IT WOULDN'T be exactly accurate to say that the camera loves Fabio Capello. That prognathous profile of his could only be adored by the most indulgent of Italian mammas. The lens has a fascination with him though. He has the televisual charisma of a James Gandolfini or a Christopher Walken; you are glad there is a screen and a few hundred miles between you.
Maybe he is aware of his intimidating image, and felt an inclination to lighten up. He positively beamed through a gentle pre-match grilling from the BBC's Ray Stubbs, almost creasing up when Stubbs attempted a stumbling Merseyside approximation of I
talian at the end.
Capello had his game-face on by the time he reached the dug-out. It's quite a formidable employment of the facial muscles, managing to combine elements of a Roman emperor unlikely to grant clemency and a man emerging from a visit to the proctologist.
Also causing pain at the rear early in the match was Wes Brown, a surprising selection at right-back. Capello was obviously impressed by Brown's regular games for Manchester United, failing to realise that he has been in the shop-window for months with a price-tag going down faster than a Tesco's pork-chop approaching its sell-by. It would be difficult to think of any defender less likely to earn the description "a Capello type".
Closer to the Capello archetype, i.e. perpetually restless, combustible and disgusted, was Wayne Rooney, the player who, judging by camera close-ups, was the most dissatisfied member of the starting XI in the first half. Rooney, red of face, receding of hair-line, now looks as if he has missed out his 20s altogether and gone straight from teenager to grumpy middle-age. Maybe that explains why Capello wanted him in the Pippo Inzaghi role.
The first-half was dismal, and the BBC coverage failed to offer much additional illumination. The panel seemed demoralised, unable to summon up much enthusiasm for the new regime. A generous interpretation would be that they were subdued by the Munich commemoration, but more likely it will just be a while before this England team can inspire any great interest.
Gary Lineker offered some senseless banter about Marti Pellow (rhymes with Capello, geddit?) while Ian Wright, at least before his lad grabbed the winner, seemed to have had his entire life-force drained by some mysterious serum. No bad thing for those who find his hyperactive kid schtick terminally irritating, but Wright's role is to be bubbly. If you need some dreary banalities, well that's Alan Shearer's job. Alan Hansen's authority is considerably diminished by the recurrent suspicion that he would be happier telling you about the price of toilet-rolls at Morrison's. Lineker's "it hasn't been a Rolls-Royce performance, but Bentley has been OK" was excruciatingly tired, the sort of stuff that even John Motson would discard as too corny.
Shearer at least offered us the relatively alarming insight that Jermaine Jenas "needs to feel loved". Capello might be a surprising manager in many respects, but it was difficult to imagine him dimming the lights, sticking on some Barry White and murmuring a tender Ti amo Jermaine into the Spurs midfielder's ear.
You idly wondered whether the manager's decision to send on Shaun Wright-Phillips and Peter Crouch at the same time was inspired by tactical necessity or simple curiosity to see how comical they would look alongside each other on the touchline. He certainly seemed to sigh in disgust when Wright-Phillips actually scored. He told Stuart Pearce to tick him off shortly afterwards.
It's still difficult to know whether Capello has taken this job solely for the purposes of his personal entertainment. You want to keep watching though, along what he is calling the lunga strada to South Africa, if only to see how much more disdain he can cram into those touchline gesticulations. The England show remains mostly disjointed, enervating and a little frantic. In its new central character though, the soap opera has found a compelling star.
