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Quatermass II – Episode Two – The Mark

March 7, 2015March 7, 2015 archivetvmusings BBC Drama - 1950's john robinson, nigel kneale, quatermass ii, rudolph cartier

Whilst we’ve previously touched upon the debt that Doctor Who owes to Quatermass, it’s clear that Quatermass II was influenced by various stories published during the mid 1950’s. Invasion of the Body Snatchers, written by Jack Finney in 1954, was one possible influence. It tells of an stealthy invasion which sees alien duplicates of people grown from seed pods. Quatermass II would mine similar territory – whilst the concept of an alien invasion is frightening enough, how much more frightening would it be to realise that it’s already happened?

In Finney’s novel (and the subsequent 1956 film) the drama derives from the possibility that your nearest and dearest (next-door neighbours, parents, etc) may be alien duplicates. As the book was written during the early years of the Cold War, it’s hardly a stretch to say that there’s a fairly clear allegory at work here. It’s bad enough to find out that people close to you are actually aliens, but it could be worse – they might be communists. Quatermass II also has the hallmarks of a story crafted during the Cold War, but here the aliens have infiltrated the higher echelons of government and are directing the unwitting humans to service their, at this time, unfathomable ends.

The Cold War was different from conventional conflicts such as WW2 (which ended just ten years prior to the transmission of QII) due to its lack of large-scale battles. Instead, the “fighting” occurred beneath the surface of normal society, so most people simply wouldn’t have been aware that it was happening. In QII we see a good example of this – as the aliens have effectively won, without a shot being fired. The drama is therefore driven by the growing realisation of Quatermass that nobody can be trusted – just how widespread is the alien influence?

Whilst Kneale would later claim that he wasn’t a particularly political writer, QII certainly has some interesting points to make. There’s a general theme that the authorities are suspect (which is fair enough, since they’ve been infiltrated by aliens) but it’s possible to see this as an allegory for a more general swipe at the post-WW2 secretive nature of government. There were certainly research projects carried out at the time which were not publicised (but if they had would presumably have been claimed by the authorities to have been “for the greater good”). The chemical warfare research carried out at Porton Down is one such example (and some of their research work carried out in the past, and their work continuing now, has never been made public).

Episode Two, The Mark, sees Professor Quatermass begin to understand what’s happening. We see Dillon affected by the gas which seeped out of a meteorite at the end of episode one and which also left a mark on his cheek, which will be an important plot-point later in the episode. Guards from the mysterious nearby plant take Dillon away, despite Quatermass’ protests. He seems unable to communicate with them, as they appear to be operating in a zombie-like state.

We can assume that the guards are under alien control (although, of course, at this stage it’s not clear that aliens are at the bottom of this – it could be that first-time viewers simply assumed the guards were very bad actors!). Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the emotionless nature of the suspect humans is something of a giveaway – dramatically it would have been more satisfying for the controlled humans to act normally, but there is a certain eeriness to them – thanks to their monotone speaking voices.

Powerless to prevent Dillon’s removal, he doesn’t have much time to ponder his next move before he discovers a tramp (Wilfred Brambell) emerging from a hole in the ground. Brambell seemed to spend most of his career playing old men, even when he wasn’t terribly old (in 1955 he was forty three). Rudolph Cartier had previously cast him in the 1953 Kneale-scripted production of Nineteen Eighty Four, and he would later admit that, like many directors, he liked to employ a “rep” of regular actors in his productions. Another actor cast by Cartier in Nineteen Eighty Four (André Morell) would later have an important part to play in the Quatermass story ….

If it’s possible to wonder why the guards didn’t simply kill Quatermass, rather than let him walk away, then you could also regard the appearance of the tramp (who points Quatermass in the right direction to continue his investigations) as a slightly clumsy piece of plotting. Yes, it is – but it’s also necessary to keep the story moving so it’s best not to worry too much about it. The tramp mentions that some five miles away from Winnerden Flats is a prefab town that’s been built to house the workers employed on the plant.

The Camp Voluntary Committee Duty Office has a number of posters on the wall (“Remember, Secret Means Sealed Lips” and “Talk About Your Job And Lose It”). The committee are disinclined to help Quatermass and they explain why. “We’re doing all right. A lot more than all right. We’re asked to co-operate by keeping our mouths shut. Just like in the war.” The posters are an obvious nod back to similar ones used during WW2 and it’s clear that the workers, whilst they may be aware of strange occurrences, are happy to keep quiet for the reasons stated. Partly because they’re being well paid, but also because this sort of blind obedience to authority was something they were used to in wartime and therefore it’s easy to see how it could be used to manipulate people in peacetime.

The police are also unable to help, so Quatermass turns to the ministry. Fowler (Austin Trevor) is a civil servant with something of a sense of humour (“we’ve had dealings for a number of years. You as a driving force as an enterprise of the future, I as one of the obstructive civil servants you have to contend with.”) Since he has a personality he’s clearly not been taken over and he’s able to advance the plot by telling Quatermass about Winnerden Flats. It’s used, he says, to produce synthetic food – considerable money and absolute secrecy has been required since it’s a revolutionary new process.

He introduces Quatermass to Vicent Broadhead (Rupert Davies) who’s an ambitious MP making his own enquries into Winnerden Flats. Later to become a household name in Maigret (1960-1963), Davies is a strong addition to the serial, although his part isn’t particularly large. But he is able to tell Quatermass that identical plants have been built in other countries (so whatever they’re doing it can’t be revolutionary).

Quatermass insists that Broadhead calls him as a witness in the enquiry he’s been running. Broadhead agrees and the two take their place in the meeting room. This is where the emotionless nature of the controlled humans works well as it’s rather eerie to see the six men sitting around the table, all of them hardly showing any reaction. And when Quatermass spots that one of them has a mark on his face, the pieces of the puzzle seem to be slowly falling into place …..

Quatermass II – Episode One – The Bolts

March 6, 2015April 11, 2016 archivetvmusings BBC Drama - 1950's john robinson, nigel kneale, quatermass ii, rudolph cartier

For those people, like myself, who like to tick off the elements of the Quatermass serials that were later “borrowed” for Doctor Who, episode one of Quatermass II is a very happy hunting ground. This story clearly made a strong impression on Robert Holmes, as some fifteen years later he lifted key elements from it when scripting Jon Pertwee’s debut, Spearhead from Space.

The opening, with a radar technician tracking a mysterious object, is one such blatant lift – as is the sight of the object (a meteorite) landing in a field and its subsequent discovery by a local yokel. The fact that the meteorite was intact before it hit the earth (an extremely rare occurrence) is also common to both series as is the notion that it was hollow.

The Bolts is an efficient opening episode as not only does it have strong continuity links to The Quatermass Experiment, it also very effectively sets up the premise of the new story. Captain John Dillon (John Stone) was the army officer on the spot when the meteorite was tracked. It’s not the first time that such objects have been observed and he’d like to investigate further – but there’s a complete ban on such investigations. He surmises this is because of the flying objects scare of the previous year, which generated panic stories in the newspapers and suicides from people who feared that the end of the world was nigh. The real reason will be uncovered later in the story ….

Dillon is curious and luckily he knows just the man to help him – Professor Quatermass. Dillon is going out with Quatermass’ daughter, Paula (Monica Grey) so he’s able to speak to the Professor straightaway. Monica Grey is another rather clipped, emotionless actress (similar to Isabel Dean) but Stone’s Dillon is rather more natural and he works well with Quatermass during this episode.

As for Quatermass himself, John Robinson stepped into the role at the last minute (following the sudden death of Reginald Tate). It’s probably fair to say that Robinson wouldn’t be many people’s favourite Quatermass – as there’s something rather off-putting about his rather wooden delivery. It’s been suggested that his rather uncomfortable performance was due to the fact he was a last minute replacement for Tate, but as he gives a similar performance in other series it seems to be just his acting style.

Although QII moves away from the concept of space exploration via rockets, as seen in the first serial, it’s still touched upon in this first episode – and this provides a strong link to TQE. In TQE we saw the problems with the first rocket (resulting in the deaths of the three astronauts) and there’s a similarly unhappy fate for the second rocket (named Quatermass II). It exploded seconds after it was launched from its Australian base and the resulting nuclear fallout contaminated a wide area, as well as killing everybody within its immediate radius.

It’s another bitter blow for Quatermass and he confides to Paula and Dr Leo Pugh (Hugh Griffith) that this disaster spells the end for the rocket programme. Its ultimate aim was to produce a fleet of rockets to build a colony on the Moon, but this dream is now in tatters. “It won’t be easy, will it, to face the fact that we’re out of the race?”

Whilst the history of the space programme during the 1950’s and 1960’s tends to concentrate on America and Russia (for obvious reasons) there were times, especially during the 1950’s, when the British space programme had brief moments of life (such as the Blue Streak project). But rising costs meant that by the late 1950’s the Blue Streak was cancelled, and QII was somewhat prescient in forecasting that lack of government funding would be the major reason why Britain never developed a credible presence in space.

With the future of his rocket looking grim, Quatermass seems only too pleased to see Dillon and be presented with a mystery. Together they travel down to talk to the man who discovered the meteorite, Fred Large (Eric Lugg) and his wife (played by Hilda Barry). Fred’s in a very uncommunicative state and Quatermass and Dillon beat a hasty retreat. Although we don’t see Mr and Mrs Large again, their closing scene (with Mrs Large worriedly wondering what’s happened to her husband) is a slightly uncomfortable one, since it raises the possibility that these meteorites have the ability to change people’s personalities.

