Broadcast on the 11th of April 1966 as part of the Thirty Minute Theatre strand, Emergency-Ward 9 was Dennis Potter’s only 30 minute television play. Thirty Minute Theatre, which ran between 1965 and 1973, clocked up nearly 300 episodes and a quick perusal of the credits will throw up many familiar directors and writers (the likes of John Mortimer, Fay Weldon, Tom Stoppard, Willis Hall, P.J. Hammond and Andrew Davies were just a few of the notables who provided scripts for the series).
The title Emergency-Ward 9 is an obvious tip of the hat to ITV’s long-running medical soap opera. Potter, in his previous life as the television critic of the Daily Herald, had encountered the series on a number of occasions. The examples below show that he had a certain condescending affection for it, but his view of hospital life (presumably informed by his own lengthy hospital stays) was a far darker one.
The play opens with a recalcitrant elderly man, Flanders (Terence de Marney), receiving some nursing attention with ill grace. His neighbour in the next bed, Padstow (Tenniel Evans), is a totally different type of patient – happy to assist the nurses, he also sympathises that they have to deal with people as difficult as Flanders. As the play continues, Padstow’s personality is delineated a little more (we discover he’s a schoolteacher during the day and a lay preacher on Sundays, which maybe helps to explain his priggish attitude).
At first, Flanders’ irascible bad temper acts as an entertaining counterpoint to Padstow’s more restrained personality. But soon, the mood changes as Flanders begins to hurl a barrage of racist insults at the only black patient in the ward – Mr Adzola (Dan Jackson).
This was the era of Till Death Us Do Part of course, so the attitude of Flanders wouldn’t have been an isolated one. Flanders is an old, bitter man who becomes increasingly pitiable as the play progresses. Indeed, despite his attitudes, by the end it’s hard not to feel some sympathy for him.
Padstow wastes no time in expressing his revulsion to Flanders for his comments, but when Padstow later goes across to Adzola (to apologise for Flanders’ behaviour) he’s rather taken aback to learn that Adzola holds Flanders (not to mention the rest of his class) in extreme contempt. Potter’s refusal to paint Flanders and Adzola as simply villain and victim means that we close with a feeling of unrelieved tension – the individual viewer, with their own opinions and prejudices, will need to decide for themselves where their sympathies lie.
Broadcast live, Emergency-Ward 9 is fluidly directed by Gareth Davies. I didn’t spot many fluffs or production mishaps (although maybe they were later edited out of the telerecording). Given its hospital setting, it’s hard not to see echoes of The Singing Detective in it – so it’s a shame that it didn’t resurface during BBC4’s recent reruns of Potter’s 1986 serial (possibly the language might have been a stumbling block).
Out of the 285 plays produced for Thirty Minute Theatre, only 45 are known to exist. Given the talents involved, both in front of and behind the screen, that’s a depressingly low total. But there’s always hope that examples might still be out there somewhere – after all, Emergency-Ward 9 was only recovered in 2011 after a film collector saw it listed for sale and decided to take a punt.
Talking Pictures TV have recently started a re-run of the surviving episodes of Dixon of Dock Green. Sadly, even at the rate of one a week that won’t take them that long (432 episodes were broadcast during 1955 and 1976, only 32 still exist).
Given that so much is missing, it’s hard to get a feel for how the series developed during the 1950’s, 1960’s and 1970’s. Five consecutive episodes from the second series which aired in 1956 (Postman’s Knock, The Rotten Apple, The Roaring Boy, Pound of Flesh, Father In Law) are the earliest survivors and then we jump to 1960 (The Hot Seat) with another five B&W episodes remaining between 1963 and 1967 before arriving at the first colour episode still in the archives (Wasteland).
Although more colour episodes than black and white ones do survive, the picture is grim for the early 1970’s. Only three episodes from series 17-19 (1970 – 1972) are still around, and it’s clearly no coincidence that they were all-film productions (money could be saved by wiping and reusing videotapes, but that couldn’t happen with film – hence the reason why they fell through the wiping net).
Indeed, it’s not until the final two series (21 and 22, 1975 – 76) that things begin to pick up. A good chunk of series 21 still exists, and all of series 22 has been retained.
