Indian travelogue shows with British TV presenters are as predictable as they are popular. Here, let me sketch the formula on the back of this samosa. Take, I don’t know, Sue Barker and James Redmond. Whack them in front of the Taj Mahal, then in a tuk tuk. Let them eat pav bhaji. Earnest closeup, while regarding temple carvings. Shot of begging children, while they reflect on what a country of contrasts this is. Much saris and smiling. Close on moment of spiritual epiphany, which evaporates by the airport. It’s a hit!
So I am unaroused by the prospect of Rob and Rylan’s Passage to India (Sunday 14 September, 9pm, BBC Two), the genesis of the three-part series being that Rob Rinder’s favourite novel is the namesake title by EM Forster. Should we send Patrick Kielty to a Kyoto entertainment district because he likes Memoirs of a Geisha? Still, the pair won a Bafta for their previous jaunt around Italy, so I decide to give them a chance.
A quip in the first episode wins me over. Rylan, overwhelmed by the noise of Delhi traffic, is flapping and squawking, and Rinder accuses him of sounding “like the headmistress of a school for excluded children”. I squawk at that. Rinder and Rylan are funnier than anyone who has previously attempted an Indian travelogue, with the possible exception of Romesh Ranganathan. Clearly, there’s something about people whose names begin with R, and I should know.
Their wits compliment each other like raita and mango chutney. Rinder loves classical music, fine art, history. His is a dry, wry whine, complaining about the indignity of having his ears de-waxed on camera, or being made to walk the streets barefoot. He describes Forster as the “Liza Minnelli of literature” to his travelling partner, who he’s horrified to learn hasn’t read the book before filming. (“I was in LA with Mariah Carey,” is the only excuse Rylan gives.)
Rinder grounds the programme, getting misty-eyed at murals, murmuring explainers of why they’re doing any of this at all, all of which washes over Rylan; he’d be as happy at Geri Halliwell’s birthday, or MCing a corporate fruit cider launch. To square the imbalance, the show attempts to imply Rylan is busy doing logistical work off camera. He has many voiceovers along the lines of “While Rob’s admiring sculptures, I’ve tracked down a community spokesperson/organised a tour of the ghats/scored an invitation to a local puppeteering cooperative,” none of which I believe for a second.
His karma could do with some repair. Presenting This Morning last month, Rylan naively complained about small boat migrants to the UK being given free iPads and four-star hotels, a comment for which Ofcom has received more than 700 complaints. He’s on safer ground here, hammering a running joke that Rinder is secretly in love with or trying to get off with him.
Banter notwithstanding, the show is at its best when the hosts discuss gay identity and their yearning for relationship.
Their friendship has real heart under the ribbing. As working-class social climbers, there may be a subterranean identification between them and their subject. They too are riddled with contradictions. Rylan, who sells himself as sex-driven and supercilious, is actually kind and eccentric. He reveals he has built a life-sized railway station in his house, and can only go the toilet naked: “Can’t even have a sock.”
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This show is so good-natured it can walk comfortably in contentious territory. It suggests that anxieties about the subcontinent’s colonial past largely arise from western guilt. (For what it’s worth, I’ve found this too – there’s a bizarre amount of fondness for the Brits in India.) With encouragement from a tailor, Rinder puts aside his worries about cultural appropriation and dons a turban. “I look like Martine McCutcheon with a thyroid problem.”
Rob and Rylan’s passage doesn’t transcend travelogue tropes, but it does update them. They interview India’s first openly gay mainstream politician and Naveen Kumar, a Dalit rapper (the caste formerly known as untouchable) who uses his music to call out injustice. This is modern India, beyond holy cows and street sweepers. It remembers to have fun – there’s a king cobra, a brutal astrology reading, lavish parties with billionaires and royalty. It’s closer to EM Forster, but the novelist would have appreciated the phallic gags … and the attempt to change perceptions. A mildly spicy, very sweet treat.