Their banners condemn celebrities, from Liz Taylor to Princess Diana, to poor old Desmond Tutu – probably one of the most decent men on the planet. A store that sells vacuum cleaners from Sweden becomes a target simply because Sweden has done something to incur their wrath. Louis himself is seen as a sinner for having a child out of wedlock. Everybody is heading to hell, apart from the members of the church. Theirs is a twisted, perverted version of religion that is thankfully relatively contained within a small area of Kansas. The 70-odd members of the church are disliked by the rest of the local community and group themselves together in a large enclave of houses, where, presumably they feel some kind of safety in numbers.

The church is officially led by the elderly Pastor Phelps. We don’t meet him at first, with the documentary team preferring to let him retain an air of mystery so we will be more interested when he finally makes an appearance. Phelps’ brainwashed daughter Shirley is the driving force and what a thoroughly unpleasant woman she is. She is the mother of 11 children, all of whom she’s raising to hold the same views as herself. The family are like the worst characters you would ever meet in an episode of South Park, and it is frightening to think this kind of person exists. If you thought David Koresh’s Branch Davidians at Waco were a peculiar bunch, they had nothing on this lot.

One of the most upsetting aspects of the church is the way they bring up their children. Like all religious groups, the Phelps’ need to pass on their beliefs to the next generation and it is saddening to see tiny kids spouting ideology which has been pumped into them. Theroux talks to a seven-year-old girl who clearly (and thankfully) does not know what she is saying. The church takes the children out with them on their pickets, and the poor kids become targets of the general public.

The church is quite happy to put their own offspring into the firing line – in one case, quite literally, as a young lad is hit on the head by a cup full of drink hurled by a vexed motorist. Surprisingly though, the children attend a normal school and the young adults have normal jobs in the community. Not that they behave in any normal manner – they don’t have friends from outside the church, merely acquaintances. Megan, a young woman, reveals that when she was in school none of the other children wanted anything to do with her, and it’s easy to see that the latest generation of the congregation will probably suffer the same fate. The young can’t have a normal life at all, with one scene showing a 21-year old has to telephone her mother to see if it is okay to go for a coffee with Theroux and the crew at a café.

Not only content with filling the heads of their own children with rubbish, they are also attempting to spread their views across America as well as the world. It’s revealed that the church spends around $200,000 a year on flights, just so they can picket funerals on the other side of the country. Added to this, they have a number of websites on which they broadcast sermons. These are run by Steve, an ex-documentary maker who fell in with the church after coming to make a film on them. He was somehow transformed from a normal liberal person, to a hateful member of the Phelps clan. Thankfully the same fate does not befall Theroux.

Finally we do get to meet Pastor Phelps – an unpleasant old bigot. He refuses to answer Theroux’s questions: “You’re just too dumb – sorry”. Phelps Snr can offer no logical or sensible argument to support the views he and his flock possess, and we learn little from him.

As is the norm with a Louis Theroux documentary, we don’t see any real change in the attitudes of the people we meet or much in the way of explanation. Try as he might, “scoffer and mocker” Theroux has no impact on them. They are never going to change their views. There is no clue given as to where this lot sprang from. No mention is made of how they were formed. A bit more historical context might have helped us to understand a little about the church and where their abhorrent views originate.

The Westboro Baptist Church will be content forever to preach their messages of hate and be hated by everybody in turn. They simply don’t care. For their own sakes, hopefully some more of the group will see fit to escape like the four of Pastor Phelps’ daughters who left to join the civilized world. The Most Hated Family in America is fairly typical Theroux stuff, but is the most interesting documentary he has crafted in some time. Hopefully it will pave the way for a few more.

The old iconography was there – the startled silhouette over the opening titles – but the programme itself was a tentative step forward for the documentary-maker. Unhappily, he’s taking on a subject matter Hardeep Singh Kohli deals with quite entertainingly next week on Channel 4 in £50 Says You’ll Watch This, but his remains the superior effort. He hangs out in a Las Vegas casino, befriending staff and punters in a windowless world of tumbling dials, electronic beeps, and men pleading, “Big, BIG!” as the cards fall. 