Stopping off at a local pub, Quatermass questions a local man, Robert (Hebert Lomas). He seems to have a bee in his bonnet about “government men” and how they ruin everything – but Quatermass is intrigued by the news that a secret installation has been built nearby, at Winnerden Flats. Admittance is strictly forbidden and there are armed guards to reinforce this. Quatermass and Dillon nevertheless decide to take a look. The complex (like the Quatermass II rocket earlier) is rendered with some nice modelwork by Jack Kine and Bernard Wilkie, but there’s little chance to take it all in before the pair find another meteorite.

This leads into the cliff-hanger, which is a little bodged, but still quite effective. Quatermass looks at Dillon and reacts in horror. “There’s something on your face!” Unfortunately, John Stone doesn’t react at all until after Robinson has spoken, which is a bit sloppy (but it’s live television, so you can’t expect perfection). Robinson then has to hold his expression of shock for about ten seconds whilst the first few credits roll (this was a skill that you’ll often see performed during the 1950’s and 1960’s – as actors had to stop dead whilst the credits were overlaid. The closing credits of Police Squad! are an excellent parody of this).

John Robinson may be a bit of a cold fish, but otherwise this is a good opening episode with plenty of mystery and the promise of some further twists to come.

“There’s something on your face!”

Monica Grey and Hugh Griffith

John Stone

Eric Lugg

The Quatermass II Rocket

Winnerden Flats

The Quatermass Experiment – Episode Two – Persons Reported Missing

March 5, 2015March 5, 2015 archivetvmusings BBC Drama - 1950's nigel kneale, reginald tate, rudolph cartier, the quatermass experiment

Given the iconic nature of the serial, it comes as something of a surprise to learn that Nigel Kneale didn’t have the time to carefully craft it – instead it was written to a very tight deadline. When a hole appeared in the Saturday evening schedules, Kneale agreed to write a six part serial to fill the gap, but by the time the early episodes were airing he still hadn’t written the concluding episodes. In one way, this was an advantage – since he was able to watch the performances of the cast (especially Reginald Tate) and then tailor the finale to best suit their abilities.

Episode two opens with Victor Carroon taken away to the hospital, whilst Quatermass explains to a curious police officer exactly how the rocket functions. This is a slightly awkward example of info-dumping – it’s important that the audience has some understanding of how the rocket works, but had Quatermass discussed this with his colleagues it would have seemed false (since they would obviously know as well as him how it operates).

Quatermass gives the policeman a guided tour. “Food supplies. Recording apparatus. Transmitter. Vision Monitor. Remote Control. Bunks for the crew. They’re strapped down on those during take-off.” Given the disaster that seems to have befallen two of the crew, Quatermass is extremely affable to stop and give the inspector all this information – but whilst he has moments of stress, he is generally a fairly polite chap (witness how he stopped to speak to the reporters before entering the rocket. It’s hard to imagine Donlevy’s Quatermass being quite so understanding!)

What’s noticeable about this episode (apart from the rather poor quality of the telerecording) is how basic the majority of the sets are. The hospital room, the police station, the arrivals area at the airport, etc are all fairly small sets and quite sparsely furnished. Given the limited space in the studio, it’s understandable that the sets wouldn’t be terribly large and maybe the limited definition of the television service at the time meant that it wasn’t considered necessary to go overboard with the set dressing.

Producer/director Rudolph Cartier would later say that he always attempted to give the Quatermass programmes a cinematic feel, but it’s not really evident in this episode (which is mainly a series of conversations set in a number of rooms). Given that the remaining four episodes don’t exist, it could be that they open out the story a little more – or maybe the cinematic stylings didn’t really start until Quatermass II, which benefited from a larger budget and extensive location filming.

The human interest of the story is given a twist when Judith Carroon reveals that she had planned to leave Victor, as she loved another member of the team – Gordon Briscoe. This allows Reginald Tate to raise a surprised eyebrow. Tate’s very good in this scene, restrained and resigned – whilst Isabel Dean is, alas, rather more animated, shall we say.

Overall, it’s a good episode for Tate. He gets to display some flashes of anger – especially when he’s questioned about how hard he’s pushing Victor to remember what happened on the fateful flight. Why does he want to know? Is it for the sake of the families of the two missing astronauts, or so they can build safeguards for future flights or is it just because Quatermass doesn’t like a mystery? The single-minded nature of the scientist is a cliche, but it’s one that’s touched upon at various points during the Quatermass serials (though Kneale generally is able to make some good use of this familiar material).

Duncan Lamont was an excellent actor, with a lengthy career in films and television (one notable film appearance is as Sladden in the third Hammer Quatermass adaptation – Quatermass and the Pit in 1967). In this episode, he’s largely incomprehensible, just mumbling the odd word. And the shell of the man he now appears to be is reinforced when Quatermass plays him the film of the pre-launch chat.

Here, we see Victor cracking a joke with his two colleagues, Dr Ludwig Reichenheim (Christopher Rhodes) and Charles Greene (Peter Bathurst). Since we know the disaster that awaits them, it gives their relaxed banter a dark feeling – which is the point. I didn’t spot Bathurst at first through the murk of the telerecording and he’s certainly unrecognisable from his later television appearances, such as Chinn in the Doctor Who story, The Claws of Axos.

Speaking of Doctor Who, the episode ends with Carroon speaking to Quatermass in perfect German and giving his name as Dr Ludwig Reichenheim. This apparent assimilation is a mystery that will be revealed in the later episodes and it clearly made an impression on Robert Holmes, who included something very similar in his Doctor Who story The Ark in Space. The same story also has a crib from QATP, which we’ll probably discuss at a later date.

And sadly, that’s all that exists of this serial. There’s several different ways to get a feel for the rest of it though. The scripts for episodes three to six are on the DVD as PDFs and there’s also the Hammer film (pretty good, although Brian Donlevy isn’t most people’s idea of Quatermass) or the 2005 live remake (pretty bad).

Next time, we’ll move on to Quatermass II, where a new actor (John Robinson) takes centre-stage in an ambitious production that plays on the Cold War paranoia of the mid 1950’s and has a familiar theme of alien invasion (or rather, the realisation that the aliens are already here).

The Quatermass Experiment – Episode One – Contact Has Been Established

March 4, 2015March 5, 2015 archivetvmusings BBC Drama - 1950's nigel kneale, reginald tate, rudolph cartier, the quatermass experiment

One morning, two hours after dawn, the first manned rocket in the history of the world takes off from the Tarooma range, Australia. The three observers see on their scanning screens a quickly receding Earth. The rocket is guided from the ground by remote control as they rise through the ozone layer, the stratosphere, the ionosphere, beyond the air. They are to reach a height of 1,500 miles above the Earth and there learn what is to be learnt. For an experiment is an operation designed to discover some unknown truth. It is also a risk. (Opening narration)

Contact Has Been Established opens with Professor Quatermass and his team anxiously checking for news of the rocket. It’s an early opportunity to see the main members of the British Rocket Group in action. John Paterson (Hugh Kelly) and Peter Marsh (Moray Watson) are, at this time, fairly anonymous button-twiddlers and they don’t really have a great deal of opportunity to establish specific characters (although Watson does have a memorable moment at the end of the episode when he reacts with horror at the news that two of the three astronauts are missing. Had this not been live then possibly another take would have dialed down his intensity – but alas, this was live and there were no second chances).

Isabel Dean played Judith Carroon, wife of Victor (one of the astronauts). She had the sort of cut-glass accent that was still common at the time (although it was slowly vanishing). Her rather stilted delivery does play against the emotion she had to express – but it’s a difficult role anyway, so it’s probably wise to cut her some slack.

The obvious man in charge is Quatermass (Reginald Tate). Tate is probably the forgotten Quatermass (due to only two episodes from this story existing). Had he not died suddenly, just before production of QII, then that obviously wouldn’t have been the case, since there was every indication he would have carried on with the role as long as Kneale had continued to write it. Certainly Kneale himself had envisaged Tate continuing, both on television and on film, and in time it’s probable that he would have been synonymous with the role of Professor Quatermass.

It wasn’t to be though, so we’re left with just these two episodes to gauge how he played the role. It’s certainly very different from Brian Donlevy’s take of the character in the Hammer film (which Kneale strongly disliked). Whereas Donlevy was brash and loud, Tate is quiet and thoughtful – but there’s nevertheless an intensity about him. Would he have been as good as André Morell in QATP, playing the older, more embittered Quatermass? It’s difficult to answer, but the evidence we have with these two episodes suggests that he would have been more than decent.

Technical imperfections are always going to occur during live broadcasts and there’s a few in this episode, although nothing too terrible. The first sight of the rocket, crashed into the house, is impressive – but it appears that the grams weren’t cued up straight away, as there’s a pause of about five seconds before we hear any sound effects (dogs barking, babies crying, the sound of fire, etc).

If Isabel Dean gives a performance that to modern eyes seems somewhat unrealistic, then the same could be said of Iris Ballard as Mrs Matthews (“oh my gawd Len, it’s something dreadful”). It’s a character drawn from a stock type (frightened working-classes) and it doesn’t really convince. The first few minutes of the scene with the crashed rocket are rather tricky anyway – there’s some wobbly camera-work and the sound is indistinct at times (it seems that the boom microphones couldn’t get close enough to the actors).

Thankfully, Katie Johnson as Miss Wilde is on hand to liven up proceedings. Best known as Mrs Wilberforce in the classic Ealing comedy The Ladykillers (1955), Johnson is delightful as the little old lady more concerned about the safety of her cat than the fact that a rocket has crashed into her house!