So what are the earliest (1956) episodes like? The telerecordings are a little crude (but then you need to remember that this was still a developing art – only three years earlier the process was deemed to be so unsatisfactory that the final four episodes of The Quatermass Experiment weren’t telerecorded at all).
If you can overlook the slightly murky picture quality, there’s still plenty of interest – for example a young Paul Eddington guesting in The Rotten Apple (11th August 1956) with an equally young Kenneth Cope appearing in the next episode – The Roaring Boy (18th August 1956). Eddington is that rarest of things in the Dixon universe (a rotten copper) while Cope plays a gun-toting tearaway who holds George hostage. Cope has more than a hint of Dirk Bogarde about him, so it’s hard not to be reminded about how things went for PC Dixon in The Blue Lamp. Luckily for Dixon this time, he’s an indispensable part of the television series, so was able to walk away unscathed.
TPTV have said that all surviving episodes will air. I’ll keep an eye out to see if Molenzicht is one of them (it was left off the DVD release for unspecified rights reasons). I only have a rather washed-out colour copy in my collection, so it would be nice to see a better quality version (although if truth be told, it’s a bit of a dull tale that not even Maurice Roëves can lift).
Elsewhere on this blog are reviews of all the other colour episodes, written when the DVDs came out. My feelings at the time (which I’m happy to still stand by) is that they show the series was far stronger than its low reputation would have you believe.
The arrival of The Sweeney was seen by many as the final nail in Dixon’s coffin. And yet the tv schedules were surely big enough for the both of them. Not least because they were serving very different audiences – Dixon was an early evening programme, The Sweeney was firmly post-watershed.
And it’s always struck me as rather ironic that Ian Kennedy Martin (creator of The Sweeney) would later devise Juliet Bravo (a series that, like Dixon of Dock Green, eschewed car chases and shooters – instead concentrating on low key, character-driven drama). Juliet Bravo ran for six series, which suggests that the audience for the type of policing George Dixon served up for over twenty years was still there well into the 1980’s.
As Michael Seely states in his introduction, R.3 is a series that few people are likely to remember today. This is easily explained by the fact that it’s completely absent from the archives – none of its 26 episodes survive (all that’s left are a handful of telesnaps taken by John Cura, a few brief clips and the camera scripts).
Broadcast during 1964 and 1965, R.3 starred John Robinson as Sir Michael Gerrard, who headed up the Ministry of Research Centre No. 3 (otherwise known as R.3). This was a scientific research facility that attempted to produce results for the greater good, although things didn’t always go to plan ….
R.3’s scientific setting has led some to label it as a forerunner to Doomwatch, but Seely shows how that wasn’t really the case. Indeed, the scientists of R.3 weren’t averse to attempting risky experiments that the Doomwatch team would have had no hesitation in closing down!
Created by N.J. Crisp and Dr Stephen J.L. Black, chapter one of Drama in the Lab concentrates on the development of the programme. Gerard Glaister, later to work closely with Crisp (The Expert, The Brothers, Oil Strike North) was called upon to comment upon the revised series pitch and proffered some incisive opinions. It always interests me to learn how much actors and writers were paid, and there’s a good deal of information of that type provided (Elizabeth Sellars, who played Dr May Howard, was seen as something of a casting coup and therefore received considerably more money than John Robinson).
Robinson, of course, will always be remembered as the second television incarnation of Professor Quatermass. Given that role, possibly there was a little typecasting in play when he was offered the role of Sir Michael Gerrard (who by all accounts, could also be a little curt and abrasive). I’ve always found his Quatermass performance to be rather one note, so it’s interesting to ponder whether he was able to find a little more depth in Gerrard.
Elisabeth Sellars didn’t return for the second series, but there was a notable newcomer – Oliver Reed as Dr Richard Franklin. As with Robinson, we can only imagine what sort of impression the young Reed (who at this point was already beginning to gain a following via his work with Hammer) would have made in the series. But it’s easy to imagine it would have been a positive one.
Drama in the Lab is organized in an orderly fashion – it begins with an introduction for the first series (featuring a plethora of excerpts culled from the production paperwork – all of which I find fascinating). This is followed by chapters on each episode (which contain a detailed story synopsis, production notes and an analysis of the story). Series two follows the same format.
As I mentioned when reviewing Taste and Decency – The Swizzlewick Story, it’s such a pleasure to be able to gain an understanding of how a television series of this era was produced, not least to be able to eavesdrop on the various disputes and issues that occurred (William Emms, for example, did not enjoy his time on the series).
