MTV has an odd reputation in Britain. For many years mocked, not least on The Day Today‘s “Rok TV”, as a haven for American English-speaking Europeans linking Metallica videos, the 1997 launch of MTV UK saw the channel attempt to become cool, first by osmosis through live shows and turning up at top events, and in the last couple of years by letting the parent US company do all the legwork spearheaded by the likes of Jackass and The Osbournes, leaving daytime schedules largely free of not only UK content but also music videos. The UK version of the ultra-successful US format Total Request Live is an attempt to rectify both of these oversights, with the difference that while Americans get to look down on Times Square, we’re treated to a car park in Camden. Right from this opening shot, you’d be forgiven for thinking this was how low-rent the venture was going to be.

“This feels a little bit cold – we need it to be warmed by the moisture of A-list celebrities!” was Berry’s baffling opening shot when he got inside away from the throng. MTV pride themselves on their presenter-spotting, from bringing on Davina McCall when the channel was still European to first TV slots for Cat Deeley, June Sarpong, Richard Blackwood and Edith Bowman among others. Running terrestrial adverts centering more on Berry than the premise of the show would suggest they want that run to continue. Inside the small-looking studio, looking oddly like a slightly tuned-down version of The Word‘s set, was another couple of hundred overexcited kids. Good for “creating an atmosphere”, true, but it meant Berry had to spend virtually the whole show bellowing, and for the viewer it doesn’t make for the greatest experience, especially in the opening minutes of a new show – yes, they’re enjoying themselves in the studio, but what about us having to strain to hear the links?

The first guest, necessitating every video being cut down to a couple of minutes, was Angelina Jolie, in town for the Tomb Raider 2 premiere (“it’s sexier, it’s smarter – it’s just better”) but according to Dave “we’ve seen each other a lot”, with no explanation forthcoming. First question : “What do you think of TRL UK?” This after five minutes. One question later Berry marched Jolie outside, as “that’s what TRL is all about – fans meeting Angelina, Angelina meeting fans!” Which is nice, especially as said fans appear to have all brought along suspiciously box-fresh Tomb Raider 2 posters, but for those of us who can’t get to London at 4.30pm, or much earlier to get a good spot it smacks of excluding everyone at home, being told that we must be enjoying the show because other people are.

Back inside, Berry is struggling, making a mess of some apparently TRL-patented horseplay with the guest. First day nerves, possibly, but he’s not putting any of himself into his presenting, keeping his cards in view at all times, not making much headway with the audience and delivering links far too fast. Meanwhile Emma Griffiths is out with the crowd, popping up in the middle of a video so a Jolie fan can show off her slightly worrying tribute tattoo. “Maybe you’ll get to meet her” is the response, overlooking the fact that she’s just been outside to meet her fans yet apparently missed her. Minutes later Griffiths marches them in anyway as we cut to a break. How are they reacting? How is Angelina reacting? Both have disappeared when we come back, so we never find out, but we do get to see Jason Biggs in an unhilarious spot talking about the show, after which Berry assures us “I had to choose between having him on and having you [Jolie] on – do you think I made the right decision?” More cheering before Jolie spoils the gag by professing never to have seen any of the American Pie films.

Then the big screen in the studio flashes up a picture of Dave’s head on Lara Croft’s body to little effect before Jolie reveals everyone in the studio can join her at the premiere if fellow guests the Foo Fighters (“nobody invited us!”) get a question right on their behalf, which they do but nobody’s allowed to celebrate for too long as there’s a video to cut straight to. The idea is that anything can happen if you join them in the studio, for which there’ll presumably be a waiting list soon enough, yet that means nothing again for those of us watching at home. Not once during the show does Dave remember to mention just how you can vote for your favourite videos.