The area quickly becomes a circus, with reporters (headed by the foppish James Fullalove, played by Paul Whitsun-Jones), policeman, fireman, barrow-boys and drunks. But whilst there’s chaos all around them, Quatermass’ team work on, attempting to establish contact with the crew within the rocket.

One of the pleasures of watching the BBC Quatermass serials is to observe how many times the makers of Doctor Who later ripped off/lovingly paid homage to (delete as applicable) Kneale’s story concepts. Nigel Kneale famously loathed Doctor Who and refused the offer to contribute a script for the series, but that didn’t stop the programme (at various points in its history) borrowing heavily from the Quatermass canon.

The end of this episode, when the rocket is opened and it’s discovered that two of the astronauts are missing, is very similar to the Jon Pertwee story The Ambassadors of Death (although they went one better and had all three astronauts vanish!) The sole survivor, Victor Carroon (Duncan Lamont) must hold the answer to the mystery and maybe in the next episode things will become clearer.

Public Eye – A Fixed Address

March 3, 2015March 3, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, public eye

The first noticeable thing about A Fixed Address is that it’s in colour. The original broadcast, back in 1969, was in black and white, but the programme was recorded in colour as a test for the forthcoming switchover. It takes a little getting used to, as after six episodes of moody, black and white stories it’s something of a jolt.

The story opens with Frank and Mrs Mortimer working together on the dishes. It’s another example of how comfortable he’s become with her – he’s now essentially one of the family. The only guests staying are a young couple – Peter (Barrie Rutter) and Rosemary (Deborah Grant). Peter is rather oafish and irritating whilst Rosemary is quiet and polite. They don’t seem to be enjoying themselves especially and Frank wonders why. This allows Mrs Mortimer to demonstrate her detective skills for once. She tells Frank that they’re not married (she knew this when Peter didn’t know whether Rosemary liked kippers!) and this explains why they don’t quite seem at ease with each other. She tells Frank that apart from enjoying love-making “they’ve nothing else in common. They’re going to make themselves very miserable.”

It’s a nice moment that forges the bond between Mrs Mortimer and Frank a little tighter, although we’ll see upcoming events threaten this. Frank’s looking to start up on his own again, as an enquiry agent, and he’s searching for offices. When his probation officer, Jim Hull, calls round, she lets slip this information – which comes as a surprise to him. He then offers Mrs Mortimer a word of advice (“Marker’s a very lonely man, I mean he’s a lone wolf. Don’t make too many plans involving him.”) Needless to say, this doesn’t go down well.

Events then take an unexpected turn when Mrs Mortimer’s estranged husband, Denis (Philip Brack) appears on the doorstep. This provides the meat of the episode as he enjoys several spiky encounters with Frank as well as some memorable sparring matches with his wife. He’s a charmer – but he walked out of his marriage seven years ago and it’s clear that his presence isn’t welcomed by her. But why has he come back?

Eventually it becomes clear. He offers her the chance to travel to Malaya with him. It’s a three year trip and there’s plenty of benefits. “House servants, change of air three times time a year. Free travel, Siam, Penang, Hong Kong.” It sounds tempting, but it’s obvious that the offer wasn’t made out of love or affection – as Denis’ company favours married employees, rather than single ones. Mrs Mortimer has great pleasure in telling him no and her refusal means he doesn’t waste time hanging around.

Rosemary and Peter’s relationship also founders, so this isn’t the best episode for relationships. Unless we count Frank and Mrs Mortimer? Series four of Public Eye was essentially the story of Frank Marker’s journey back into society. At the start, he’d just come out of prison and was something of a drifter, with no home or friends. By A Fixed Address, he has a friend (and she clearly wants to take things further) and a home, plus the chance to start his business again in Brighton.

But series five would see all of this jettisoned in favour of a move to Windsor. This may have been down to a change in the production team. Series four was entirely written by Roger Marshall, but he didn’t contribute a single script to the next series. Presumably the new producer (Michael Chapman) decided that the Brighton location had run its course and decided to move Frank on again. This is something a of shame, since there was still areas that could have been developed (for example, Mrs Mortimer’s guest house would have been a rich source of potential clients and problems for Frank).

But notwithstanding this, series four of Public Eye saw the series hit a consistently high standard – thanks to the scripting of Roger Marshall and the fine casts, headed by the incomparable Alfred Burke.

Public Eye – The Comedian’s Graveyard

March 2, 2015March 2, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, joe melia, public eye, tessa wyatt

The Comedian’s Graveyard boasts a wonderful performance from Joe Melia as Billy Raybold. Raybold is an end-of-the-pier entertainer, who is seen at the start of the story holding auditions for his latest show. When Judy Blackburn (Tessa Wyatt) turns up, his attention is immediately drawn to her, since she’s young, nervous and very attractive. He does his best to calm her nerves by telling her that they’re not here to eat her (“I wouldn’t mind” mutters his sidekick Arthur Mack, played by Leslie Dwyer). So the scene seems to be set for Raybold to take advantage of the naive girl, but it doesn’t quite work out like that.

Raybold is always performing, even when off-stage, cracking corny jokes – but there’s plenty of opportunity to view the real man behind the greasepaint (and he’s someone who’s well aware of his mediocrity). This is clearest at the end, when he tells Judy that “I could stand being a has-been, but a never-was, that takes some swallowing.”

Frank’s still working for Joe Ryland’s detective agency (although not for long – by the end of the story he’s resigned, finally worn down by the endless form-filling and his personal dislike of Ryland) and has been given the case of locating Judy. There’s a clear difference of opinion between Frank and Ryland – Ryland is happy to take the client’s money, but Frank feels they’d be better off going to the police. “I’m one man. With one pair of eyes and one pair of feet. The population of Brighton and Hove is something like 240,000, not counting the tourists. I”d have to get very, very, lucky.”

Eventually he agrees with Judy’s aunt, Mrs Reid (Mona Bruce) that he’ll spend a few days looking for her. And since this is television, he does manage to find her fairly easily. Frank spies her on the pier, handing out leaflets for Raybold’s show. This brings Frank into conflict with Raybold, since he showed him Judy’s picture earlier in the day and he claimed not to have seen her. Frank’s suspicious of Raybold’s motives, but the comedian tells him that “I don’t want any trouble, I’ve done nothing wrong. All I want is some decent trade, bit of fishing, little money to show for it at the end.”

Earlier, Raybold confessed to Mack that he wasn’t getting anywhere with Judy, and he’d decided not to. His reputation as a womanizer in the past was well known, but he now admits he’s “too old for the chase, the lies, promises, chat.”

As I’ve said, Melia’s riveting as a third-rate comedian, hiding the pain of his mundane existence behind the false bonhomie of the professional comic. It’s a familiar character (think of Archie Rice in The Entertainer) but it works just as well here. Tessa Wyatt is appealing as the seventeen year-old Judy, who dreams of stardom but finds that the reality is somewhat different. Leslie Dwyer (later to be a regular in the early series of Hi-De-Hi!) offers solid support as Arthur Mack, who seems keen to move in on Judy, since Raybold isn’t interested.

Another thread developed in the story is the continuing relationship between Frank and Mrs Mortimer. Together they take Mrs Reid to see Judy perform in the show. Although it’s essentially a professional trip (after Judy’s performance, Mrs Reid confronts her and pleads with the girl to come home) it could also said to be virtually a date for Frank and Mrs Mortimer. Certainly as they reach home, they’re both still in high spirits – and even though Raybold has never topped the bill at the London Palladium, he’s still able to put on a good show which they both seemed to enjoy.

Over a nightcap, the conversation turns to Frank’s long-term plans. He confesses that he doesn’t see himself staying with Rylands much longer. Mrs Mortimer tells him he should set up on his own again, but Frank knows that’s easier said than done. “There’s a little item buzzing around Parliament called the private investigators bill. The bit that caught my eye said ‘agents would have to satisfy a judge of their competence and honesty.’ And here am I, still on parole. You’d also have to deposit a one thousand pound bond before you could set up shop.”

Mrs Mortmer offers without hesitation to provide the bond. Frank refuses (“finance and friendship, like oil and water”) and the fact he mentioned friendship is picked up by Mrs Mortimer (“coming out of your shell, aren’t you?”) It’s a far cry from the start of the series, where Frank was an isolated character with no friends at all.

The end of the scene does imply that Mrs Mortimer would like to be more than friends though. But since series five would see Frank relocate again (this time to Windsor) their relationship is already on borrowed time. Had Frank stayed in Brighton, it’s intriguing to wonder exactly what would have happened to the pair of them. But maybe it was the fear that he was getting too domesticated that caused the programme-makers to move him on again.

Public Eye – Case for the Defence

March 1, 2015March 5, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, public eye

Helped by the sole writer on this series, Roger Marshall, there’s a strong sense of continuity between the stories – so that at times it feels more like a serial than a series. This is evident in Case for the Defence, which harks back to events and characters first seen in Paid in Full.

During Paid in Full, Marker tangled with Detective Constable Broome (Leslie Lawton) who was convinced that Frank had stolen a colleague’s pay-packet. Eventually the true culprit is caught and Broome returns here to try and make amends for the injustice Frank suffered (losing his job at the builder’s yard).

Frank’s now got another job, stacking supermarket shelves, but it’s obviously far from satisfying. Broome tells him that there’s a position vacant at a local detective agency. It’s a tempting possibility – although it would mean the fiercely independent Frank would have to work with others (which isn’t always his strongest point). But the chance of returning to what he knows best is irresistible, so he accepts the offer of the agency’s owner, Joe Rylands (Stanley Meadows).