We know all about the production of Doctor Who of course, but every other series of the same vintage will have similar stories to tell – it’s just that someone like Michael Seely will have to spend a fair amount of time digging through the paperwork in order to produce a coherent story. That’s only going to happen for a handful of series, of course, but I’m glad that Seely has made the effort with R.3.
Drama in the Lab – The R.3 Story is another very worthwhile publication from Saturday Morning Press which shines a rewarding light on a long-lost and long-forgotten programme. The only disappointment is the knowledge that the series has gone for good (I suppose there’s always the chance a dusty film can or two is out there somewhere, but I’m not going to hold my breath). But even if R.3 is no more, this book offers a comprehensive look behind the scenes and I’m sure it will be appreciated by anyone with an interest in the production of British television during the 1960’s.
Drama in the Lab – The R.3 Story can be ordered from Saturday Morning Press via this link.
S01 E04 – The Spoilt Ones. Written by Allan Prior, directed by Brian Parker
We’re on the wrong side of town today – where the streets are full of rubbish, the slum buildings are crumbling and everyone (including the children) seem to have fags permanently drooping from their mouths.
Old con Sid Stannnish (John Bennett) and his wife Jennie (Sally Sanders) exist in extreme squalor (you can almost feel the grime seeping out of the television screen). Their scenes of marital disharmony (violent squabbles followed by interludes of detente) carry something of a punch, although it’s true that they also feel a little artificial.
Maybe it’s because Bennett’s such a well known actor, but he doesn’t quite convince as the feckless Sid (a small time crook living off the money his wife makes). The less familiar Sally Sanders (Jennie is a horrific creation – thinking nothing of smacking her children about when they demand food) fares a little better.
Jennie is befriended by an undercover WDC Donald (pop her in a headscarf and she fits right in). It’s another nice role for Susan Tebbs with the episode ringing the changes by mostly staying away from the police station (the main focus of the previous three episodes).
Neither Karen Williams or Stephen Proctor (as the two Stannish children) had lengthy acting careers but both impress as a pair maybe doomed to repeat the mistakes of their parents. That they hold the key to solving the mystery of the numerous petty thefts which have blighted the neighbourhood is a nice plot twist.
S01E05 – To Protect the Innocent … Written by Elwyn Jones, directed by Frank Cox
Cullen is unable to attend an important civic function, so deputises Barlow to stand in for him. Watt is tickled when he discovers that it’s a carol service down at the local nick. This is the cue for Watt and Sgt. Jackson to break into a spot of impromptu carol singing. Of course, it was pretty obvious that Barlow would then come into the room …
It’s a pretty light-hearted way to open proceedings and this tone continues when Sgt. Evans (maintaining his character of the cliché Welshman) sorrowfully regrets that he hasn’t been asked to attend. After all, everyone knows that singing is in the Welsh blood.
Slowly through, the mood darkens. This begins when an inmate, Jack Gregory (John Normington), spies Barlow in the crowd and asks to speak to him. Rather like John Bennett last time, Normington doesn’t quite convince as a hardened criminal, but overall Gregory is a well drawn character who isn’t easy to read (is he villain or victim?)
I like the way the story ebbs and flows – with the main plot thread (child abuse) only coming into focus fairly late on. Gregory claims that he’s concerned for the welfare of his young son, especially since the boy’s mother – Mary Lester (Nerys Hughes) – has disappeared.
Hughes only has two scenes, but both are key and despite her lack of screentime Mary Is pivotal to the story. Although Barlow and Watt both have plenty to do, it’s Barlow who’s gifted most of the best lines. Concerned for the safety of the child, he confronts Dr Raymond (John Bryans) in a scene that’s the undoubted highlight.
Donald Burton, Edward Jewesbury and David Neal also appear in an episode which poses tough questions – such as the dichotomy between punishment and rehabilitation – but doesn’t offer any pat answers.
S01 E06 – Any Other Night. Written by Robert Barr, directed by Peter Cregeen
It’s New Years Eve, but that doesn’t mean that crime takes a holiday. And since tonight’s crime (the theft of £800 worth of tyres) occurs at police headquarters, it’s both personal and embarrassing …
SS:TF was rarely a fast paced series, but Any Other Night is especially glacial. It’s not totally without interest though – the lengthy opening scene between Cullen and Barlow is all good character stuff (Cullen’s plan to get his senior officers working closer together seems to involve plying them with copious amounts of alcohol!)
