Pop Alert: Why BBC "Top Gear" Reigns Supreme
November 24, 2011, By Craig J. Heimbuch 2 comments
There are some things Americans simply do better than the British. Not just the Revolutionary War and dentistry, but cultural things. I'll take an American steak over English mutton any day of the week. And I would argue our version of "The Office," while not the original, is the superior of the two. I like jazz more than skiffle and Starbucks more than afternoon tea.
But there are certain things that we, as Americans, simply must admit the Brits do better than we do: global empire building, for one. Parliament for two. Have you ever watched Parliament then switched to CSPAN to watch Congress? Parliament is like a bar-fight with a 10-drink minimum. Congress is so boring that soft-spoken preachers fall asleep in the congregation. I'll take an English beer over anything brewed here, and Harry Potter over anything involving Twilight.
In terms of sylphic actresses, Kira Knightley has Natalie Portman beat. (As much as I would love to lay claim to Mila Kunis for the U.S. of A., she was born in the Eastern Block, and Rachel McAdams is Canadian.) Our football is superior, but their fans—murderous as they may be—beat the hell out of any of ours, including Raiders fans. Literally. And if there is one thing, one area where Americans must bow our collective heads and acknowledge British superiority, it is in the realm of ensemble-based automotive television entertainment.
I came across "Top Gear" something like four years ago. At the time, I was moderately interested in cars—meaning my interest consisted largely of fantasizing which one I would buy to fill my post-lottery-win garage. But I was bored with most TV, and a friend recommended I find BBC America in my cable listings and give the show a try. I was hooked immediately and became a devoted fan. I think it initially had to do with the hosts.
Jeremy Clarkson, the guy's guy (or British version thereof) whose opinions are so strong that even when proven wrong he sticks to them. He's one of the world's foremost automotive journalists, an aficionado. He understands cars. Has exacting requirements for what a good car should look like, feel like, sound like. And his boisterous baritone makes his outrage and humor all the more entertaining.
Richard Hammond, the nymph-like little man with a fondness for Porsche 911s and a smooth radio voice. He is a veteran DJ and TV host—maybe a bit like Ryan Seacrest but less cloying. If Clarkson is the hale-and-hearty alpha male, Hammond is the smart-ass chihuahua yipping at his heels. And I mean that in the best possible way. He is urbane and sharp and, if there is one among them, the sex symbol of the group despite his slight stature. He has epic hair.
James May, the easy-going connosseur who eschews speed in favor of comfort; an old port and toasty fire to Clarkson's single-malt and Hammond's appletini. May seems every bit the level-headed academic. Quiet, reserved, he is one stereotype of England personified. And if there is anything a bit off, anything slightly incongruous, it is his choice in shirts—loud, patterned and completely at odds with his fine-shoe-leather personality. The chemistry was amazing and yet all very British. Stiff upper lip. Dry sense of humor.
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