Phillip Schofield will never find redemption through reality TV

Does Phillip Schofield have a hinterland? Next Monday, we’ll find out, as he returns to television for a new Channel 5 series called Phillip Schofield: Cast Away. Note that title: the television presenter is certainly a castaway, and will be spending 10 nights alone on a remote island off the coast of Madagascar. But he is also “cast away” – a nod to the vituperation heaped on him by the press and public after he admitted lying to co-workers, friends, families and lawyers about his affair with a younger male colleague.

I always thought that there was a whiff of homophobia about some of the reporting, a mid 20th-century censoriousness which wouldn’t have been the case had the affair in question been with a woman. That said, Schofield’s position as the host of This Morning was clearly untenable, given the lies and the evident rupture caused with co-host Holly Willoughby; besides, following his departure, it’s hard to suggest that his absence has left a gaping hole. Daytime TV has moved on, and Schofield has proved to be a dispensable talent.

Whether this new programme shows a reinvented and reflective Schofield, or whether it shows him letting rip regarding those who hung him out to dry, remains to be seen. But this swift comeback from a career in freefall feels like a need for redemption. Forget bland, smiley Phil – this is the pariah who wants you to forgive him.

Reality television is an odd platform from which to relaunch yourself and win back the affection of a once-adoring public. “Reality TV” is a misnomer. It peddles a form of the truth, but one that plays out in a bubble with a camera crew and an editing team who will shape the narrative.

Schofield will therefore join a long roll-call of disgraced public figures who have sought rehabilitation through the tackiest of TV genres. My first memory of this process was when Michael Barrymore appeared on Celebrity Big Brother in 2006, five years after Stuart Lubbock was found dead in Barrymore’s swimming pool. The press caught on to this big return; the fact that Channel 4 was reportedly paying Barrymore £150,000 to do so caused criticism.

Barrymore’s appearance was one of the most bizarre pieces of TV Britain has seen. He took part in a surprise Jim’ll Fix It challenge, presided over by Jimmy Savile, and was taunted about his alcoholism by George Galloway. He also impersonated Adolf Hitler. In the end, Barrymore even came second, testament to the fact that his unravelling provided good television for viewers of a ghoulish persuasion. But ultimately, there was no redemption; Barrymore has never been able to re-establish his career.

Earlier this week, we had another reportedly less-than-kind celebrity trying to claw their way back under the spotlight, albeit in a different TV format. Ellen DeGeneres’s Netflix stand-up show, For Your Approval, was an attempt to demonstrate that she wasn’t really the A-grade meanie her former co-workers have suggested. Yet the show proved that, even if you have total creative control, redemption isn’t guaranteed. DeGeneres’s attempt to prove she was nice was lamentable, a toothless exercise in self-pity that will surely prompt one of America’s biggest TV stars to retreat to her Beverly Hills mansion and count her millions.

Schofield’s attempts to come back also suggest a form of self-flagellation, something apparent in the return of John Barrowman last week. In 2021, reports emerged of complaints about the former Doctor Who actor’s conduct on set – namely, flashing crew members – and there’s no doubt that he has had less of a screen presence since. (Admittedly, his shtick was always overtly sexual; I’m not sure why everyone was quite so surprised.)

His appearance on Channel 4’s Celebrity SAS: Who Dares Wins could be seen as Barrowman doing penance for past misdemeanours, and even if he hadn’t left after half an hour, it seems unlikely that the programme would have allowed him a heroic arc. Celebrity SAS certainly did nothing for former health secretary Matt Hancock, who appeared on an edition last year, other than prove that he should keep his clothes on.

Redemption is about action, about showing you’re willing to do good – and TV will never allow this. It is, by definition, about ego. Every person who signs the dotted line for some celebrity skydiving exercise is only really thinking of themselves, and the pay cheques they’ll receive afterwards. Nor is it just the celebrities themselves who’re at fault. That money isn’t generated from nowhere: television producers will often want to exploit a career that has suffered a high-profile fall from grace.

Some cases, of course, are too high-profile, leaving some celebrities with little chance of salvation. I can’t imagine Huw Edwards rustling up a chocolate soufflé on Celebrity MasterChef, although time, I suppose, will tell. And while some broadcasters would have baulked at hiring Schofield so soon after his departure from This Morning on grounds of taste, there are clearly others whose eyes lit up. Whether Ben Frow, head of Channel 5, was courting Schofield with a certain assiduousness, I cannot say; but if he was, I would imagine that the prospect of record-breaking audience figures was foremost in his mind.

Not, to be clear, that I’m taking the moral high ground. Many of us are actually looking forward to seeing Schofield wrestling with a ring-tailed lemur and then staring introspectively into the middle distance, wondering where it all went wrong. Because sin – whatever your definition of that is – makes for good TV.