Victor Maddern and Douglas Livingstone play the two tyre thieves. Maddern (possessor of a well lived-in face that always seemed to exude an air of defeat) was no stranger to tackling criminal roles of this type. Although his moment of fame in Dixon of Dock Green (“Dick Green Dock. Dock Green Dick”) was still a few years in the future.
Livingstone (who I’m sorry to note passed away in 2021) was coming to the end of his acting career, but his secondary career as a writer would continue for decades to come. He had plenty of fine writing credits to his name, such as the 1981 adaptation of The Day of the Triffids.
Basil Dignam as Chief Supt. Marshall is seemingly on hand to spar with Barlow – but in the end they end up the best of friends. Kenton Moore also makes a brief appearance. It’s hard not to think of The Ark in Space and Noah when he pops up – especially as he seems to pull rather Noah-ish faces at times (although in this episode he’s supposed to be happy and not in agony).
A couple of random observations. There’s a fair chunk of night filming, so clearly the episode had a healthy budget. At one point Evans is sitting in a police car with a colleague who turns out to be a non-speaking extra. This becomes clear when Evans continues to talk and his friend can only nod, raise his eyebrows, shrug his shoulders, etc, in response. Finally, the over-enthusiastic way a bunch of extras see in the New Year during a pub scene is quite the thing.
My New Year’s resolution is to rewatch all 149 episodes of Softly Softly: Task Force (I like a challenge). Hopefully I’ve got them all (and I’ll also have the stamina to stay the course). On both counts, time will tell ….
I won’t be able to jot down detailed reviews, but every so often I’ll put up brief capsule reviews of a handful of recently watched episodes, noting a few areas of interest.
S01E01 – Arrival. Written by Elywn Jones, directed by Peter Creegen
Strictly speaking (given the series title and music) this is actually the final episode of Softly Softly, but since it introduces all the new characters it’s easy to see why it’s been lumped under the Task Force banner.
DCS Barlow, now transferred to the Thameford division, is less than impressed with the level of efficiency he finds in his new force. There’s some good fun to be had with Barlow’s exasperation at their slack habits, although this quickly dissipates when everyone urgently begins the search for a missing child.
Professional Welshman Sgt. Evans (David Lloyd Meredith), by-the-book administrator Sgt. Jackson (David Allister), phlegmatic PC Snow (Terence Rigby) and his dog Inky, token female WDC Donald (Susan Tebbs) and chillingly friendly Chief Constable Cullen (Walter Gotell) are the new faces with Barlow, Harry Hawkins and (from episode two) John Watt providing links to the old series.
All of the newcomers’ characters are quickly delineated, and it’s good to see that WDC Donald gets a fair amount to do during these early episodes (although Barlow can’t resist a few “she’s only a woman” comments about her).
Like the second episode, in the end the crime turns out to be murder and (as with episode two) we never actually see the victim. The ending is grim indeed, but well handled – as always, Stratford Johns is excellent value.
S01E02 – Exercise. Written by Elwyn Jones, directed by Ben Rea
After a brief spasm of reluctance, John Watt agrees to take over the running of Task Force One. A move to Thamesford means promotion, but it also means working under Barlow again – which both men view with mixed emotions. It doesn’t take long before they click into harmonious gear, but I did like the flickers of friction before this happens (Cullen referring to them as a “pair of pansies”! helps to date the episode).
As with episode one, it’s another where the crime feels a little distanced as we never see the victim (a Mrs Outwood, who dies in hospital following a violent attack). Patsy Smart (as a nosy neighbour) and Barry Jackson (Mr Outwood) are the familiar faces in a story that has a twist in the tale which I have to confess I didn’t see coming (although in retrospect, perhaps I should have done).
S01E03 – Diversion. Written by Robert Barr, directed by Vere Lorrimer
Barr wrote a good chunk of Task Force (25 episodes). His work is usually strong on procedure (as with today’s episode) but low on excitement. Diversion begins with a lengthy briefing concerning an operation to target a persistent housebreaker (you can’t help feeling a little cheated though – for now, this turns out to be a red herring as the story moves in another direction completely).