What I found particularly interesting was the lack of any grotesques. Everyone he encounters is pretty much an ordinary Joe. I got to interview Louis yesterday, and put this to him (after tipping him off about Hardeep’s show – “Oh nooooo!” he groaned). Was it a conscious decision, I wondered …

“Was it conscious? I think it was little bit conscious and a little bit unconscious. We’ve tried to come back with more of a sense of scale in our show, with subjects that don’t feel in anyway stitched together – that don’t really hang on my journey too much. They don’t have to be linked by me, you know, ‘Then I decided to meet someone else’. Something big enough to fill an hour. And you could just stay with them and see things unfolding and developing. 

“Perhaps with that goes a certain sense of, for want of a better word, normality. Gambling is something that isn’t on the margins. It’s kind of… you know, it’s a picture of the mainstream cultural landscape. You could say that pornography is mainstream in certain ways. But I guess less so than gambling. Gambling is less stigmatised. It’s more of an acceptable, public behaviour.”

At the very end of last year I was wondering “when did telly go off the boil for [Louis] Theroux?”. Then, this weekend I revisited a lot my Louis tapes in that ongoing effort to dub everything I own from VHS on to DVD. It made me wonder yet again how come he fell through the cracks, and – book aside – what he was up to nowadays. Perhaps he was set to become the subject of a tongue-in-cheek documentary, where he’d be rediscovered by a faux-naive young journalist, keen to find out how he lives his life?

Well, reading the Guardian this morning, I was pleased to see BBC2 have commissioned 10 new hour-long films from Mr Theroux, to be broadcast some time in 2006. As long as he’s ditched the obsession with tin-pot showbiz types, I feel confident this will be a return to form.

He really is a great broadcaster. Honestly.

I normally spend ages on one book, but this took me only three days to get through, in part due to the huge font used throughout. That aside, it’s a really readable piece of work, albeit one greatly diminished if you’re not familar with the author’s Weird Weekends series. It got me thinking, though, when did telly go off the boil for Mr Theroux?

It’s got to be with his When Louis Met … series, which turned him into a mainstream TV property (as one of his subjects, Paul Daniels, pointed out at the time) and diminished his oddball appeal. In addition, it’s probably fair to say the whole Weird subject was rather of its time … Millennial angst and all that. Interestingly enough, this hasn’t just been a shift in television trends. As Theroux discovers in his journeys throughout the book (wherein he revisits old contacts he made in Weird Weekends) many of the subcultures he investigated have withered on the vine in the last five years. Jon Ronson, it’s time to look for something new to do.

But, anyway, reading the tome, I was nearly prompted to dig out my old Louis tapes (obviously, I haven’t actually got around to doing that just yet), because despite the slightly passé nature of it all, the book reminded me of Theroux’s genuine talent as a journalist. A kind of Morgan Spurlock, without the grandstanding, crusading – or facial hair. I kind of miss him.

Er, Happy New Year everyone!

Another week, another victim. Well, not so much a victim, more of a contented, co-operating dupe rather than the sacrificial lambs we’ve been presented with in the not so distant past.

Nice Guy Louis has adopted the garb and persona of an altruistic angel of mercy, one whose mission is to rehabilitate his ward, and re-enter them into the modern showbiz world all lovingly and carefully put back together again. No matter how broken they were before or how fragile his visits actually leave them, this caring, sharing, Angel of Light beams into their lives like a ray of hope from the present to illuminate their flaws, and help his charges re-evaluate their own past, present and future. It’s all getting a tad too predictable and charmingly comfortable, but for some strange reason, it still remains sufficiently good viewing. As I said when reviewing last week’s encounter with Chris Eubank, it is not quite hitting the benchmark of the Savile or Daniels encounters but the current tranche retains a certain element of interest and delight although, conversely, it doesn’t plumb any great depths – emotionally, spiritually or personally.

Once again Louis introduced us to his subject matter with a nice welcoming preamble. It’s become almost an androgynous, interchangeable opening sequence. Cue Louis in car approaching gravel drive, cue the talent opening front door and so on. Throw in a courteously gracious little speech, et voila – instant Louis Meets …

In truth, Keith Harris came across reasonably well. I expected him to be far more venal, bitter, vitriolic and bilious than he actually was. Clearly embittered at his treatment at his hands of the powers that be, those whom he perceives to dictate the vogues, fripperies and – much more importantly – the schedules, Harris was at least able to articulate his distaste and amplify his assumed angst. Clearly believing himself to be the victim of some form of pseudo-McCarthyist variety witch-hunt, at least he had the subtle grace to refer to himself as a bitter old queen. But his anger does pose a dilemma that refers back to the ephemeral Saturday night debate regarding quality variety shows being scheduled on mainstream television. My own opinion is that there is undoubtedly a place for variety shows and that there is a (potentially massive) viewing audience for the likes of Keith Harris, Paul Daniels et al. I’ve done gone and went all “Bushell” here, haven’t I?