After a news update which consists of people talking about Christina Aguilera rather than any actual music news, Dave races through a decent competition to go to the Video Music Awards to get to Blazin’ Squad being interviewed by Griffiths right next to the crowd. That means not only can they not hear each other at times but we can hardly hear them either. Inside Dave introduces the Foo Fighters only for them not to turn up, leaving Berry and the director both struggling to fill, neither seemingly realising they should have played a video clip first. Emma turns up to introduce an impenetrable game involving Berry and a male member of the audience, who she names despite never having introduced, putting on women’s clothes and having parts of their body waxed, proceeding to make even more of a mess of her lines than Dave has so far. Cutaways reveal that Dave Grohl can’t quite believe what he’s watching either. Hasn’t this sort of thing been done many times before, with no discernible viewer interest? Only after the number one, the introduction to which is completely unintelligible, and the Foo Fighters performing acoustically, does the viewer realise when they’re thanked for their attendance on the hitherto unused big outside stage that Blazin’ Squad haven’t so much as introduced their video, although they do get the ceremonial garage “boo!” going just as Dave thanks the Foos. Meanwhile a long shot of the stage reveals Zane Lowe has turned up without being announced and as a consequence looks like he’s impersonating a headless chicken. He’s there to present a follow-up live show interviewing the Foos, not that any word of Berry’s outro can be made out.

Select MTV, TRL‘s MTV UK predecessor which ran until the end of 2001, provided viewers with an easier inlet – ring up and select a video to be shown immediately if you get on air, or just watch one presenter link the calls and talk to studio guests in an enclosed studio for two hours, twice as long as TRL. Crucially, it never severed the link between presenter and viewer, whereas setting a show alongside a huge screaming crowd makes it nigh on impossible, all the guests being required to play to the fans almost with disrespect for the people at home. Yes, we can ring the premium rate number and vote for our favourite videos if we want to stamp our authority on the show, or alternatively we could turn over to one of up to 11 (on Sky Digital) 24 hour music request stations and be guaranteed of actually seeing our choice in full. It may have the name of the influential American show, but it’s hard to see how our version will be as trend-setting as long as it stays a televised party for those in attendance only.

Which sounds fine for a one-off such as the 2001 retrospective show that won an innovation Bafta. Unfortunately for the concept, a six part series was commissioned, of which this was the last, and then with much publicity put smack in the middle of BBC2′s Monday night Comedy Zone. This in turn degrades the idea suggested by Jackson that viewers might think this is actual covert film of the real-life celebrities in question, as every preview has nevertheless referred to the lookalikes and “satirical” nature.

Oddly for such turbulent times, satirism on TV itself is pretty much dead in the water at the moment. Stuck between Mark Thomas‘ hectoring and Rory Bremner’s sudden attempts to prove how left-wing he is, everyone, including Double Take, much prefers the broadest of strokes. It’s hard to imagine anyone watching the first sketch, in which a poor George W Bush lookalike turns over from CNN onto cartoons, thinking “Bush is simple! You’re right! What a clever observation!” – especially as the same central idea now seems to comprise the act of what seems like the majority of stand-up comedians. Regardless, the very next sketch sees Tony Blair being photographed in Army camouflage gear. So he’s visibly supporting war, you say? Later on there are references to the government obsession with spin, the Queen’s relationship with Camilla Parker-Bowles and David Beckham’s style icon status, all of which have long been picked over. We’ve come a long way since That Was The Week That Was and Peter Cook’s MacMillan impression in Beyond the Fringe represented a breaking down of the barriers with regards to mocking the Establishment, but it feels at times here that the only political points being made are those that are most readily crowd-pleasing.

Worse in a televisual sense, this image, surely intended on paper for a few seconds – immediate impact, the satirical suggestion is made, out again – lasts fully 45 seconds. It’s not even a sketch – there’s no development in the idea at all, just a photographer and the Blairalike. Long sections cut down on filming time, yes, but watching the show back on video, this was one of many occasions where the viewer could press fast-forward without having to worry about missing anything of significance. Despite what Jackson seems to suggest is the best way of approaching the show, viewers would be left wondering why it couldn’t have been tightened up in the edit. At one point there is a juxtaposition of Osama Bin Laden and a belly dancer. This lasts for 70 seconds and has no point whatsoever. The 11 O’Clock Show wouldn’t have accepted that idea.

Oddly, for a show that prides itself on its lookalikes, a surprisingly high amount don’t actually look that much like the person they’re supposed to be, even with the faux-poor quality film stock which is probably meant to disguise this. For all the camera shows, the same person could have been portraying Sir Alex Ferguson and Jeffrey Archer and could make a bit on the side as Charles Hawtrey, while a Chris Evans lookalike appears in two sketches, long after the man himself has arbitrarily given up his status as our leading TV entertainment figure. Maybe they just couldn’t find a Robbie Williams. In one bizarre sketch a man in a fairy outfit prances about in soft focus for a good 45 seconds, and no indication is ever given to who it’s supposed to be. Elton John? Wrong hair. Christopher Biggins? Hardly a contemporary reference. Hold on, is it just Matt Lucas in a wig?