An armed robbery, led by Whitley (Brian Croucher), means that the Task Force are on high alert – organising road blocks and eagerly following up clues. A large part of the episode seems to take place in the information room, where the dogged Inspector Reid (Philip Ross) meticulously logs every scrap of information that comes his way (those who enjoy drinking games could try taking a slug of something every time he says “timed at …”)
Croucher’s rather wasted. Along with his accomplices, Whitley is riding a bus to freedom but little happens along the way (and even the moment when he’s disarmed is all over in a flash). Positive points – David Jackson (with a permanent grin on his face) plays a uniformed PC, Geoffrey Hayes (later, like Jackson, a Z Cars regular) makes a brief appearance and Reg Lye (as a newsagent with a memory that comes and goes) is another familiar face to spot.
I’ve recently been watching the 1966 BBC Schools production of Macbeth, with Andrew Keir in the title role. For several decades, low budget but highly serviceable drama adaptations were tacked by the BBC schools department. A handful have escaped into the public domain, but most remain locked in the vaults (and no doubt a fair few were wiped shortly after transmission).
Having enjoyed what I’ve seen (this Macbeth features, apart from Keir, the likes of Anthony Bate and James Grout with familiar faces, like William Marlowe, filling out the minor roles) I’m always temped to dig a little deeper into their history to see exactly what was produced.
Michael Simpson, who produced and directed this version of Macbeth, was also responsible for a number of similar adaptations during the 1960’s such as Hobson’s Choice, Serjeant Musgrave’s Dance and The Government Inspector. Simpson was clearly one of those directors who liked to employ a ‘rep’ of actors, as a number of them appear in more than one of these productions.
Ronald Smedley produced a series of similar adaptations in the 1970’s and 1980’s. Heil Casear! (a modern language version of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar), A Taste of Honey and another version of The Government Inspector (this time with Robin Nedwell in the main role). Possibly Smedley’s best-remembered production is the 1982 An Inspector Calls with Bernard Hepton, partly because it earned the accolade of an evening repeat but mainly because it remains available on YouTube (albeit in rather low-quality form).
Exactly what remains in the archives is a bit of a mystery (even TV Brain draws a blank on some of the ones I know about). Hopefully the odd one might surface on BBC4 (unlikely though that is) or YouTube (slightly more likely, as you can never tell what might get ‘liberated’ from the archives).
Heart to Heart by Terence Rattigan was the first production in an intriguing venture – The Largest Theatre in the World. It was the brainchild of Sergio Pugliesle, director of television at the Italian broadcaster RAI. He outlined the project in the following way. “Let us overcome language by inviting the nations in turn to commission from a leading playwright a play which will be simultaneously produced in each country in its own language, so that on the chosen night the audience for the performance will represent the largest theatre in the world”.
Thirteen countries (including France, Belgium, Spain, Italy and Norway) signed up for the venture, all of them receiving a modified version of the play from Rattigan and the UK director Alvin Rakoff.
Although not as enduring as Pugliesle’s other brainchild (the Eurovision Song Contest), the BBC screened a number of productions under the Largest Theatre in the World banner during the 1960’s. Some, like Harold Pinter’s The Tea Party in 1965 were well received, others such as Pitchi Poi in 1967 garnered only lukewarm notices (Angela Moreton in The Stage and Television Today complained that it contained “dubious cliches” and summed the venture up as a “mere European propaganda exercise”).
Returning to Heart to Heart, it aired on the BBC on the 6th of December 1962. Kenneth More and Ralph Richardson headed the cast, with Jean Marsh, Peter Sallis, Wendy Craig, Angela Baddeley and Megs Jenkins in support.
Although Kenneth More had been one of Britain’s top film stars during the 1950’s, at the start of the next decade there were signs that his star was slipping. Changing fashions meant that he would spend the majority of his career from this point on working in television, although given the quality of some of his later projects (The Forsyte Saga, Father Brown, An Englishman’s Castle) that shouldn’t be taken as a negative.
More, as television interviewer David Mann, dominates Heart to Heart (he’s onscreen for pretty much all of the play’s 115 minutes). Whilst it’s fair to say that Ralph Richardson (as Sir Stanley Johnson) steals most of the scenes he appears in, More is the glue which holds Heart to Heart together.
