The Irish Wedding review — big days are made by a small hitch

Joyous imperfection was the calling card of The Irish Wedding, Alex Fegan’s keen-eyed effort at conveying the high spirits and cheerful disarray of a big day on the old sod. Candid vignettes from eight very different marriage ceremonies involving an impeccably diverse mix of couples — straight and gay, old and young, native and immigrant, first-timers and frequent flyers — were skilfully interwoven to form an amusing and surprisingly eloquent collage. Missteps and flubbed lines were not Fegan’s only focus, but his close-ups on minor gaffes and the merriment that ensued affirmed the film’s preference for the ragged edges of reality, life as it is, rather than the gaudy pageantry peddled by so-called reality TV.

One of the venture’s main strengths was its obvious aversion to staginess or stage-management. The most enjoyable of the featured bashes — both for viewers and, it seemed, attendees — were the more low-key, laid-back affairs. In a commendable TV departure, we heard next to nothing from the kind of people who tie themselves in knots over preparations for their knot-tying celebrations.

DANIELA ALFIERI

As with many romances, however, the best part of the film was its early stages and, before long, the initial allure started to fade. Fegan seems especially enamoured by wedding speeches and the documentary lingered a little too lovingly over the largely interchangeable quips and good wishes delivered by various best men and assorted mothers/fathers of the bride. After so much fastidious avoidance of cliché and schmaltz, the dewy-eyed ending felt like a cop-out. Then again, it was probably wise of the film-maker to avert his gaze before the serious boozing and family rows kicked off. That’s a whole other documentary.

High-altitude cycling is the latest effort at raising the stakes on Ireland’s Fittest Family, the doggedly low-fi and endlessly repetitive clash of the clans that has reached its ninth season. Endurance tests and obstacle courses of comically primitive construction are the show’s longstanding trademark, with most of its strength challenges based on the hoisting and conveyance of hay bales, barrels or tyres.

Earthbound drudgery continues to dominate the latest series, which was filmed among the forests and swamps of a Wicklow adventure park. But all concerned are breathlessly thrilled about the introduction of High Nelly, a stationary bicycle on a custom-built rig 30ft off the ground. For viewers, however, nothing has changed beyond the fact that the show’s bellicose mentors now have an excuse to roar at the treetops as well as anything that moves on terra firma.

Ireland’s Fittest Family remains a deeply strange spectacle: a curious blend of grunt work and carnival barking. The stamina of the participating families continues to amaze and the format’s grim austerity evidently appeals to its target demographic. But while one can admire the programme-makers’ ability to fashion a TV hit from little more than mud and bluster, the relentless air of hard sell and bellowed hype is as tired as it is tiresome. Nothing could possibly prepare the contestants for what’s about to happen, we’re told — but, in fairness, they’d get a pretty good inkling if they watched even 90 seconds from any of the previous eight seasons.

Unbalanced structure is the downfall of The Deirdre O’Kane Show, a stand-up platform that often groans beneath the lead weight of its presenter’s self-regard. As we’ve grown to expect from chucklefests such as BBC’s Live at the Apollo, a series to which this show bears considerable resemblance, the quality of material on display varies wildly. There’s also a striking monotony to the subjects covered and the attitudes expressed, with a tedious tendency towards the blandly right-on. Nevertheless, it’s heartening to see several newish Irish performers hold their own alongside big-name acts from here and the UK.

Recorded at Dublin’s Olympia, the programme is cleverly staged and slickly produced. Rob Broderick, aka Abandoman, thrives in the usually thankless role of house-band leader, and many of his improvised songs gleam with flashes of sharp wit. Ultimately, however, it’s the vast deserts of airtime lavished on O’Kane’s decidedly lacklustre opening monologues that deaden the atmosphere and test the viewer’s patience. “Good evening and welcome to me,” she declares at the start of each episode, half-joking but wholly in earnest.

O’Kane addresses the camera directly while sitting on a stool, with a tumbler of booze within easy reach — a pose clearly intended as a nod to the late Dave Allen. Her admiration for the storytelling ace is understandable, but the comparison does her no favours. Where Allen used mundane incidents as launchpads for flights of comedic invention, O’Kane specialises in long rambling anecdotes about her home life that may well be true but have not yet been reshaped into functioning comedy.

Her primary preoccupations are the energy-sapping hassles of parenting in general and motherhood in particular — rich topics, undoubtedly, but O’Kane’s commentary feels more like the rough draft of a magazine column than a meticulously honed stand-up routine. In fact there are moments when her performance could almost be mistaken for a mordant parody of celebrity narcissists who use the public stage to vent rather than entertain.

Comedians with an inordinate love for the piety of their own voices are a growing menace to comedy. They have apparently forgotten that it’s their job to make jokes, not speeches.