To its credit, the idea of this being covert footage is put across well technically – sketches are filmed through windows and behind or over the top of objects, while the supposed cameraman’s hand appears in shot on one occasion. But all the technical jiggery-pokery in the world can’t overshadow the idea that the few sketches that rouse original interest – four Saddam lookalikes discussing what they’ll do next, for example, or Michael Winner shouting at a waiter in what seems to be an arbitrary generic angry voice, much like Bremner’s early attempt at Peter Mandelson where he admitted he didn’t know what the then spin king looked like but knew he was from the north and thus did him in a Yorkshire accent – aren’t actually funny. The number of Queen-related situations don’t count among these – not only did the Royal Family spend most of the last decade seemingly trying to prove they could outdo any satirist, but the idea that they were untouchable has been eroded by everyone from Spitting Image, who genuinely did receive tabloid indignation when they dared to mock the monarchy, to every two-bit comedian who picked up on Prince Charles’ horticultural and architectural preferences years ago. In that context, the Queen in make-up seems like just a desperate attempt to grab headlines. Even the series trailer featured an obvious joke relating to the implacable nature of Sven Goran Eriksson, in which he was supposedly seen dancing in a lift. Really, what’s the point of billing this as some sort of breaking down the walls of image if the sketches therein have no point?

So, have Jackson’s ideals hit the target? There’s no question that it aims to show that real life and public imagery can be wildly different, but instead of using this to an great effect it instead chooses to focus on the most hackneyed of “outrageous” comedy convention by getting its lookalikes to act either in an exaggerated way towards or in a polar opposite way to the supposed image, while at the same time trying to make it humorous. This is Double Take‘s great failing – it works as a plausible modern art video installation, but not from an audience tuning in after Never Mind the Buzzcocks or before Shooting Stars. In trying to separate the spin from reality, all that it has achieved is proving why these public faces work so well – because the reality wouldn’t.

If this was a true awards ceremony, among most people’s favourites for a gong would be the likes of stroppy and dislikable reality TV contestants, hosts of bad quiz shows and stars of piss-poor American rip-off sitcoms. However, awards show hosts being among the nominations is always vaguely embarrassing, and so Rhona Cameron’s name was not put forward. Another of what the female ABC1-aimed magazines would describe as a “TV turn-off” is pointless talking heads, an idea completely browbeaten to death by lazy clip shows employing know-nothing columnists and comedians. Well, as we move into the first category, for barely-there dresses of the type said “Heat generation” supposedly flock to newsagents to get a look at, here’s Neil Fox predicting someone will turn up naked to a premiere. And here’s Paul Ross and Jenni Falconer discussing Meg Matthews’ Vogue shoot in so clichéd a tut-tutting tabloid way that they must have been overdoing it deliberately. Oddly, a category for minor TV presenters aiming to get noticed by appearing as pointless talking heads wherever possible was overlooked. And while we’re about it, should ITV1 be showing nipples before 9.05pm on a Saturday?

Anyway, winner Tracy Shaw turns out not to be in, despite an uncredited reporter, for which read runner, asking passers-by if they know where she is and receiving blank looks in what is probably meant as an embarrassing but actually superbly funny moment. So the production team catch up with her backstage at The Blue Room – where she’s happy to take the award and give a speech. And here’s where the idea falls down to even the dumbest viewer. Later on, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson turns up in the studio to chummily chat with her mate (“I’ve spent my life blagging it – that’s why I’m here tonight”), only for Rhona to announce that she hadn’t actually won, as “this girl would definitely turn up to the opening of an envelope – it’s Jordan!” And sure enough, the former Katie Price is present and correct. The award the stars don’t want, eh? They seem quite happy to pitch up and take the piss out of themselves. Or maybe they were just eager for prime-time exposure? But then, what’s the show, and Cameron’s involvement, about in the first place? The only proper showbiz strop captured is when Angus Deayton is seen driving away from the cameras – not wanting further embarrassment? Or maybe just in denial as he was scheduled to present the show until the BBC cited his exclusivity contract with them?

