The latest offering from the BBC’s Natural History unit, Frozen Planet, provides what could be the most sublime setting yet for David Attenborough’s unparalleled guides to our world. That is: towering skyscrapers of pale blue ice, thrusting up from the oceans; kilometre-wide bergs, floating fortresses of white drifting slowly through dark, empty plains of dark water; satellite footage of the southern continent doubling in size with winter, expanding two and a half miles a day, filling the sea with a frozen crackled crust; recently-discovered caves, bristling with feathered, windswept icicles. Perhaps the most breathtaking part, even to those who already know about the melting of Greenland is the time-lapse footage of glaciers working their way down the continent, scouring the soil from the surface of the rocky mountains and sliding into the sea.
With every series the BBC’s Natural History Unit produces, one has to wonder what they could possibly do next; when Planet Earth came out several years ago, spanning tropical jungles, African deserts and also these frozen poles, it was hard to imagine what earthly material they could have left to astound us with. Yet, as the latest series proves, there is always more to bring to our screens, in huge part because technology grows more sophisticated every year.
Still, as stunning as the images are, one cannot help but notice a paucity of factual detail, huge gaps in the script, a lack of scientific elaboration and the occasional cringe-worthy line.
It is tempting to ask: Is the BBC dumbing things down?
For anyone who has followed the Life saga since the beginning, comparison with earlier series is striking. Get your hands on a copy of the very first series, 1979’s Life On Earth, and the contrast is absolutely jarring (not simply because the grandfatherly form of Attenborough as we know him today is replaced by a rosy-cheeked, lithe and dandyish young man).
It is impressive to see how far filmmaking has come in three decades: the monochrome, pallid, grainy tones of the old footage seemed so vivid with life and colour when we watched them a quarter century ago. Deep sea fishes, which dazzle with bioluminescence and astound under the high powered lights of today’s submersibles, are barely perceptible in the old footage – some of the rarest specimens are only shown with grainy, still photographs. Vast plains of coral reefs, which in real life would have been a brilliant rainbow of blues, reds and yellows, are rendered dull by the era’s primitive underwater equipment. Even birds of paradise and shimmering iridescent butterflies, which should make for effortlessly impressive filmmaking, appear to be cast in sepia.
Even the music strikes in different chords: the oboes, flutes and French horns of the orchestral scores play in minor harmonics, almost mournful in tone, a stark contrast to the gushing, rousing, celebratory scores of the modern series.
But get past the initial shock of the unimpressive imagery, overcome the shortness of our modern attention spans, and the complexity of the narration will begin to impress.
Attenborough – who, remember, is a classically educated biologist and should be addressed as “Sir” in accordance with his standing in the Order of the British Empire – bandies about words that seldom (if ever) would have passed his lips in the past decade on air: Trilobite. Polyp. Cilia. Nautilus. Paramecium. Bryophyte. Placoderm.
The structure of DNA, the workings of the genetic code and the nature of amino acids are explained. The practicalities of successful fossil hunting are laid bare. The relationships between comb jellies, sponges, amoebae and the other gooey denizens of our planet are teased apart. The importance of cyanobacteria – blue-green algae that produce much of the world’s oxygen – is celebrated. The restriction that diffusion imposes on the anatomy of butterflies is elucidated.
The contrast with the aerial shots of bear cubs trundling about the Arctic snow we meet in the first episode of Frozen Planet couldn’t be more striking. Obviously the camera crew cannot change what the cubs look like (nor our instinctive reaction to melt at the sight of them), but the anthropomorphized tone is undeniable – jaunty music and trilling flutes at times create a rather saccharine air. And several lines read by Attenborough – the driving force behind a series that began by attempting to explain natural selection and the detective work of evolutionary biologists – are enough to make old devotees flinch. “It’s the naughty corner for you,” he chirps over footage a chastised bear cub. The cuddly tone is particularly noticeable to those familiar with Attenborough’s history at the BBC (he is reputed to have been a legendary curmudgeon during his days as controller).
So why the drastic departure from the series’ unabashedly nerdy roots? It was only 15 years ago that 1995’s Private Life of Plants revealed the stunning, subtle workings of the unassuming green foliage of our world. Blue Planet still astounded with scientific detail.
Charitable apologists might surmise that the producers wished to expand the appeal of the program to as wide an audience as possible. Practically, they need to justify the enormous expense of their series’ (reputedly £16 million over four years). But perhaps they also wish to inspire awareness and concern for the future of the poles, which are one of the regions of this planet that will change the most in coming years with our warming atmosphere.
This week however the The Telegraph reported that the BBC has chosen not to include the seventh episode in the series, which deals with climate change, in the Frozen Planet package sold around the world. The newspaper reports that of 30 networks who have bought the series, a third have opted not to pay for the episode, bundled as an optional “extra” among out-takes and additional behind the scenes footage.
It will be clear to life-long Attenborough fans that the intellectual volume of the new series has been cranked down several notches. Is the BBC simply broadening the appeal in order to justify costs? Putting in a greater effort to make the content accessible to children, perhaps inspired by the success of March of the Penguins? Have the producers come to the pragmatic conclusion that not everyone is enamoured with the subtleties of cyanobacteria?
Or, is the simplest answer the most likely? Perhaps the images are just so powerful that they speak for themselves.