Part of the underlying proof that sustains this argument could be seen in the audience reaction to Keith’s pantomime. Substantiating it further, I would contend that there is an underlying assumption on the part of schedulers that the viewing masses want “sophisticated entertainment”, whatever that may be. Whilst I don’t expect a return overnight to The Black and White Minstrel Show and its consequent mindsets, I am one of what I would regard to be an underclass when it comes to being provided for televisually. I and the overwhelming majority of my peers, family and colleagues are defined not by demographics, by macroeconomics or by profession but simply defy definition. We are not niche viewers, we are not watchers of derivative programming or somesuch spurious, anal retentive, po-faced ideological label. In simple terms we are viewers with an immensely catholic taste when it comes to our watching habits. Dare I raise the variety as a working class tradition argument here? Well, I do. Keith alluded to it when he mentioned to Louis “the look on the audiences’ face” but the bait was not taken nor did Harris wish to pursue it. A fear of further alienation, perhaps?

It’s all to easy to raise the issue of class in this context but, for me, it’s even easier – and far more despicable – to claim that by raising this those such as myself are using it as a red herring. This was the underlying crux of When Louis Met … Keith Harris and Orville, the true heart of the matter. But it was never really explored, nor even skimmed upon. It was as if both parties were aware of opening up a can of worms that would, if uncovered, lead down a path neither group really wished to explore. Yet, for me, this is an issue that rages at the heart of not only this show but at the core of television scheduling. Still, I digress somewhat.

Harris’ malingering, festering despondency served only to further alienate himself and reiterate his sense of isolation. This was underlined wonderfully by Theroux when Harris proudly read out cracking review after cracking review but allowed himself to be personally shattered (almost crucified) by one minor, inconsequential paragraph from the Big Issue. Clearly, Keith was an emotional chap, as was further witnessed by a teary cry over his sandwich whilst talking to Louis about his family. He remained, depending on how you read him, either intensely inscrutable or an entirely open book. I veer to the latter. Harris was readily open when pressed on his ex-wives, though Louis perhaps could have probed a little deeper here and explored the darker reaches of his subject matter. Likewise with Keith’s alcohol “problems”. Was he alcoholic at any point? It was almost as if a trade-off had been agreed – I’ll give you a little on my wives but don’t touch the drink theme. Full marks to Keith for stating the blindingly obvious to his interrogator – how could I perform with a monkey and a duck whilst drunk? Though the concept does have a certain energy to it!

Also top marks to his parents for lovingly recording what I would assume to be every one of their son’s performances on television. A glimpse of Keith and Orville from the Minstrel Show in the early ’80s was quite, quite wonderful. I would pay serious money to rent the videos in that cabinet – what an absolute treasure trove of delights they must hold. In his own small way, you can imagine that, due to his parents’ showbiz roots, he imagines himself the scion of a dynasty of some standing within the upper echelons of the variety world.

Ultimately, the programme was amusing and diverting, and – occasionally – thought-provoking. We learned that Keith loves his mum (bless him), he loves his (fourth) wife and kids (bless him), he loves Orville (God help him) and he doesn’t impersonate Orville when hops onto the good foot to do the bad thing with the missus. We discovered that he’s a trifle bitter, that Jack Douglas has a boozer’s nose par excellence and that Rod, Jane and Freddie had previously shared the digs that Keith was using during his panto run but there were only two rooms. Now, you can’t put a price on television like that.

The current run of When Louis Met… whilst as entertaining as ever, has progressed into a mordant battle of wills between our erstwhile host, still deploying his bumbling sixth form shtick, and his increasingly media savvy guests.

The programme featuring the redoubtable Chris Eubank underlined this point as the show continued this unnatural evolution yet another stage. Whereas before Mr Theroux would kill his guests with kindness and gently massage their egos whilst simultaneously giving them just enough rope with which to hang themselves, it now has become apparently clear that guests are playing Louis at his own game. Not only that, but in the case of Eubank, winning on a majority verdict.