His first case involves gathering evidence for the defence concerning the forthcoming trial of Barry Osborne (Billy Harmon). This is another link back to Paid in Full – as Marker encountered Billy during that story at the police station (Marker was in another interview room, discussing the wages theft). It’s an undisputed fact that Billy killed a garage owner, Flockton, by stabbing him with a screwdriver. There seems to be no reason for this, which is even more baffling when you consider that Billy comes from a wealthy family and has received every privilege.

His father, Ben Osborne (William Lucas), is keen to impress on Marker that he wants his son to get off, by whatever means possible. It’s a powerful performance from Lucas, portraying a single-minded wealthy man (who’s made his money by being the main meat supplier for the county) used to buying whatever or whoever he wants. This is going to place him on an inevitable collision course with Marker, who prizes the truth highly and will refuse to be cowed or intimidated by him.

Frank is able to establish that Flockton had gone to prison a decade earlier for GBH. Osborne is delighted – it gives them a chance to craft a plea of self defence. Together, Osborne and Frank visit Flockton’s victim, Mr Jackson (Richard Bird). but a series of strokes has rendered him virtually unintelligible. Osborne’s pressurising of the sick old man disgusts Frank, who exits the house.

By now, Frank’s seen more than enough to be convinced that Osborne will do anything, including bribery, to ensure that he can produce witnesses to support his line of defence (that Barry was attacked by Flockton and inadvertently caused his death whilst defending himself). Frank corners Rylands and lets him know what’s been going on.

MARKER: I think you ought to know that you could be letting yourself in for a great deal of trouble.
RYLANDS: How?
MARKER: Friend Osborne and his cheque book is going around getting at witnessess. Bribing them, getting them to perjure themselves.
RYLANDS: Strong words.
MARKER: Well you’d better hear them now than in the dock.
RYLANDS: Any proof?
MARKER: Not yet.
RYLANDS: Well I’m glad you let me in on this, Marker. Yes, they’re very pleased with you, you know. I’m delighted.
MARKER: Well I don’t want another job to fold up underneath me.
RYLANDS: You’re quite right. But you must remember Marker, when you’re paid to turn up stones, you mustn’t get too queasy at what you find underneath.
MARKER: I’m not queasy, but I just don’t want to be there when he offers the judge fifty quid and a years free meat.

In the end, Barry decides to plead guilty, despite his father’s protestations. Exactly what happened at the garage is never established, and never will be. It’s possible that Barry was defending himself, but equally it could just have been a motiveless murder. Later in the story, Frank talks to a friend of Barry’s, Dorry Milner (Pauline Challoner). She’s convinced that the blame for Barry’s current situation can be firmly laid at his father’s door. “He screwed up Barry pretty efficiently.”

There’s no pat resolution to this story. Marker was paid to do a job, which he did to the best of his ability. Barry’s decision to plead guilty manages to negate most of Frank’s investigations – so what we take away from Case for the Defence is the unscrupulous nature of Ben Osbourne and his assertion that the truth can be bought.

Marker’s rarely in the position to be able to pick and choose his clients and his conflicts with them, when he comes to realise that their aims are ones he is morally unable to respect, will fuel the drama of many of the episodes to come.

Public Eye – My Life’s My Own

February 28, 2015October 5, 2019 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, public eye, stephanie beacham

After three very Marker-centric episodes, My Life’s My Own offers a change of focus – as somebody else’s problems take centre-stage.

Early on, Frank has a meeting with his probation officer, Jim Hull (John Grieve). There’s the possibility of another labouring job, but it’s clear that Frank’s heart isn’t really in it. He tells Hull that eventually he’ll probably return to his old job as an enquiry agent although he admits that it’s never going to earn him a fortune. “Often, the big chunks of money can be for something quite trivial. I mean a couple of hundred quid for finding out who’s stealing in a factory. What, two day’s work. And then you can spend a week or more putting the whole world straight for somebody, for a tenner. Because that’s all they can afford.”

The possibility of doing a great deal of work for little or no reward is also the theme of this episode. Shirley Marlowe (Stephanie Beacham) unofficially becomes a client of Frank’s after a failed suicide attempt (although no money ever changes hands). His motivation for attempting to help her is characteristic of him (and maybe he sees something of him in her – they both appear to be loners operating on the fringes of society).

Shirley turns up at the boarding house looking for a room. Mrs Mortimer’s away (looking after a sick relative) and Frank’s initially reluctant to let her in. When she tells him she simply can’t walk the streets he agrees to let her have a room.

There seems to be something odd and off-key about her, although Frank either doesn’t pick up on it or maybe he considers that it’s not his problem. Is the fact he didn’t spot the signs of her distress a motivation for his involvement afterwards?

She’s fond of her transistor radio, which blares out the latest pop hits. But when it’s still playing at three in the morning, Frank’s concerned – and he breaks her door down. He finds Shirley unconscious, with a glass containing the dregs of a cocktail of drugs nearby. Whatever else he is, he’s good in a crisis and he drags her to the bathroom, forces her to vomit and waves some smelling salts under her nose. He also shakes her violently and slaps her hard across the face several times, which may not be in the first aid manual!

This eventually brings her around, although she’s still very groggy. When Mrs Mortimer returns she asks Frank why he didn’t call an ambulance. He doesn’t have a particularly good answer, merely that he thought he could cope.

But as events later seem to spiral out of control, he begins to question his judgement – maybe he decided to take charge because he’s been used to dealing with people’s problems for so long or possibly it was to spare her family the distress of the publicity and the inevitable official enquiries which would follow.

Frank takes her out and walks her up and down Brighton seafront (a nicely atmospheric sequence). As it’s three in the morning this attracts the attention of a passing police car, but luckily they don’t stop. When she’s more recovered, Frank’s able to tease her story out of her – and it seems to revolve around a married man called Chris.

Frank finds a letter addressed to a Dr C Nourse (Gary Watson) and goes to visit him and his wife. Dr Nourse confirms that Shirley used to work for them, as a nurse for his wife, but she recently left. He seems unmoved by Shirley’s suicide attempt (claiming that it wasn’t serious – if it had been then she wouldn’t have left the radio on for Frank to hear). His wife seems much more upset, and the penny only drops as he leaves – her name is Chris, his name is Charles.

This is a fairly progressive theme for a mainstream late 1960’s drama and it’s handled subtly and well. The episode is largely a two-hander between Alfred Burke and Stephanie Beacham, both of whom give fine performances. Burke is his normal, excellent, self – excelling in the scene where Marker frantically tries to bring Shirley round, for example.

Roger Marshall’s script also provides a meaty role for Beacham. It means she has to be disheveled and distinctly unglamorous for most of the story – but she’s certainly game for this and turns in an affecting performance as a vulnerable girl who’s prone to sudden changes of mood.

There’s two possible endings to this story – a happy or an unhappy one. Either she makes another suicide attempt and succeeds or she gets on with her life. It’s slightly surprising that her decision is taken off screen and therefore is reported second hand to Frank at the close of the story – but I suppose this allows the focus to be put back on him. And although this denies us a final scene between Burke and Beacham, it does bring My Life’s My Own to a decent conclusion.

Nigel Kneale’s Quatermass Serials – Introduction

February 28, 2015May 24, 2015 archivetvmusings BBC Drama - 1950's nigel kneale, rudolph cartier, the quatermass experiment

If you wanted to make the case that Nigel Kneale and his BBC trilogy of plays featuring Professor Quatermass were key moments in the development of British television drama, then there’s plenty of evidence to back that up.

The fledgling BBC television service launched in 1936. Its reach was initially restricted to a fairly small radius around the London area (since only one transmitter – at Alexandra Palace – was in use). It therefore made little impact during these early years, which wasn’t helped when WW2 forced it off the air (it ceased broadcasting in 1939 and only resumed in 1946).

Post war, more transmitters began to pop up around the country – so that by the early 1950’s the majority of the country could now receive television. And as the familiar story goes, it was the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II on the 2nd of June 1953 that provided the impetus for many people to purchase a television set of their own.

With the launch of ITV still two years away, the BBC had a captive television audience. So what did the average television schedule look like in 1953? Thanks to the BBC Genome website (a wonderful resource for the researcher and the merely curious) we can find out. This is the complete schedule for the 11th of July 1953 (the week before episode one of The Quatermass Experiment made its debut).

13.15 : Cricket
ENGLAND v. AUSTRALIA
Third Test Match
The third day’s play at Old Trafford, Manchester
Commentators : E. W. Swanton and Brian Johnston

15.15 : AQUAVIEW
A glimpse of the preparations for this evening’s cabaret on land and water

15.25 : Athletics A.A.A. CHAMPIONSHIPS
Some of the events in the Amateur Athletic Association’s Annual Championships at the White City Stadium, London
Commentators: Peter Dimmock, Jack Crump and Geoffrey Dyson

16.30 : Cricket
ENGLAND v. AUSTRALIA
Third Test Match followed by a short summary of the day’s play

18.30 : CHILDREN’S TELEVISION
Bruce Gordon in Gordon Gets Going

‘The Appleyards’
A family serial
3-‘ Flying Visitors’ by David Edwards
Settings by Michael Yates
Produced by Kevin Sneldon

19.15 : THE WEEK’S NEWSREELS
This week’s Television Newsreels

20.25 : Interlude
‘Making a Posy’ by William Powell Frith

20.30 : Betty Paul and Andrew Osborn in ‘STAND BY TO SHOOT’
A serial play in six episodes by Donald Wilson
Produced by Dennis Vance
6-‘ Double Take ‘

21.00 : THE TEST MATCH
After the third day’s play, Brian Johnston, with some cricketing personalities, considers the state of the fight for the Ashes

21.15 : ‘EVENING ALFRESCO’

22.30 : Weather Forecast and NEWS (sound only)

Sports fans were obviously well catered for, but drama is pretty thin on the ground – with only the concluding episode of Stand By To Shoot (and Quatermass would take its place in the schedules the following week). Generally, drama was fairly sparse at this time – there would be serials during the weekend and one-off plays during the week, but it only formed a small part of the BBC’s output.