Unbelievably, the shots got cheaper as Rhona got smugger. Russell Crowe won the When Stars Attack category – a short selection of nominees, including Jay Kay for being headbutted – and an unidentified Australian woman spent three minutes walking down deserted roads, around creeks and into bars, because that’s what Australian men do, isn’t it? The Hamiltons won a separate award for ubiquity, yet ITV1 were keen during the breaks to get us to watch The All-New Harry Hill Show, as the Hamiltons star in it. “Who on earth would agree to spend 10 days surrounded by hidden cameras with complete strangers?” Cameron completely failed to deadpan as she introduced Worst Career Move, for which the nominees included Angus again, Tom Jones “getting hip” (as opposed to the number one, career reviving Reload album, you understand) and Les Dennis supposedly breaking up on Celebrity Big Brother. At least they didn’t include John Leslie as feared. And here’s Piers Morgan to discuss it all, being his usual sneery self about Deayton. Could his much-aired enmity with Have I Got News For You be born of genuine disgust for the show’s ways, or could it be to do with his one appearance, described on a HIGNFY fan site as “he was completely outdone by the knowledge, wit and backing of the regulars … no-one in the history of the show was subjected to quite such bileful treatment or put under as much pressure”? Les wins, anyway, and runs off – because he lost it on national TV before, you see? – in a clearly set up moment, given he’s already running when he first appears in shot. Further suspicions are raised when Patsy Palmer, winner of Frock Horror (didn’t they do that earlier?), is seen in a car surrounded by so many 12 year olds that Westlife would feel jealous – there when you found her, were they? The whole show climaxes with Ego of the Year, which Simon Cowell wins, and whaddaya know, he’s there to pick up his award. One he didn’t want, of course, being a star.

It has to be remembered at this point that this was a Saturday night show, flanking up alongside Casualty, The West Wing and CSI: Miama, not a Steve Penk-esque midweek filler before the 10pm news. We should be accustomed by now to ITV1 not having a clue with what to do with their light entertainment remit, hence the staggering on of Blind Date and the many and varied ways Millionaire is being propped up. All the same, it’s difficult to think of another show broadcast in such a slot that left itself so open for ridicule, even when working under the pretence of ridiculing others itself, by its methods. A teeth-grating host reading smarmy sarcasm of the lowest common denominator aided and abetted by the cheapest talking heads available? A series is probably being commissioned as you read this.

Generally in TV, if you’ve got a clunker of a show, the whole nation knows about it and are ready to mock accordingly. Even Fame Academy, while having seemingly everyone admitting by the final that it was their secret love, only managed figures for the final that equalled those of the much-mocked first series of Survivor. What chance RI:SE, a show which started and, brief doubling due to exclusive Big Brother coverage aside, remains at 200,000 viewers has of improving its image is negligible.

Three editors, five lost presenters and eight months ago, Ian Jones concluded of the first show that it “trades on the maxim ‘safety first’ – truly the very worst aspiration for Channel 4 to peddle.” Rather than as a damning review, you might be forgiven for thinking the producers had taken this as a maxim to guide the show by – bizarrely, and almost certainly uniquely, this was a last show of the year that felt like every other show, the only nods to the festive season being a joke shop singing moose on the still overlarge presenters’ desk and snow effects on the big screens. With the only other guest Grant Bovey, currently doing the rounds promoting this Christmas’ Celebrity Boxing, dispatched within the first half-hour, that left the big guests as being Girls Aloud and One True Voice, constantly talked up as the biggest musical conflict in years (“I think you’ll be able to taste the excitement … you can cut the tension with a knife in the studio”), when they’ve done at least two previous mutual joint interviews and the supposed acrimony amounted to artificial playground insults, and those probably suggested by their managers. If the presentation of the two bands as warring pop factions was one big exercise in irony, it was very subtly done in universally broad strokes. When one emailer asked if the boys would regret being put together by reality TV, one almost mumbled “no, because, y’know, Daniel’s a good songwriter”, as if surprised by a possibly critical question. Notably, while One True Voice were cut off by adverts, the girls were allowed to complete their song and a few minutes later disappear without prior warning on motorbikes to their undisclosed next port of call. It may look good in the Bizarre column, but to the viewer it smacks of record company-aided laziness. Just because you tell people something is exciting doesn’t necessarily mean it actually is, a seemingly clichéd observation that the show should have taken on board long before now.