David Mann is a typical Rattigan creation – emotionally fragile, he’s trapped a loveless marriage with Peggy (Jean Marsh) with whom it’s taken years to even begin to articulate his dissatisfaction. Mann is infatuated with a colleague, Jessie Weston (Wendy Craig), but whilst her marriage is equally unsatisfying, Jessie can’t bring herself to leave her husband which means that all the characters seem doomed to remain in stasis.
Within the play, the programme Heart to Heart is a thinly disguised copy of Face to Face with David Mann cast in the John Freeman role. Rattigan opted not to set the play within the BBC, instead the television organisation is British Television (BTV), the country’s fifth television network. This feels somewhat unsatisfying, as the majority of the production was very clearly recorded in the Television Centre, but given the contentious part of the piece (corrupt politician Sir Stanley Johnson attempting to block the network from asking probing questions about his past) it’s not difficult to understand why this decision was taken.
Sir Ralph Richardson essays a Northern accent (which seems to come and go a bit) as Sir Stanley Johnson, a blunt, man of the people who has risen through the ranks to now hold a senior post in the government (and be tipped by some as a future prime minister). It’s an ideal role for Richardson, offering him some stand-out scenes (especially Johnson’s live on-air confession) and the way the cat and mouse clash between Mann and Johnson develops is fascinating to observe.
The supporting roles are uniformly strong. Jean Marsh might be forced to adopt a rather strange accent, but this sort of works as it fits Peggy’s unfathomable character. Wendy Craig and Peter Sallis, both dependable performers, are solid throughout whilst Megs Jenkins as Lady Johnson is both amusing and touching (by now nothing about her husband seems to shock Lady Johnson – at least on the surface). Angela Baddeley, as the whistleblower Miss Knott, dominates the screen for the short time (around seven minutes) that she’s onscreen. And in the quieter moments you can amuse yourself by spotting some future Coronation Street alumni (Jean Alexander and Stephen Hancock) in minor roles.
Heart to Heart is a play that still remains relevant today, indeed possibly even more now than it did then. A politician is confronted with proof of his corruption – initially he denies it completely, then attempts to rubbish the people supplying the information. But when it becomes obvious that the truth will have to come out, he takes command and spins his confession in such a way as to invite sympathy from the watching audience. Although Sir Stanley Johnson is initially contemptuous about the prospect of trial by television, he manages to manipulate the truth by using the medium in a very skillful way which belies his (clearly false) bumbling persona.
Apart from the obvious quality of the play and the performances, there’s another reason for watching Heart to Heart – it gives you a good insight into the BBC studio environment of the early 1960’s. This is especially apparent during the opening titles where Alvin Rakoff takes the camera on an impressive trip around the studio in a single take (given the bulk and immovability of the cameras he would have been working with, it’s especially noteworthy).
If you want to check this out, then it’s available on the Terence Rattigan at the BBC DVD boxset.
Four of a Kind, the first episode of Z Cars, was originally broadcast on BBC Television in 1962.
So it’s the sixtieth anniversary of Z Cars (looks in vain for BBC4 documentary and extensive repeat season. Ho hum).
This opening episode hits the ground running by deftly establishing the differing personas of the four policeman selected for the new crime patrols (Lynch, Steele, Smith, Weir) and their two bosses (Barlow, Watt).
It’s true that broad brushstrokes are used though – Lynch is a garrulous Irishman, Steele might knock his wife about but we’re assured he’s a good chap really, Fancy is a ridiculously confident Teddy Boy and Jock … ah poor Jock (he very much gets the short end of the stick in this debut episode, only being called upon to mumble a few incoherent words).
Fare Forward Voyagers, the first episode of Manhunt, was originally broadcast on ITV in 1970.
The premise of the series is simple – Nina (Cyd Hayman) has vital information about the French resistance networks. The Germans desperately want it, but so do the British – which means that Jimmy (Alfred Lynch) and Vincent (Peter Barkworth) have to somehow spirit her out of occupied France and back to London.
Rewatching this opener, it’s impossible not to nitpick a little – how did Nina escape after the Germans gunned down every other member of the Paris resistance cell? We’re never told (and given how hysterical she is for most of the episode, it’s difficult to see how she could have gone more than a few paces).
