Showing posts with label Dot Cotton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dot Cotton. Show all posts
Heather Smith
So what is it with ugly people on British soap operas? Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fantastic - there’s nothing more refreshing than watching a program where the main character could eat an apple through a picket fence – but after years of watching American programming it always jars me a bit to see someone in a lead role with a face only a mother could love.

The differences between American and British soap operas are as big as the gap between Coronation Street’s Fiz Brown’s two front teeth. American soap characters are, for the most part, exceptionally glamorous and sophisticated. British soap characters are, for the most part, exceptionally ordinary and common as muck … which, in my opinion, makes them much more compelling than their U.S. counterparts.

The old dames of American soap operas (Felicia Gallant, Erica Kane) look elegant, refined, and as if they’ve had one too many trips to the plastic surgeon. The old dames of British soap operas (Dot Cotton, Vera Duckworth) look haggard, bedraggled, and as if they could do with a few trips to the plastic surgeon. Unfortunately, the acting abilities of the American soap actors are as fluffed up as their appearances, while the British actors keep it real.

I am convinced that the only way someone like Eastenders’ Dot Cotton, as much as I love her, would get a part on American television would be in the role of someone needing a face transplant on a Sunday night Hallmark Hall of Fame tearjerker. And that is a shame, considering her incredible talent.

In my opinion, the UK soaps are hands above the US ones and the reason is simple: they are realistic and believable … and in every gappy-toothed, big nosed, cross-eyed character, we see a bit of ourselves.

And I'll tell you something for nowt: I’d take Jack Duckworth over Jack Deveraux any day.
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Heather Smith
So I just turned forty. It’s awesome. That bit o’ pudge around the middle? What about it? I’m forty - whadaya expect? It’s very freeing being forty. I think I’ll give myself a break from the Pilates.

I expect it only gets better from here on in … I can’t wait to smack a young hoodlum upside the head with my umbrella and get nothing more than a “Stupid old biddy” yelled in return. I’ll croak back as loud as my aged vocal cords will allow “Oh Yeah? Sing it loud – I’m an old bat and I’m proud.”

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll rock a plastic rain bonnet. Sensible shoes? Bring ‘em on. You can keep your silver haired sophisticated old lady from the Centrum Silver Vitamins commercials with her classy hairdo and pearls – I want a slight stoop and a cane, one made from a dense wood (all the better for whacking).

I can’t wait to be known as The Curtain Twitcher. I can’t wait to wear lipstick way outside the outline of my lips. I can’t wait to shock people with a curse word … or two.

These are my thoughts on aging. Don’t like them? Then get the hell off my lawn!
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