Like the asinine Anne Widdecombe a week earlier, Chris immediately dictated a no go area of filming. Unlike Anne though, you got the impression that this was merely a sparring tactic marshalled by Chris to see how the lugubrious Louis would react – how he would counter-punch if you will. Louis tried to intrude with camera but Chris played it tight and, within a couple of sentences, had his hapless combatant on the ropes. Round one to Eubank.

Eubank is an inspiring figure – that is to say that he immediately inspires a clear reaction and opinion from the man in the street. There are no shades of grey here, merely black and white. Having had the pleasure of meeting Eubank, I can vouch for the man’s intellect. He is sharp, intelligent and, certainly off camera, eager to indulge in debate. I must publicly doff my cap to him for knowing of Jack Johnston let alone holding in the same esteem as Ali. This is the contradiction of the man, the contradiction that Louis tried, and failed, to disseminate – that perception is all. Eubank is worried to a ridiculous degree about his public image. The media, the metropolitan élite and the anaemic regulars on They Think It’s All Over may hold him as a figure of ridicule, a totem of dismissive fecklessness but, in my experience, there is no doubt that Joe Public loves Chris.

Louis hung his hat on this nail and found it shoogly to say the least. By attempting to deconstruct Chris, the show simply became a series of eloquently inane (but lusciously gorgeous) soundbites and ultimately offered no new insights to the viewer. I was genuinely surprised that Louis made no attempt to probe Chris on his past, an area that – all too often – ex-boxers are prone to drone on about for depressingly long bouts of time.

Boxers, by default, are regarded as no more than warring automatons, mindless, intellectually stunted boys with an unforgiving animal bloodlust coursing through their veins. Yet, in my experience, pugilists have been – almost without exception – deep, deep thinkers, wonderful raconteurs and men of warm humility. The pity of this show was Louis’ inability to expose this side of Eubank to the viewer. Both sides seemed to be engaged in constant verbal and mental battles, little intellectual skirmishes that reeked of two small boys in the playground, neither wanting to give an angry inch.

What was fascinating though was the pivotal role that the definition of perception played throughout. Eubank, the warrior showman, has become unable – unwilling even – to disassociate himself from his cartoon persona. Indeed, he clearly, and joyously, revels in the twilight world of Chris Eubank, World Champion boxer and cracking role model for the children of the world. The failure of the show here was that Louis held the camera up as a mirror for Chris to look at and reflect on, and Chris saw not a mirror but an opportunity to further the persona of cartoon Chris.

But for all this carping criticism, I still loved every minute of this comedic sketch. Theroux clearly has an eye for the narrative as well as one for the subjective. He knits them together marvellously well, almost seamlessly so at times. He clearly cares for, and about, his subjects and this translates effortlessly to the small screen. Perhaps though, he cares a little too deeply now. Previously, we’ve enjoyed the onscreen friction underpinned with a healthy dose of solicitous scepticism but now there is an air of apparent chumminess permeating almost every scene. The staged look is now no longer charmingly confrontational. It’s almost as if the entire show has been storyboarded with no deviation allowed. Predictability is a killer in this sense but, thankfully, the sheer gusto and animated eccentricity of Eubank carried the day. To Louis’ credit, he stepped back and allowed the virtuoso tour de force that is Chris Eubank to continue unabated.

Having sparred with a boxer myself (a man who, as an amateur, defeated Frank Bruno no less) I fully understood the nervous gait and shambolic shuffling of Louis in the ring with Chris. Deep down Theroux was listening to the nagging voice that was telling him to be careful, he might hurt Chris. Believe me, that is your natural reaction when your opponent offers you his chin, lowers his defences and tells you to throw your best punch. It made for a wonderful slice of television but was marred somewhat by an agitated Louis asking, in flight or fight mode, predictably banal questions to mask his adrenaline rush.

So, an enjoyable show but nowhere near the high watermark of the Savile escapade. (Where was Chris’ “Jim The Pill”, I wonder?) Eubank constricted Louis’ room for manoeuvre with elegant aplomb whilst managing to reinforce our worst (and best) perceptions of him. Like a snake eating itself, this was great entertainment but you never really knew where the end, beginning or middle occurred. This was no Ali or Tyson of a show but more of a Magri or a Honeyghan. Seconds out for round three next week.

