Top Gear, series 29, episode 1, review: as stodgy and dependable as crumble and custard
Once, Top Gear was appointment viewing. Not, admittedly, the kind of appointment you bother to floss and find a clean shirt for. But it had a place in the rhythm of the week. As Sunday evening slumped towards Monday, it was dependably there: as stodgy and comfortable as custard and crumble. Like a labrador let loose in the John Lewis homeware section, it may have occasionally made you wince, but that was – mostly – part of its cosseting charm.
And then came Jeremy Clarkson’s hangry hissy-fit – and the fateful punch. And so, after the inevitable BBC inquisition, the 38-year-old show relaunched. The rumpled chemistry of Clarkson, May and Hammond was out; Chris Evans’s humid enthusiasm and Matt LeBlanc’s dead-eyed grin were in. It stank.
Cue another relaunch. This time with ex-cricketer Andrew “Freddie” Flintoff, recently fronting a documentary about his struggles with bulimia, comedian Paddy McGuiness, and journalist Chris Harris behind the wheel. It was a gentler, more Millennial-friendly show: Punk IPA to the Clarkson-era John Smith’s.
Now the boys are back and, for the first time, on BBC One. It’s also the first post-pandemic series, and the show opened with the oddly beautiful sight of the presenters lit up by headlights, ringed by fans next to their socially-distanced cars. “It’s like a Top Gear Glastonbury,” observed Flintoff. Optimistic: Christian rock-fest meets CAMRA knees-up was more the vibe. All that was missing were the hay bales.
The scripted banter slumped. Topical zingers – “How’s your eyesight?” McGuiness asked Harris, before packing him off to test a Ferrari – landed with a wet thump. And the Covid-secure space between the presenters echoed. It lent a curiously antagonistic feel to proceedings: like Balinese Legong dancers, Flintoff and co seemed poised to break into stylised combat.
Much better was this week’s challenge: spend 24 hours in a company car, in Bolton. Though a transparent attempt to woo Red Wall viewers, it was refreshing nonetheless to see the Bolton Wanderers stadium treated to the same swooning drone shots that in previous series would have lavished on the Riviera or the Taj Mahal.
The cars were another change. The three tested – Tesla Model 3, Volvo S60 and BMW 3-Series – were all either fully electric or hybrids. Even the Ferrari could go electric – though with a range of 15 miles, it would hardly cause Elon Musk to lose sleep.
The Bolton sections were the show’s strongest. Of course, they were loud and silly and involved much blokey larking about with urinating into bottles. But they also showcased the multi-cultural hum of Bolton beautifully – now muffled by the longest-running local lockdown in England – and McGuiness’s nostalgia for his hometown was touchingly genuine. By the time the Tesla karaoke kicked off, and Sweet Caroline was belting out across the petrol station forecourt, I was sold.
Momentum slowed, though, in the obligatory supercar in an exotic location segment. The car was a new 1000bhp Ferrari, the SF90, and the location Italy; but really it could have been any car, anywhere. An aria, ominous, creaking electronica, and lashings of soft-porn blur: these sections are too chaste for fans of Paul Haggis’s auto-erotica thriller Crash, so who are they really for?
Top Gear holds an uneasy place in the BBC’s stable. Once a dependable revenue stream – in its pomp, it netted the corporation more than ￡50m a year – it’s now an uncomfortable proposition: too male, too pale, and with too much particulate pollution. My advice? Ditch the flaccid studio interludes, dial back the fancy car longueurs, and build up the fledgling camaraderie between the presenters.
Summing up his Volvo, Flintoff said: “It’s comfortable, safe, solid.” You said it, Fred.