Why was this so? Partially, it was due to resources. BBC television was still a relatively new organisation and in the early 1950’s it was still finding its feet. One problem was that drama was broadcast live, as there was no effective way to pre-record. This would be solved in the years to come, but in the early 1950’s if a play was to be repeated then the cast would have to reassemble and perform it again! With a limited number of studios, and live broadcasting, drama therefore had to be somewhat restricted.

The drama output of the BBC of this time also owed a heavy debt to the theatre. The majority of television directors had come from the theatre, as had the actors, and virtually all of the plays were adapted from existing theatrical works. With the added pressure of live television, it’s not surprising that most BBC drama tended to look stagey (many consisting of a single set, for example, with actors making their entrances and exits).

The Quatermass Experiment was a conscious effort by Nigel Kneale to produce something new – not only was it a serial not adapted from a play, it also had a scope and scale that hadn’t been seen up until that point. Multiple sets, pre-filmed inserts and a heightened pace of storytelling all helped to make this something unusual.

Of course, what exists of the first serial (episodes one and two) does look somewhat clunky to modern eyes. This isn’t helped by the fact that the recording of the serial used the BBC’s oldest and least effective cameras (the Emitrons) as well as the primitive nature of the telerecordings. Indeed, it’s generally assumed that because the telerecordings of the first two episodes were deemed to be of such poor quality it was decided not to record the remaining four – hence they were broadcast live and are gone forever. Some people do cling on to a faint hope that they were recorded and that copies may exist somewhere, but I’m not holding my breath on that one!

If The Quatermass Experiment was a little rough-and-ready then Quatermass II (1955) was a major step up in quality and Quatermass and the Pit (1958/1959) was yet another major advance. It’s therefore possible to get something of a feel for the development of BBC television drama during the 1950’s by watching the three original Quatermass serials in sequence. Quatermass and the Pit was the best of the three, both dramatically and technically. Although still predominantly live, QATP was by far the most polished production, helped no end by the assured performance of André Morell.

The Quatermass story concluded some twenty years later with the Euston Films production of Quatermass, starring John Mills. Originally developed as a BBC serial in the early 1970’s, it was certainly no easy exercise in nostalgia – not surprising, since that was never Kneale’s style.

I’ll shortly be starting a rewatch of all the existing episodes and blogging my thoughts as I go along. For anybody who hasn’t yet seen the BBC episodes, the DVD is ridiculously cheap at the moment and also has some good supplementary material, such as documentaries and viewing notes from Andrew Pixley. Any collection of British archive television is the poorer without Quatermass on its shelf.

Public Eye – Paid In Full

February 27, 2015June 7, 2019 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, public eye

When one of his colleagues, Arthur Wilson (Maurice Good), has his pay-packet stolen, Frank Marker is the obvious suspect.

The legacy of his criminal record and how it colours other people’s opinions of him is the main thrust of this episode. Although his criminal past should have been a secret at the firm (only the owner, Kendrick, knew officially) somehow it’s public knowledge – which places him firmly in the frame.

While the police, in the form of Detective Constable Broome (Leslie Lawton), are making enquiries, Frank is totally oblivious to the oncoming storm. He’s enjoying an afternoon off and has decided to do some shopping. He passes by an antiques shop and is rather taken with a china figure he sees in the shop window. It’s absolutely the last thing you would expect Marker to be interested in, and his reason for being drawn to it allow us to explore some previously unknown facets of his character.

He tells the shop’s owner (Susan Richards) that his family had something similar when he was a child. “Must have been the only thing we had that was worth anything.” She presumes that it must have been a happy family, since he has an attraction to this object. Frank tells her, matter-of-factly, that no, they weren’t particularly happy and he’s not able to articulate fully the reason why this figurine appeals to him. This is a lovely character moment for Marker and it seems to exist in the story purely for this reason – to shine a little light on this incredibly private man.

Frank has a visit from Broome who accuses him of the theft. Marker vehemently denies it. “And I’m favourite? Yes, of course. Well go on, search the place. Take the bed apart, take the carpet up.” The indignity of being visited by the police and having his room searched obviously affects him (he eats little at dinner time). It’s then interesting to see how Mrs Mortimer and Enright (who, like Marker, is an ex-con lodging with Mrs Mortimer) react.

L-R - William Moore, Leslie Lawton & Tania Trude — L-R – William Moore, Leslie Lawton & Tania Trude

When Broome calls, Frank is out and although Mrs Mortimer agrees he can wait, it’s clear from her tone that she views the police officer with hostility. Enright turns down Frank’s offer of a drink at the local pub, claiming he’s got some work to do, but since he’s coming towards the end of his probation no doubt he’s reluctant to get involved with anyone who’s attracted the attention of the police.

Later, Mrs Mortimer brings Frank a whisky in his room. They then have a heart-to-heart discussion, which is a major step towards developing their friendship. She tells him that she believes he’s innocent and goes on to explain that contrary to Frank’s surmise, she isn’t a widow – her husband is alive and (sadly for her) well. Frank, as he so often is, is more of a listener than a talker, but it’s another well crafted character-based scene from Roger Marshall.

Next day, Frank has to face the accusing stares of his work colleagues. He approaches Wilson and tells him that he didn’t steal his money and although Wilson says he believes him, from the tone of his voice it’s apparent there’s still considerable doubt. Alfred Burke, once again, is on great form here, crackling with anger as he faces down Wilson. “You lost eighteen quid, I could lose eighteen months.”

He does have some supporters though. Kendrick’s secretary, Jenny (Tania Trude) believes him and she does assist in clearing his name. Wearing a selection of ridiculously short skirts, Trude was a very appealing presence in both this and the previous story. She only has a handful of television credits, of which Public Eye was her penultimate one. Where she is or what she’s doing now is something of a mystery, but she’s one of those actresses that managed to light up the screen and therefore leaves you wondering why she didn’t have a much longer career.

Thanks in part to Jenny, the truth eventually comes out. Wilson’s money was stolen by his friend Starkie (Brian Croucher on fine form as a loud-mouthed yob). Starkie says he only took it as a joke, in order to teach Wilson a lesson (Starkie’s miffed that Wilson never wants to go out anymore, instead he prefers to stay at home with his family).

That should be that then, but Kendrick is forced, reluctantly, to let Marker go. He says he doesn’t want to, but he’s been advised that Frank’s continued presence would be a “disruptive element”. Again, Burke’s first-class here, railing against the injustice of it all. But it’s all to no avail, and so the episode ends with Frank walking out of the yard for the last time.

Public Eye – Divide and Conquer

February 26, 2015March 20, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, public eye, terence rigby

Divide and Conquer opens with two bikers, Harry (Terence Rigby) and Frank (Richard O’Callaghan), enjoying their breakfast at a Brighton cafe. They manage to con the cafe owner (Ken Jones) out of five pounds before making a stealthy escape.

At the same time, Marker is enjoying his breakfast at Mrs Mortimers, prior to starting his new job. As with his accommodation, it’s been provided by the probation service. It might not be exactly what he wants to do (he starts off by repairing the sea-wall at a lonely stretch of beach) but as an ex-prisoner he can’t afford to be too choosy.

A visit to the local pub with Enright (Peter Cellier) sparks trouble. Enright, like Marker, is an ex-con who’s also lodging with Mrs Mortimer. Unlike Marker, he’s something of a gregarious chap, and he eventually manages to persuade the insular Marker to share a drink with him. At the pub, Marker sees Harry try to con the publican (played by Norman Mitchell) with the same trick he pulled on the cafe owner.

There’s no reason for Marker to get involved, but he does and it forces Harry and Frank to beat a hasty retreat. Professionals wouldn’t have attempted to use the same trick more than once in the same area and by the same token, professionals wouldn’t hang about. But Harry and Frank aren’t professionals and Harry vows to get even with Frank Marker.

Divide and Conquer is another excellent character-driven story from Roger Marshall. Harry and Frank, whilst occasionally faintly ridiculous, also manage to exude an air of menace. Terence Rigby was always an idiosyncratic actor. He could be excellent (for example, as Big Al in Alan Plater’s Beiderbecke stories) but he could also turn in fairly indifferent performances (such as a rather wooden Dr Watson opposite Tom Baker’s Sherlock Holmes in the BBC Classic Serial adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles).

This story showcases both his strengths and weaknesses. At times, Harry is an intimidating figure (when he pulls a knife on Marker after the unsuccessful attempt to con the publican) but it’s fair to say that at times Rigby’s delivery and performance borders on the pantomimic. O’Callaghan doesn’t speak too much, and therefore is more of a looming presence, but he’s key to the resolution of the story.

The last fifteen minutes are the heart of the episode. It’s a single sequence, shot on film, which sees Harry and Frank confront Marker whilst he’s at work. As I’ve said, it’s a lonely spot, so Marker wouldn’t be able to count on anybody coming to his aid. We’ve previously seen that he can take a beating as well as give one out (for example, Nobody Kills Santa Claus) but the odds here are stacked against him. If he’s going to walk away unscathed, then it’s words not actions that will save him.