And why are the Germans so trigger happy? If they hadn’t massacred everyone, then Nina wouldn’t be such a valuable property.
All of the three regulars have a tricky time in this episode, as their characters are so extreme – Jimmy’s a wisecracking RAF pilot, Vincent’s a cold-hearted killer and Nina’s little more than a bundle of nerves. Putting the three of them together seems like a recipe for disaster, but hopefully they’ll settle down over the course of the next 25 (!) episodes. Given that Secret Army tended to spirit British airmen out of Belgium in a single episode, 26 episodes to get Nina over to Britain seems rather generous ….
The fine guest performances of Peter Copley, Andrew Keir and Yootha Joyce are one of the saving graces of Fare Forward Voyagers. Keir is especially impressive as the doomed Robespierre, a radio operator who sacrifices himself in order to allow Jimmy, Nina and Vincent the chance to escape.
Ringer, the first episode of The Sweeney, was broadcast on ITV in 1975.
Following the Armchair Cinema ‘pilot’ in 1974, The Sweeney burst onto our screens with this effort. Subtle it isn’t (the closing punch up is so ridiculously over the top that I’ve never been sure if it’s supposed to be tongue in cheek or not) but overall the episode is still rather bracing.
Brian Blessed (with a stick on beard) and Ian Hendry are the main guest stars whilst there’s plenty of familiar faces (Ray Mort, June Brown, Alan Lake, Angus Mackay) also present and correct.
The Way Back, the first episode of Blakes 7, was broadcast on BBC1 in 1978.
This dystopian tale of thought control and (thankfully trumped up) charges of child abuse had a surprisingly early evening slot. Fair to say that The Way Back is very much a one-off as the following 51 episodes never recaptured the tone of this opening installment.
Writing (or at least credited for) all 13 episodes of the first series, it’s not surprising that Terry Nation’s at his sharpest here. As time wore on and inspiration began to dry up, his scripts became rather more perfunctory.
Adam pops along to an Embassy ball and falls into conversation with Oretta (Nancy Nevinson), the wife of the Italian Vice Consul. And after she falls dead into his arms, he instantly turns detective ….
There’s no mystery about Oretta’s death as her conversation with Adam is intercut with shots of two eavesdroppers (Howarth and Watkins) who are able to hear every word that’s spoken. She’s wearing a bugged dress then, that’s different. And not only is it bugged, when it’s decided that Oretta has said too much they’re able to kill her by remote control.
The dress has been designed by Roger Clair (Colin Jeavons), a fashion designer who has plenty of connections in high society. Where do you start with Jeavons’ performance? Calling it camp just doesn’t do it justice – Jeavons is clearly enjoying himself tremendously, periodically winding himself up into explosive paroxysms of petulance.
Howarth (Alister Williamson) is his stolid number two. A much less showy turn, but then there’s only room in the story for one Jeavons-sized character. Given how prima-donnish Clair is, it’s difficult to credit that he’s responsible for creating such an intricate espionage network – but it seem to be so.
Tony Williamson’s script also seems a little unclear in other places too. We’re told that a number of other society matrons have died in a similar way to Oretta (all apparently from heart attacks) but Clair was deeply upset when Howarth decided to terminate Oretta (Howarth was worried that Adam was getting too close to discovering their operation). So why did the others die? Oh well, possibly you’re not supposed to dig too deeply into the specifics of the story.
Adam toddles along to Clair’s latest fashion show, but is appalled when the models – dressed in bathing costumes – begin to parade themselves. Poor Adam, given a front-row seat, can’t bring himself to look whilst Georgina (it won’t shock you to discover) has signed on as Clair’s latest model.
This turns out to be a godsend for Clair as he’s able to pop the unsuspecting Georgina into a bugged dress. There’s a lovely spot of dialogue from Clair as he first recoils at the notion of Adam living in a car park, before approving of the notion of his flat (“what a ducky idea”).
Another episode highlight occurs when Adam, safely back with Georgina at his flat, suddenly twigs that her dress might be dangerous. He writes her a note (“take off your dress”) only for her to counter with a note of her own (“get lost”). Given she’s been panting over him since the start of the series, I’d have thought she’d have been quite keen to get undressed for him ….
