MASTERCHEF has returned this year twirling its diabolical handlebar moustache and cloaked in the sort of melodrama that is usually accompanied by a live pianola. Winsome damsels that we are, close to 2 million of us are held captive every night.

Obviously, it’s a reality TV cooking show, but some nights you’d be forgiven for mistaking it for Beaches with not quite as good a soundtrack. You can choose to ignore the weepiness if you want, though. You might even find something useful to do while you wait out all those drawn-out dramatic pauses.

Sucked in...The final eight MasterChef wannabes get all dramatic with Heston Blumenthal in London.

Loading

There have been other cooking shows before, of course, but it’s hard not to be impressed by the role MasterChef has played in boosting the culinary confidence of a nation.

------------------------

Fans divided over Joanne's treatment

MasterChef: Latest news

------------------------



Yes, truth is, there are plenty of reasons to love MasterChef. It’s inspiring and it makes people think about what they’re actually eating. Not since Paris Hilton starred in her first unfortunate reality television show, One Night in Paris, has anything been so effective at making us think twice before putting something in our mouths.



We see pasta being made from scratch. We learn how to shuck oysters and salt an eggplant and how to make our macaroons sleek and shiny — this all amounts to a better world. As long as the cooking-to-crying ratio is tipped in favour of the cooking, it’s an easy show to love.



But now, night after night, it’s starting to feel like the artistic direction is influenced not so much by a Nigella Lawson as a Nigel Tufnel. Spinal Tap is the best comparison for the sort of kitchen behaviour that has become embarrassingly mock-rockstar-ish.



Of course, reality TV is not a genre that has ever shied away from histrionics but MasterChef has amped everything up to 11 this season and you have to wonder if it’s a sustainable tactic.



Tension is created in the usual overwrought style. Judges Gary, George and Matt do their best to outdo Hitchcock as masters of suspense. And for all the cutting and slicing that happens in front of the camera, we know that the more important stuff is happening behind the scenes in the editing suite.



But there’s still a lot of fun to be had with the ridiculous dramatics as long as you know where to look. Keeping one eye on the Twitter news feed and one on the telly is a good way to cope. Perhaps you’ll even enjoy a lively game of MasterChef bingo while you watch (thanks to writer Clem Bastow, you can find cards for this game online). In small ways such as these, the overemotional MasterChef moments can be skilfully wrangled back to the realm of the pisstakingly bearable. And thank god, because it really is such a splendid show most of the time.



And, like every fine melodrama, half the fun is in anticipating the action, a TV version of pantomime’s, ‘‘HE’S BEHIND YOU’’.



The creators have so skilfully presented the stars of the show that, as the series reaches its final stages, the stories almost write themselves. For example, if we imagine ourselves as flies on the wall of the MasterChef kitchen, we look on knowingly as Callum expertly shifts his manner from tearful to cheerful with a twitch of his nose. Marion smiles a smile so saint-like that stigmatas spontaneously appear on both hands and feet. The blood is quickly wiped away with Handee Ultra in accordance with health, safety and sponsorship guidelines.



Aaron gets the final two letters of his chosen facial expression confused and comes out with a smirk instead of a smile. It’s a catastrophe reminiscent of the paprika/nutmeg incident. ‘‘I’m kicking myself!’’ he wails. Claire decides to recreate the melancholy mien of a distant relative and her eyes suddenly become misty lagoons. Adam gets sniffly just watching. Meanwhile, Joanne’s pout is offered a spin-off show of its own.



‘‘Think from the heart and the rest will take part!’’ George bellows and Alvin, always a sucker for poetry, starts bawling. Over in the corner, one solitary tear slides competitively down Jonathan’s bestubbled cheek, but that shot doesn’t make the final cut so we never find out he has feelings.



Matt Preston saunters in and smashes some perfectly good crockery, announcing that everything’s disgusting, until he notices several emotionally shattered contestants cracking open cyanide pills.



He quickly explains he means disgustingly good. Everyone sobs with relief and kisses his feet. Realising he’s become a caricature of himself, Matt starts weeping, too, until Gary sashays in and cheers everyone up with a trip to London.



Money starts raining down inexplicably from the ceiling and everyone goes back to whooping with delight. The winner of MasterChef 2010 is MasterChef 2010.



If only we could slice up this brilliant but ludicrous show and just keep the part that doesn’t treat us like idiots. Then those over-the-top, manipulative moments that make us groan like we’ve just eaten something rotten, can be chucked into a bin labelled with those legendary words of eliminated contestant Matthew: ‘‘An offal mistake’’.



lvashti@fairfaxmedia.com.au