So what of the presenters, the facet that has come in for the most criticism? When the show started, Henry Bonsu and Colin Murray were talked up as the news specialists – both are music radio DJs – while Edith Bowman and Liz Bonnin were the entertainment reporters. Bonsu disappeared a few weeks in and Murray left in October as the news mandate that suggested that, unlike its predecessor, a massive news story need not mean the show be postponed, evaporated. Durden-Smith maintains what Ian described as “deliberately trying to contrive a personality, any personality”, often pointlessly shouting and at one point sitting on the aforementioned moose in a vain and frankly David Brent-esque attempt to be “wacky”. Bowman and Bonnin, meanwhile, are cast as a Trinny and Susannah for Heat obsessives, delivering on-tap supposed sarcasm at the drop of a script. But isn’t this all a false economy? I’ve never seen Bonnin before she started on the show, but as far as I can tell neither Durden-Smith nor Bowman had adoped these personalities in their respective presenting styles before. It’s as if the production team had heard second-hand about the balance of power between presenters and regulars on the Big Breakfast and tried to recreate what they imagined it was like. But Bowman was wearing a hat, so she must be stylish and with the times.

Worse was to come. For a last show before Christmas, you expect all manner of bells and whistles, presenter surprises and montages of the year’s guests and highlights. What you don’t expect is, after two hours of unfestive ennui, a last link in which Edith and Liz tried to give thanks for celebrities who had sent them Christmas cards while One True Voice blew party horns and attempted to shout jokes about how they would be travelling to their remaining publicity duties and an unexplained dog set about the moose – that’s the Christmas effects budget gone, then – before a half drowned out Mark bade “a big thank-you to all our co-presenters and to the world in general” before playing out with the same film of celebrities (Sandy from Big Brother!) singing Shakin’ Stevens’ Merry Christmas Everyone that had been played an hour previously. And a happy christmas to you too, Princess Productions. The only semblance of an off-autocue surprise in the whole show was when one of Blue was shown on tape declaring he fancied Bonnin, which she pretended to be flustered by while Mark laddishly suggested “give him a ring, see what happens.”

The very least you expect of a show that has been universally panned in its opening weeks is some sort of noticeable improvement with metaphorical fireworks and, especially in the competitive breakfast market, something to hang the show’s hook on that is distinct and eye-catching enough to win over viewers. Yet eight months on, all that’s really changed on face value is the dropping of the news ticker some time in July. News and sport look more contractually obliged than ever, Chris Rogers and Kirsty Gallagher never gaining so much as a reference outside their specialist spheres for all their mugging to camera and the sport competition question being to name the player Sophie Anderton is currently dating, while the facile quarter-hour entertainment bulletins are built up like a major item. The rest boils down to the same promotional interviews as everyone else, right down to the lines of questioning, conducted by presenters seemingly keen not to project any of their own personalities beyond what was said in the production meeting. What’s the point, especially on the nominally get up and go Channel 4, of following everyone else’s example, and the lowest common denominator thereof to boot? The Big Breakfast may not on paper have been much more, but at its height, a time which should not be confused with its dying days, the array of experts and features was unmissable viewing. The concept of including “watercooler moments” may be the dread of the discerning viewer, but RI:SE would be advised to include some, otherwise it boils down to a completely forgettable set of features day after day.

RI:SE relocates in the New Year, losing Chris, Kirsty and Liz, not that they were given proper farewells during their last show, and moving to a purpose-built studio inside a shopping centre, a move which you suspect the production crew came up with as a homage to This Morning on Albert Dock or even GMTV‘s Get Up and Give campaign specials, but is actually reminiscent of the predecessor’s ill-fated relaunch with Sharron Davies and Rick Adams. The other sports anchor Helen Chamberlain, also a former Big Breakfast stand-in supposedly at Johnny Vaughan’s behest, has presented three shows during the last week and equipped herself relatively well, but it’s worth remembering that she was a launch presenter of Channel 5′s Live and Dangerous five and a half years ago and quit after six weeks because she was missing Soccer AM so much. Imagine what sport the tabloids would have if that were repeated. More than a change of personnel, however, RI:SE desperately needs a complete shift in direction, something unlikely to happen with a new editor coming in from a showbiz background that threatens to take the show even further down the faux-cynicism route. “Maybe subsequent revamps will leaven the show with traces of distinction and worth” Ian concluded back on 20 April – it’s looking increasingly unlikely.