Fellow of the Royal College of Radiology, Papal Knight and an ex-wrestler “feared in every girls school in the country”, Jimmy Savile has endeavoured to make himself likeable to people for aeons; his latest ruse was to dress up another bout of vain self-promotion as amiable participation in a piece of investigative filmmaking: When Louis Met… Jimmy.

Here Jim, one of those figures scarred so virulently into the national collective consciousness that, like Maggie, Winston and Richard & Judy, his surname is irrelevant, had cleverly consented to participating in a documentary with no real brief other than to allow nosey Louis Theroux to observe him going about his business for a few days.

That this business happened to include a charity gig, an ostentatious public appearance on a cruise ship, and a meandering train ride across most of the UK, fortuitively provided Louis with a narrative this programme conceit so desperately needed. With Jim proving waspishly, frustratingly unforthcoming and oblique in his utterances from the outset, the production team had to hang the film on something, and it was fortunate these events offered at least the potential for entry points into the fabric of Jim’s scatological lifestyle.

It quickly became clear the central thrust of the programme was not what we were going to learn about Jim, but how we were going to be allowed (or not) to learn it. The pair played tiresome verbal jousts and sparring for much of the 50 minutes, revealing little than each other’s propensity for winding the other up. Louis seemed helplessly unprepared for this and more or less wasted the first half of the programme limply fielding Jim’s meaningless aphorisms, oxymorons and ripostes. Louis’ ineffectual tactics resulted in much crowing from Jim (“He’s on the ropes!” he cackled to the camera, mocking Louis as “the piranha fish of all interviewers”) with the result that he was never really able to unpick a fraction of Jim’s persona. Consequently the whole structure of the programme remained as addled and jumbled as Jim’s syntax.

The aesthetic of “Jim” is as much a part of his character as his curdled voice and bizarre morals. We saw him shambling about in oversized waterproofs, cigar thrust forth in some gruesome phallic construction, tottering between chip vans and numerous railway platforms, bedecked in huge hats, goggles and the obligatory shell suit. He would then appear out of the gloom of the narrative like some mythical Yeti, thrashing about at Louis and his demons and his predilection for “lifting the toilet lid of life.”

The production team had to manufacture a climax and conclusion out of this whole desperate liaison and a soiree to Glencoe provided one, with Jim “falling off my own mountain”, barking to a local hospital “bear in mind I’ve given you a lot of machines”, orchestrating favourable press coverage while nursing a broken ankle, then choosing to sulk in his camper van in -8C rather than sleep in a warm hotel. Louis seemed to believe Jim had actually died during this ordeal, but of course he hadn’t, and re-appeared helplessly chanting “can’t break the routine” like a mantra (or mea culpa) as he hobbled off once more.

Underneath all of this patter, behind the sheen and cloak of bumbling self-regard and ranting was … what? Anything? Louis insisted that his time spent with Jim had imbued him with a “new found respect” for the long-haired crone, but it was hard to believe him – he hadn’t offered up any proof or established his case for such a conclusion to ring true. In retrospect Louis really threw away the chance to nail this curious OAP within the first few seconds of meeting and letting Jim immediately take utter control of the situation. Consequently the most telling moments in the film were those in which Louis either didn’t appear or did not precipitate: Jim’s late night confession to “inventing zero tolerance” at his nightclub where he used to “tie people up” at “fucking two o’clock in the morning” being the most memorable.

What a fascinating, yet repellant thing Jimmy Savile appears to be. He certainly got the better of Louis, winning him over with his promise to “fix it” if he got into any trouble in later life. This self-dubbed Godfather, unable to come to terms with the death of his mother The Duchess, yet who carries a fresh pack of condoms on his “cruise”, remained as much of a caricature at the end of this programme as he was at the start. Though a fascinating study of mind games and the clash between personality codes rooted in jumbled irreconcilable generations and agendas, this was ultimately a protracted paper chase where nothing was proved. All it did was to usefully highlight the methodological constraints involved in this kind of documentary filmmaking and that how you obtain information (and what you then do with it, how you use it in argument) is ultimately more significant than what that information is in the first place. Given it was shown during a week where similar notions of what is history and how it can be manipulated were dramatically played out in the High Court (where historian David Irving had his racist neo-Nazi Holocaust denial ideology utterly repudiated), this turned out to be also a very timely and worthwhile programme.