That’s what the title of the story means, as Marker has to play Harry and Frank off against each other. Harry is keen to attack Marker, Frank isn’t so sure – and Marker is able to slowly plant seeds of doubt in both of their minds. He tells them what would happen if they carry out the attack. “That would put you right in the big league. Send you up for two years, soon as look at you. If someone says to me, ‘two years inside’ I’d go like that.” And Marker shakes his hand to indicate how frightened he is. The more susceptible Frank agrees.

It’s a great three-handed scene and is yet another example of quality acting from Alfred Burke. At the start there’s an imminent sense of violence, but Marker is able to chip away at their confidence bit by bit, targeting first one and then the other. Once he’s managed to convince Frank, it makes Harry less of a threat – and eventually both of them decide to cut their losses and drive off.

Jim Goddard’s direction during this lengthy film sequence either favours very low angles, shooting up at the three actors, or tight close-ups. Both help to keep the focus firmly on the characters and the dialogue, whereas wider shots would have dissipated some of the tension. It’s a very well-shot section and it’s just a pity that the original film inserts no longer exist (this means that all the film sequences are a little blurry, they certainly aren’t as good as the remastered VT interiors).

Another very solid episode.

Public Eye – Welcome to Brighton?

February 25, 2015February 26, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1960's alfred burke, public eye

Welcome to Brighton? was the first episode of Public Eye‘s fourth series, originally broadcast in 1969. It was also the first series to be made by Thames (the previous three were ABC productions). Sadly, only a handful of episodes from the ABC years exist (a mere five out of forty one). Given how good these surviving episodes are, it’s a great pity that so few escaped the archive purges – but luckily all of the Thames episodes are present and correct.

The fourth series is noteworthy for several reasons – firstly it’s the shortest series of Public Eye (seven episodes) and secondly it’s the only one where all the episodes were penned by a single writer – in this case, Roger Marshall (who co-created the series with Anthony Marriott). Having just the one writer allows for a unity of characterisation – which is particularly important, since most of this series revolves around Marker himself.

When a show has an actor as good as Alfred Burke, it’s understandable that the scripts would be tailored to his many strengths. So series four of Public Eye is concerned with Marker’s journey back into society first and foremost, and we don’t see him back in his old job as an enquiry agent until later in the run.

At the end of the final episode of series three (Cross That Palm When We’ll Come To It) Marker was convicted of handling stolen goods (although he was innocent) and sentenced to two years imprisonment. Welcome to Brighton? opens with him in his last few days at Ford Open Prison, prior to his release. There’s plenty of people ready to offer advice, such as fellow con Jakeman (George Sewell) and the Governor (Martin Dempsey). Both, in their different ways, are somewhat pessimistic about Frank’s chances.

Frank tells Jakeman that he plans to go straight, but Jakeman isn’t convinced – as he believes that the police will constantly be on his back. “Once you’re in their little black book, you’re there forever. They’ll be leaning on you, turning you over.” This is something we see borne out later in the series, though Frank’s done his time and is now a free man, he still has to face the suspicion of the police and others – once a con, always a con, it seems.

The Governor is concerned that Frank is a solitary individual, with no apparent friends or family. “Have you always been so withdrawn? Or has prison made you like that?” Frank counters that he’s still the same person he’s always been and the Governor suggests he should try changing – “bend with the wind occasionally”. In the Governor’s opinion, without people look out for him, he’s likely to re-offend again.

Frank’s release day comes and he’s driven down to the railway station in a Black Maria. This obviously marks him down as a released prisoner and he has to face the curious and accusing stares of his fellow passengers. The probation service have set him up with a job in Brighton and also accommodation – at a bed-and-breakfast run by a Mrs Mortimer (Pauline Delaney). Mrs Mortimer takes in the occassional ex-criminal (provided they’re not violent, she says she doesn’t want to wake up in heaven) as something of a civic duty and welcomes Frank into her home. Although she only has a single scene in this story, during series four Mrs Mortimer will become the closest thing to a friend that we’ve ever seen Frank have.

After checking out his room, Frank goes for a walk around Brighton. The most notable occurrence is a meeting with Grace (Heather Canning). She spies him drinking a bottle of whisky by the seafront and offers him the use of her toothmug back at her flat – he readily agrees and it’s clear that there’s more than whisky on offer. It’s uncharacteristic of Frank to pick up a total stranger, but after two years and more in prison, it’s understandable. When he goes to the toilet, she steals some money from his wallet and Frank, when he returns, knows instantly that something’s wrong. Alfred Burke here (as he is throughout) is excellent, as we see the repressed anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Marker is usually a pretty laid-back character, but circumstances change that. He nearly strikes her and has no compunction is forcibly removing the money from her clutches. He does leave the whisky with her though, as a consolation.

If Weclome to Brighton? feels like a series of vignettes, then that’s a fair assessment. The next concerns Jakeman’s wife, Freda (Anne Ridler). Jakeman asked Frank to visit her and find out why she hasn’t replied to his letters or visited him recently. This he does and he tells her that a wife who doesn’t stand by her husband in prison can’t be much good. This is the signal for Freda to tell Frank in no uncertain terms exactly what she thinks. “He’s safely banged away in his cell. Every time responsibility comes up, he’s off, never fails. Well, you’re all the same. Half of you run back inside every time some little problem comes up you don’t want to cope with. You’ll be back there, you see.” There’s plenty more where that came from and Freda’s speech highlights how a prison sentence affects the people left on the outside just as much as those inside.

So Welcome to Brighton? is not only a series of vignettes, but it’s a series of vignettes where Frank come off second best (particularly in his encounters with Grace and Freda). It’s a sign that his new life in Brighton will be far from smooth.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – Big Deal at York City

February 24, 2015February 24, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's galton and simpson, the galton and simpson playhouse, warren mitchell

Albert Cakebread (Warren Mitchell) has had a good day at York Races. On the train back to London, he flashes his winnings (over two thousand pounds) in the bar and offers to buy everyone a drink. This catches the attention of one of the passengers, Basil Trenchard (Gerald Flood).

Later on, Trenchard, along with two other people (played by Alister Williamson and Robert Dorning), asks Albert if he fancies a friendly game of cards to while away the journey. Albert agrees, as does another passenger in the carriage (a businessman played by Robin Parkinson). In order to keep things fair, Albert asks the imposing figure of the Bishop (Lockwood West) to deal the cards.

It’s obvious that Flood and his two friends are con-men who plan to fleece the ebullient Albert out of his winnings. Each hand reduces Albert’s money little by little, so that by the last hand he desperately stakes everything he has The others do as well and it seems that Trenchard is going to walk away with the lot. But amazingly, it’s the mild-mannered businessman (Parkinson) who actually has the winning hand and he scoops the whole pot. The twist is that he, Albert and the Bishop are also a gang of con-men (who have managed to outfox the other three by being a little more subtle).

Big Deal at York City boasts an interesting performance from Warren Mitchell who affects an accent which I believe is a West Country one. Why he didn’t use his more familiar London tones is a bit of a mystery, unless it was supposed to lull the three marks into believing him to be a country bumpkin. His character certainly comes over as something of a simple, trusting soul (although as we see that isn’t the case at all).

Gerald Flood (bad King John, or at least something that looked like him, in the Doctor Who story The Kings Demons) is rather good as the card-sharp who spies what he thinks is an easy mark, only to be taken to the cleaners himself. Another solid performance comes from Lockwood West as a man of the cloth who seems to gain a great deal of knowledge about poker as the game goes on!

Although Mitchell’s accent and slight overplaying is a little distracting, Big Deal at York City is an entertaining twenty-five minutes that brings the Galton and Simpson Playhouse to a close. Although the quality of the series was a little variable, the first-rate casts in each episode do help to sometimes lift the material. It’s not Hancock or early Steptoe standard by any means, but it’s certainly worth a look.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – I Tell You It’s Burt Reynolds

February 23, 2015February 26, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's galton and simpson, leonard rossiter, the galton and simpson playhouse

I Tell You It’s Burt Reynolds takes place in the living room of a typical family home. The arrival of Jim (Leonard Rossiter) is enough to send the kids to their room (“he never stops talking”) although the adults are less fortunate. They’re just about to watch McMillan and Wife and although Jim tries to tempt them with the football on the other side, he settles down to watch it as well.

Jim is an insuffrable know-it-all. This starts when he tells Joyce (Gillian Rayne) about the deficiencies of her television set. “You know your colour’s all wrong? There’s too much red. You can’t watch it like that, it looks like he’s been boiled.” Granny (the peerless Patricia Haynes) is old enough to speak her mind. “What’s he want to keep coming round here for?”

After they manage to prevent Jim taking the television set apart with a screwdriver, he keeps quiet for a moment. But it doesn’t last long, as he spies a familiar face just behind Rock Hudson. What, he wonders, is Burt Reynolds doing in an episode of McMillan and Wife? Everybody else tells him that it’s not Burt Reynolds and indeed that it looks nothing like him, but Jim is convinced. “Course it is. Don’t tell me I don’t know Burt Reynolds when I see him.”

Thanks to Leonard Rossiter, this is the best episode of The Galton and Simpson Playhouse and it’s fair to say that few comic actors would have been able to deliver such a tremendous performance of ever-increasing hysteria.

Although Burt isn’t listed in the TV Times or on the end credits, Jim isn’t going to give up, despite the fact that nobody else cares. Calls to Yorkshire Television and the Daily Telegraph (Jim disgustedly tells them he’ll be buying the Daily Express from now on) are fruitless – so he decides the only way to settle this is to call Burt Reynolds in Hollywood. Incredibly he gets through, but when Burt doesn’t give him the answer he wants, is Jim finally going to admit defeat? Of course not!

