Matthew eats… The Masked Singer

Is your greatest strength your biggest weakness? Is your confidence sometimes arrogance? Is your passionate nature sometimes a temper tantrum? Could your easy going nature become laziness in its extreme? To be fair, all that does is show you are human. But is it so endearing in a television programme?

The Masked Singer is a global phenomenon. It is completely cheesy entertainment that is not taken one bit seriously, on the surface at least. Most Saturday night entertainment programmes have over recent years at least put on a veneer of deeper meaning. But not this one. It goes no further than c-list celeb in a costume singing pop hits.

That is its charm. But also, it is at times a grating flaw. There seems to be a competition between the host, Joel Dommett, and the panel of judges as to who is the loudest. The script is deliberately awful, which isn’t a major problem for the target audience perhaps but wearies anyone seeking any form of rigour.

And then there is the filler. If we just had clues and the singing, followed by a brief judging, we could be done in 45 minutes. Yet somehow we end up with double the run time as the space is filled with gimmicks. By the end it isn’t so much ‘take it off’ as ‘get on with it’

This all makes it sound like I hate it. Yet I don’t. I’m hooked by the guessing game and, when it isn’t descending into a shout off, the judging panel is actually fine. They are certainly more life affirming than many of their rivals. And for all the silliness, it never feels like it tips over into cruel.

Maybe I’m wrong audience. Perhaps everything negative I’ve said misses the point. And yes, it might just be the case that what I see as this show’s biggest weaknesses are really it’s greatest strengths.

Matthew eats… The Masked Singer

So I’m not going to lie, I have no idea if I have written on this show before. I probably have, so I apologise if I am rehashing anything, or if I’m even completely contradicting what I’ve said previously. But here it goes anyway.

The Masked Singer has become ITV’s January Saturday night event. It’s ideally suited to that post-Christmas dip. It’s light at a time when people are low and silly when any other kind of fun seems a long way off. If you need me to through the premise, here it is. Celebrities disguise themselves in costumes and perform songs. The aim is to guess who they are via video clue packages and their singing voice, although the latter is often disguised. Each week, one contestant is voted off and their identity is unveiled.

So as you have gathered it is hardly Mensa level entertainment. It is literally designed to take your mind off the dark nights. And it is actually enjoyable, so long as you can handle a large dollop of cheesiness in the presentation of the show. It is scripted pretty much entirely with puns and is, quite frankly, ridiculously loud.

The panel of judges is a fair mix. Jonathan Ross, Davina McCall and Mo Gilligan are all tolerable. Fourth member Rita Ora is less so, and mistakenly thinks being brash equals having a personality. Although to be fair, she is the source one of the shows best running gags, as she tries to make jokes that simply don’t work. I’m not entirely convinced her fellow panelists annoyance at her is fake either.

Joel Dommett is a reasonable host, although also falls into the trap of thinking shouting equals enthusiasm. Again though, he features on a decent running joke of being unable to make it across the stage without slipping thanks to his ridiculously buffed shoes. He could possibly exude more warmth, and his interactions don’t feel as natural as they could. I certainly would be reluctant to have him appear on something that involved dealing with the public. But he leans into the silliness of the show and just about avoids overselling it.

Is this amazing groundbreaking TV? No. It is a bit of froth that is in many senses instantly forgettable. But it also works. There is no sadness or anger, no grand point being made, nothing in it even for the winner. It is a distraction from the cold winter outside. And that’s all I want right now.

Matthew eats… The Masked Singer

There are moments where you just have to give into the madness. You spent so long sneering at it to to no avail so you end up joining in. It’s easier that way, as you no longer have to battle against the tide. So it is with me finally letting The Masked Singer into my life. Blame the fact that I am now required to be sociable with my other half on Saturday evening, rather than just disappearing into a quiet room

The premise, for anybody living under a rock, is that celebrities dress up in elaborate costumes and sing (or ‘sing’ as the case may be for the more vocally challenged). You then guess who it is, aided by clue packages. Each week, one identity is revealed, as the audience and judging panel whittle down their least favourite performers.

There are so many things that really should get under my skin about the show. Joel Dommett is an irritating host, full of cliched puns and scripted comments. The panel are also largely annoying, particularly Rita Ora, who clearly hasn’t got any better forming chemistry with co-stars since her disastrous stint on The X Factor. Add in bizarre audience voting decisions (shows like this will be what historians point to in the future when democracy fails) and the gladiatorial chanting as the celebrity is due to be unmasked then you have something that resembles either a dystopian nightmare or an extreme fever dream.

Yet it works. Dommett is actually the right host for the job, leaning into the show’s weirdness without making a complete joke of it. The panel are secondary on this, and Jonathan Ross does a good enough job of, like Dommett, reveling in the show’s eccentricities without overcooking it to make it enjoyable. It is quite cheesy, yet also somehow you don’t seem to care.

Above all else, you do end up getting involved. There is a weird thrill of seeing a former Wimbledon champion dressed as a set of bagpipes or a quite respectable pop star be uncovered as the real identity of a lion fish or poodle.

This is the sort of programming that makes the Reithian types froth at the mouth. It is silly, pointless and shallow. It does not educate or inform, and you cannot argue it makes you a better person for watching. But in an era of anger and division, 90 minutes of complete froth doesn’t go amiss. So give into it. It may be mad, but it also is the biggest salve to keep your sanity in this world out there.