THIS WEEK, AMONG all the Christmas tat and nonsense, is a programme which towers so far above the rest, it seems almost trivial to write about anything else.
Although epic in scale, the film's emotional core is in the small personal details and recollections of those affected by the disaster. There are tales of quiet heroism and dignity, of indomitable spirits and unshakeable faith. But most of all the fi
lm resonates with an immense feeling of loss. The underprivileged, primarily black Lower Ninth Ward was almost completely devastated when the levees broke, washing away not just homes and lives, but generations of black history. Some accused the authorities of blowing the dams in order to deliberately flood the area and save the high-land white communities, but the film makes a measured case for careless engineering being at fault. Despite assurances to the contrary, the levees were never strong enough to withstand a level five hurricane such as Katrina; already a city on the slide, it's almost as if New Orleans was left deliberately unprotected in order to bury it for good.
Lee's film exposes the hopeless chaos of the clean-up project in unflinching detail. Survivors were left for days without food or water, many trapped on their roofs while corpses floated around them. Petty political power games - the governor held a grudge with the mayor - meant that people were left to suffer in appalling conditions while officials stalled. Bush fiddled while New Orleans drowned, and Condoleezza Rice went shopping for shoes, took in Spamalot! and played tennis with Monica Seles. Footage of a shell-shocked Dubya awkwardly hugging survivors on a PR junket days after the disaster is almost too disgusting to bear. The dissemination process, in which families were randomly split up and scattered across the country - only to be turfed out of their new accommodation after a few weeks - is likened to the barbarism endured by earlier generations. "This is not racial rhetoric, these people were treated like slaves," declares one commentator angrily. It's hard to disagree.
Lee is a fiercely polemical film-maker, of course, but When the Levees Broke isn't some hysterical tirade à la Michael Moore. It's an important social document, a mature and monumental achievement. It will make you cry, seethe and shiver in disbelief. I urge you to watch it.
From the sublime to the comparatively irrelevant. The Worst Christmas of My Life (Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, BBC1, 9:30pm) is 90 minutes of unstoppable farce involving the plaice-faced Ben Miller - a sort of ersatz Rob Brydon - once again getting into all manner of "hilarious" misunderstandings. Farce is a tricky medium to get right, and while Worst has its moments, it's too predictable and shrill by half. It's like a mechanical mix of Fawlty Towers and Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em, starring a bland Hugh Grant impostor and a cast labouring under the misapprehension that screeching like fingernails on blackboards is the apex of hilarity. Inevitably, there's a scene involving Miller running naked through a corridor with his genitals in his hands. He also urinates on a duck, castrates a corgi and insults some Germans after being concussed by a moose head. I think.
By the time Alison Steadman starts tearing the trousers off a comedy vicar, you'll wonder if you haven't accidentally stumbled upon a Terry & June marathon on UK Gold.
Ever wondered what it would be like to spend Christmas with Charlotte Church? You have? Well rip up that restraining order and guzzle down some full-strength medication because The Charlotte Church Show Christmas Special (Friday, Channel 4, 10pm) is here to make your dreams come true.
A shrieking, ear-splitting howl of beery hysteria, it's like watching a tipsy teenager present a Christmas raffle in front of a pub full of relatives. Stretching her innate likeability to the limit, Church is hardly a natural host; her attempts to "do" comedy are horribly embarrassing. Guests include Sugababes (pointless), Paul O'Grady (noisy) and Ben Elton, a man who has finally exhausted all the goodwill engendered by his 1980s output and should henceforth be banished to a mountain top until he promises to be funny again. If you're a moron with the soul of a beer-mat, then you'll probably love it. Me? I'd rather impale myself on a Christmas tree.