Twenty years later, this was remade with Paul Merton in the main role. The two series of Paul Merton in Galton and Simpson’s … are interesting. Merton was always on something of a hiding to nothing, since many of the episodes were television classics (such as the various Hancock episodes selected, including The Radio Ham and Twelve Angry Men). The Paul Merton I Tell You It’s Burt Reynolds is fine, but it really doesn’t work without the full-throttle attack of a top comedy performer like Rossiter. The Galton and Simpson Playhouse was very fortunate to get a performer at the top of his game, as he was able to wring every last comic drop out of the scenario.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – Variations on a Theme

February 22, 2015February 22, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's frances de la tour, galton and simpson, john bird, the galton and simpson playhouse

Variations on a Theme is an interesting concept. It’s essentially two very short one act plays with the same actors (John Bird and Frances de la Tour) and the same setting (a park bench) In both cases the story develops from the same line from de la Tour’s character – “Robert’s found out” – and both stories have a twist at the end.

In part one, the two are lovers – meeting in the park after their afternoon of passion the previous day. The bombshell that Robert (her husband) has found about their relationship strikes fear into the heart of Bird’s character. She consoles him that he had to find out sometime, which he disagrees with. “We only met yesterday. Some men get away with it for years. Some men never get found out at all.”

Bird’s character is particularly anxious, since Robert is a television wrestler (the Streatham Strangler) who’s well known for his violent temper. Another cause for concern is what the scandal will do to him – as chairman of the Marriage Guidance Council it’s more than a little embarrassing. “I’m expected to save marriages. You came into my office yesterday for advice. Two hours later we were in bed together, people aren’t going to understand that.”

John Bird is excellent as the twitchy adulterer, constantly looking over his shoulder in case Robert’s lurking in the bushes nearby. Frances de la Tour is equally good as a woman seemingly possessed of a deep passion. However, the twist is that after he’s paid her £5000 to keep his name out of the divorce proceedings, she moves onto the next park bench where it’s clear that there’s another mark who she’s also enjoyed a one night stand with (and presumably she’ll be conning him out of a similar sum of money).

In part two, the pair are a married couple and Robert is their son – who’s found out about the facts of life from a friend. Bird’s character reproaches himself. “It’s a father’s responsibility to tell his son about these things. I failed that boy. I had it all planned about how I was going to tell him. I mean it’s only three months since I brought the rabbits home.” Although, as de la Tour’s character points out, the rabbits were both female, which was a bit of a problem.

It quickly transpires that Bird’s character, despite being a psychiatrist, has something of a hang-up when it comes to sex – so he’s very reluctant to broach the subject with his son. He then wonders if Robert ever saw the two of them in bed. de la Tour’s character thinks not, but Bird’s character isn’t convinced since “you usually have a pillow over your head and I have my eyes shut.”

Eventually he decides to employ a course of aversion therapy on Robert and then bring up the subject in a couple of years time. She then reminds him that it’s Robert’s birthday the following day – when he asks how old he is (nine or ten he thinks) she informs him that he’s twenty three. As they leave the park together, they discuss appropriate presents (she thinks a cowboy suit would be right, whilst he thinks a railway set would be ideal).

Again, Bird and de la Tour are excellent in another two-hander. Had either of the two story ideas been stretched to the whole twenty-five minutes it probably wouldn’t have been as memorable an episode. But spinning two totally different plots from the same opening is what make this stand out a little from the norm.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – Naught for Thy Comfort

February 21, 2015February 21, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's galton and simpson, roy kinnear, the galton and simpson playhouse

Richard Burton (Roy Kinnear) is an airline steward who returns home to find a Dear John (or rather a Dear Richard) letter from his wife. She’s left him for another man, but in-between informing him that his dinner’s in the oven and that his spare uniform is at the dry-cleaners, she goes on to tell him not to “blame yourself in any way for what has happened. You’ve been a good husband and I’ve nothing to reproach you for, which makes it even harder to do what I’m doing.”

This is an obvious blow and he desperately needs to find somebody to pour out his troubles to. The problem is that nobody’s interested – as his so-called friends seem to regard him as something of an encumbrance, to put it mildly. After finding no useful information from his mother-in-law, he calls “good old Harry, one of the best.” Harry desperately conjures up an excuse to avoid talking to him – Richard seems like a nice enough fellow, but Harry gives the impression that he’s a crashing bore that no-one wants to spend any time with.

Possibly part of the reason for his lack of social success is his complete inability to appreciate the problems of others. Later on, we seem him conducting a lengthy conversation on the phone with another friend, Jack, who he’s stunned to discover is burying his wife the next day. He then remembers that Jack did mention this fairly important fact earlier on (Richard’s call has lasted over an hour) but Richard’s so wrapped up in his own world of pain that he has little empathy for anybody else’s grief.

Encounters with a barman (Robert Gillespie), a vicar (Frank Gatliff) and a phone-in host (Alan Freeman) don’t go well either and it seems that nobody wants to listen to him. He then receives a call from a man in a phone-box (John Clive). This is the man who his wife was originally going to run off with (which raises the interesting question as to how many men she was seeing!) and he’s just as upset as Richard to find she loves another. Richard cams him down and tells him to pour out his troubles – as it’s good to talk these things through.

Naught for Thy Comfort operates in familiar Galton and Simpson territory. Burton, like Hancock or the Steptoes, is something of an outsider from the normal run of society. And like them, he’s not always the most sympathetic of characters, although this changes right at the end when, ironically, he takes a great interest in the welfare of his wife’s former lover. Is this because he understands the pain that occurs when nobody will listen to you and therefore he’s able to derive some comfort by offering a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, even when it’s for a man who’s cuckolded him?

Roy Kinnear was something of a British comedy legend and his casting certainly gave the episode a lift. There’s not many belly-laughs here, but it does raise a smile or two.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – Cheers

February 20, 2015February 20, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's charles gray, freddie jones, galton and simpson, nicholas courtney, the galton and simpson playhouse

Charles (Charles Gray) and Peter (Freddie Jones) operate under a strictly fixed routine. Friends since childhood, they went through the army together and now share the same house. Charles likes to organise everything and as they enjoy their regular evening drink at the pub, he outlines how he sees the week progressing. Friday night sounds particularly exciting. “In here for our usual and then off home and wash our hair. I’ll wash yours and you can wash mine, I never get all the soap out otherwise.”

Then Peter drops a bombshell – he’s getting married on Saturday. This throws Charles into a spin, how can Peter get married when they’ve got the laundrette to do? Peter is firm though, he’s in love and he’s going to be married at 12.00 noon on Saturday.

Charles continues to be baffled that Peter could desert him, after all they’ve been through. “After thirty five years, school chums, brother officers, comrades-in-arms, joint lease-holders of a maisonette and an allotment – which we were going to manure on Sunday.”

But Peter wants to break free from his routine existence and do something very different. He tells an increasingly appalled Charles that he and his wife-to-be will be “staying in South America. We’re taking a raft up the Amazon, right into the rainforest.”

If all this sounds very unlikely, then there’s a good reason why – Peter’s made it all up. There’s no girlfriend, no marriage and on Saturday he’ll be locked into the same old routine. He then confesses to Charles that he created this wild fantasy in order to try and break the monotony. Charles agrees that they should try and do something different, but it’s clear that they never will.

A bittersweet tale, Cheers is pretty good stuff, although there are a few awkward moments which do firmly place it in the 1970’s. Charles is disgusted to see a black woman on the arm of one of the other pub regulars (Nicholas Courtney). He mutters that such a thing shouldn’t be allowed and he declares that “I’d like to know where he gets his money from, I’m sure he’s a mercenary.” Awkward though this is, it’s always nice to see Nicholas Courtney and whilst it’s not a large part, he makes the most of it.

Charles is also amazed to learn that people consider that he and Charles are a couple of “poofs”. The fact they do everything together (including washing each others hair) has clearly not gone unnoticed by the other pub regulars (who call them “Pinky and Perky” behind their backs) but Charles doesn’t understand this at all. “I don’t believe it! I don’t look anything like a poof.”

Freddie Jones gives a lovely turn as a middle-aged man yearning for escape from his humdrum life whilst the always solid Charles Gray is suitably bluff as another middle-aged man who lives for exactly the routine that drives Peter up the wall. If anything changes, you can tell that Charles simply wouldn’t be able to cope.

If the scripting of The Galton and Simpson Playhouse so far hasn’t always been the sharpest, the star-quality of the actors has been enough to hold my interest. Cheers is another good example of this.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – Swop You One Of These For One Of Those

February 19, 2015January 14, 2020 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's galton and simpson, richard briers, the galton and simpson playhouse

One major theme running throughout so much of British comedy during the 1970’s was that of sexual frustration. The Carry On’s, Benny Hill and Les Dawson’s Cosmo Smallpiece are just some examples of the typically frustrated British comedy male. Richard Briers as Henry Fairlane in Swop You One Of These For One Of Those is someone who fits snugly into this niche as well.

The 1960’s may have been the decade of sexual revolution, but for some (and especially Henry) it seems to have totally passed them by. He spends his time in the office ruminating on the clothes the secretaries wear. “Shouldn’t be allowed to walk around the office dressed like that. They’re asking for it, they really are. Trouble is, they don’t ask me for it.”

He’s happily married, but his eye is certainly roving. When one of the secretaries (Linda Hayden) wonders why he should bother to play around, he tells her that “I’m not old enough to turn it in. I should be playing around, it’s natural. I mean it keeps you young and healthy, it gives you a better disposition.”

Briers is perfect as a twitchy forty-something who’s desperately yearning for new horizons. And as luck would have it, his colleague Roger Gresham (Henry McGee) has the answer – an invitation to a wife-swopping party. You couldn’t really get any more 1970’s than that! Henry’s keen, but Roger tells him that he has to make sure he brings his wife along – no wife, no entry.

Come the night of the party and Henry’s been separated from his wife – he lost her at Belsize Park tube station. Roger refuses to let him in without her, so he has to keep a lonely vigil outside, watching enviously as numerous other couples gain admittance. The frustration part is key to the comedy – Henry has to remain constantly unfulfilled, otherwise the joke doesn’t work.

Eventually, Henry’s wife Linda (Jan Waters) does turn up – just after Henry stepped away from the door. Roger’s delighted to see her and and instantly lets her in (after some hesitation she throws herself into the party with gusto).

So by the time the party’s over, Linda’s had a great time and poor Henry’s been stuck outside the whole time. Henry, like so many comedy characters from this decade, is forced to constantly have his nose pressed to the glass, watching others enjoy themselves.

Richard Briers gives a very nice turn and Henry McGee (a familiar Benny Hill stooge) makes an impression as one of the oldest swingers in town. It’s also good to briefly see the imposing figure of Peggy Ann Clifford. She made a memorable non-speaking appearance in The Missing Page episode of Hancock’s Half Hour as the woman who watches Tony mime the plot of a particularly exciting book.

Swop You One Of These For One Of Those is a step up from Car Along The Pass and is, if nothing else, a good time-capsule of the period.

The Galton and Simpson Playhouse – Car Along The Pass

February 18, 2015May 21, 2016 archivetvmusings ITV Comedy - 1970's anton differing, arthur lowe, galton and simpson, the galton and simpson playhouse

Ray Galton and Alan Simpson’s writing career started in the late 1940’s (when they were both confined in the same tuberculous sanatorium) and it continued for the next thirty years – coming to an end with this series. After The Galton and Simpson Playhouse was transmitted in 1977, Alan Simpson retired from scriptwriting whilst Ray Galton carried on, working with several other collaborators (such as Johnny Speight).

Galton and Simpson, are of course, best known for Hancock’s Half Hour (six radio series and six television series), Hancock (their seventh and final television series written for Tony Hancock, featuring classics such as The Bedsitter, The Lift, The Bowmans, The Blood Donor and The Radio Ham) and Steptoe and Son.

Following Tony Hancock’s decision to fire them as his writing team, the BBC offered them carte-blanche to write about anything they wished, and so the Comedy Playhouse series was born. One episode, The Offer concerned two rag and bone men and it seemed to have potential – out of this came the long-running Steptoe and Son.

YTV’s The Galton and Simpson Playhouse seemed to be a conscious nod to this series, as the programme clearly emulated the style of Comedy Playhouse (one off comedy playlets featuring some of the best acting talent around). It’s a pretty decent effort for them to bow out on, as whilst it’s fair to say that their writing heyday was in the 1950’s and 1960’s, this series isn’t completely without merit.

Having said that, it’s a shame that it kicked off with Car Along The Pass, easily the weakest of the seven shows. Henry and Ethel Duckworth (Arthur Lowe and Mona Washbourne) take a cable-car trip in the Swiss Alps. Henry hasn’t enjoyed his holiday at all and things don’t improve when the cable-car stops when it’s only half way across. The passengers are told that repairs will take a few hours, so naturally Henry (since he’s an Englishman) decides to take charge.

Henry Duckworth has faint echoes of Lowe’s most famous comedy character (Captain Mainwaring from Dad’s Army). Both are rather pompous and incredibly proud of their country of birth, but Mainwaring is also a basically decent man (plus he has the rest of the platoon to keep him in check). Duckworth is just a blinkered bore, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

There’s plenty of comic potential in taking a disparate group of people and trapping them in a confined space – after all, Galton and Simpson did this to great comic effect with the Hancock episode, The Lift. But Car Along The Pass is a very pale imitation. Had Henry learnt anything about his fellow passengers, or himself, then it might have been worthwhile – but his worldview remains the same at the end as it was at the start.

He’s dismayed to find there’s only a few British people aboard and even more upset to discover that means he’s surrounded by foreigners. The one that seems to cause him the most pain is a smooth-talking German, Heinz Steiner (Anton Differing). Steiner is something of an anglophile and professes a love of rugby (which he played whilst at public school in England). When Steiner asks if Duckworth attended public school, the Englishman is reticent. “That, um, is something that we never ask in England. We just know.” Predictably, Ethel spoils the moment by saying she didn’t think Henry played rugby at Witham Grammar, she though he played football instead.

Steiner wonders if Henry has visited Germany. Yes, he says, in 1945. The presence of French and Italians gives him further scope to restate the superiority of the English. During this, it’s hard to decide whether we should be laughing at him or with him. It’s the Alf Garnett problem, I suppose – some of the audience will probably agree with his sentiments whilst others will view him as an out-of-date dinosaur.

My affection for Arthur Lowe means that I can find some merit in this (although you have to dig deep) and Anton Differing is very good, but to be honest, Car Along The Pass is pretty poor stuff.

The Sandbaggers – Special Relationship

February 17, 2015February 18, 2015 archivetvmusings ITV Drama - 1970's diane keen, ray lonnen, roy marsden, the sandbaggers

An East German spy called Mittag (Brian Ashley) has obtained aerial photographs of a new missile complex which is probably targeting R.A.F. bases in West Germany. This information is vital, but there’s a problem – Mittag is convinced he’s under observation, so he won’t travel over to the West. Instead, he wants somebody to collect the pictures in person.

The question is, who? There seems to be a shortage of possibilities, as whoever goes has to be Berlin-orientated (i.e. able to pass themselves off as an East Berliner). Laura has all the qualifications, but Burnside is very reluctant to consider her. Is it because of their growing relationship or is there another reason?

Willie offers to go – although Burnside points out how foolish that would be, since he doesn’t speak German. He breezily says he’ll go over the Wall, and it’s clear that he’s made the offer to save Burnside from having to send Laura. Eventually, Burnside decides that Laura is the right person for the job, and she’s sent in. But the nightmare happens and she’s caught by the authorities, which leaves Burnside with a limited number of options, all of them bad.

Special Relationship is the ultimate example of how compartmentalised Neil Burnside is. There’s no doubt that he’s in love with Laura (he’s seen smiling several times in the early part of the episode, which is far from normal behavour) and after she’s detained he starts to make frantic attempts to secure her release. Given their relationship this is understandable, but there’s another reason. Before she was sent to East Berlin, Laura was briefed on the Hungarian networks – and if this information is extracted from her it could mean the deaths of dozens of people. Was this the real reason why Burnside was reluctant to send Laura in? As so often, there’s no “right” answer – maybe it’s a combination of this and his genuine feelings for her.

Time’s not on his side – within forty eight hours she’ll have told them everything she knows, so she has to be recovered before then. A swop would seem to be the best option, but there’s nobody currently held by the British who fit the bill. The French have somebody though, but will they agree to hand him over? They do, but the price is incredibly high – they want access to the information supplied to the British by the Americans (via the special relationship). They also want a signed agreement from “C” and Sir Geoffrey Wellingham confirming this.

If the Americans found out that their information was being passed over to the French it would be the end of the special relationship, but Burnside has no other options. He speaks to “C” first. “C” says that if they sign it, both he and Sir Geoffrey will be finished, politically. Burnside agrees, but tells him that his career is drawing to a close anyway. “C” concurs but ruefully muses that “I had hoped not to end mine in disgrace.” He reluctantly signs.

Sir Geoffrey is harder to convince. He’s still smarting over Burnside’s treatment of his daughter and even when Burnside tells him that he’s in love with Laura, Sir Geoffrey doesn’t believe him. “I think you’re lying Neil. The way you always lied, cheated, double-dealt to get your own way.” Burnside makes no defence of his past, but tells him he’s not lying this time. Sir Geoffrey signs as well.

So this is a three-cornered problem. Protect the Hungarian networks, maintain the special relationship and save Laura Dickens’ life. Two out of the three can be done, but not all. By this point in the story it should already be clear which will have to be sacrificed.

Laura is shot and killed at the rendezvous point before she’s exchanged for the Russian prisoner. Her death has saved the Hungarian networks and since the exchange didn’t go ahead it allows Burnside to declare the document drafted to the French null and void. So it’s Laura who was expendable, killed on Burnside’s command. It’s a powerful moment, with her dead body lying almost at Burnside’s feet. The split-second before she was shot we see her smile at him, which just twists the knife a little more.

Caine lashes out at Burnside. This event signals a change in their relationship which will be reflected in the following two series.

CAINE: You bastard! Why?
BURNSIDE: You know why. I had to get Laura away from them, into the open to save the Hungarians. To do that I had to set up the swap with …
CAINE: But why the hell didn’t you swap?
BURNSIDE: I couldn’t. The only way I could convince the Americans was by guaranteeing that there would be no swap. Look, you must see it Willie.

It’s another jarring move by Ian Mackintosh. Having killed off two Sandbaggers in Is Your Journey Really Necessary? it didn’t seem likely that another death would happen so soon. Everything looked to be set up to develop Laura’s character further, as she’d only featured in four episodes and there was still considerable scope for broadening her relationship with Burnside. Her sudden, brutal death brings this to an end – and it’s also an incredibly powerful way to bring the first series of The Sandbaggers to a close.