Towards the end of the episode Adam has the chance to indulge in his usual spot of fisticuffs before facing the possibility of a grisly death at the hands of Clair’s wicked invention. Fear not though, the ever resourceful Adam can take just about anything that’s thrown at him and then throw it back with maximum vengeance.
Another solid episode, this one benefits enormously from the performance of Colin Jeavons.
The opening of this episode is AAL! at its most Avengerish (not really surprising of course since Brian Clemens wrote the script). Sir John Marston (John Scott) bids his friends and colleagues a cheerful goodbye before stepping into a comfortable coffin – immediately afterwards he is pronounced dead by Wilson (Jeremy Young).
The coffin is delivered to an undertakers run by Mr Percy (Arthur Brough – glass of water for Mr Grainger please) and is opened to reveal a happy Marston, declaring that it’s good to be alive again. Unfortunately Mr Percy then shoots him dead ….
Now that’s how you write a teaser!
Clemens’ script sparkles throughout. Mind you, it doesn’t hurt that it boasts fine performances from some experienced players. Such as Deryck Guyler as Grantham, the snuff-taking Man from the Ministry who calls in Adamant to solve the mystery of why a number of financiers (including Marston) died immediately before they were due to face charges of tax evasion.
The common link is a psychiatrist called Velmer (John Le Mesurier). His profession serves as a cue for Adam and Georgina to discuss the merits of psychiatry in another comic scene. Georgina’s abuse of Adam’s priceless tea service also raises a smile.
The presence of John Le Mesurier is another major plus point in the episode’s favour. Although for a bright man, Velmer seems to be a little dense (even after learning about Adam’s past life, he doesn’t twig that his subject is actually the celebrated Adam Adamant). This is even odder when it’s later revealed that Velmer knows all about Adam.
Hamilton Dyce, as Mr Percy’s second in command, and Ilona Rogers (Susan) help to fill out the cast. I have to admit that she looks rather fine in her nurses uniform (which seems to have been designed to maximise her cleavage).
Velmer has sent Adam to a very strange nursing home where Susan is on hand to attend to his every need – although the buttoned up Adam draws the line at being undressed by her! The early dialogue exchanges between Harper and Rogers are a gift for both for them.
It’s nice to see Harper given some good material to get his teeth into – unlike some of the previous episodes Adam isn’t just portrayed as an uptight innocent, he seems to be a more rounded character today (quick witted and easy able to feign madness – Velmer is convinced that Adam’s Edwardian remembrances are simply delusions and Adam is happy to string him along).
Georgina has been sidelined for most of this episode – stuck in the flat with Simms who’s been entertaining her by reciting several of his hair-raising limericks – but eventually she pushes herself into the story by skulking around the offices of the health club. She encounters a strange-looking man rising from a coffin in a shock moment that seems designed to lead into an ad break (before you remember this was a BBC show).
Georgina and Susan later have a brief catfight which is the cue for Georgina to steal her clothes and for Susan to emerge a moment later in a state of undress. The conclusion – with the undertakers perishing in a barrage of friendly fire and Adam and Wilson fencing to the death – is a bit of a cracker.
The Very Happy Embalmers has a rather thin story but since it’s assembled and performed so well I’m not complaining. After a few false starts, this episode pointed a possible way ahead for the series, albeit as an Avengers clone. If AAL! was going to have a long term future then it would need to find its own voice, but for now this episode is simply content to be nothing less than first rate entertainment.
Allah Is Not Always With You opens in eyebrow raising fashion – an attractive young woman called Linda (Miranda Hampton) is tied to a bed and offered the prospect of torture unless she does as she’s instructed. Golly. The attentive viewer will probably notice that she’s dressed in fishnets and a fluffy upper costume, which raises the kink factor an extra notch.
You have to say though that maybe the baddies’ hearts weren’t in it, as once Linda is left alone she unties herself with embarrassing ease and manages to dodge past the tough guarding the door. If this is slightly hard to swallow, then more swallowing is required when (fleeing down a long corridor) she’s knifed in the back. Had the distance between Linda and the knife thrower not been so great then possibly this wouldn’t have come across as such a superhuman feat.
Mortally wounded though she is, Linda still manages to pop on a coat (sorry, I’ll try and stop nitpicking soon) and takes a cab (driven by George Tovey, who always did a very nice line in cabbies) to Adam’s flat. Her arrival in Adam’s sitting room (her barely conscious form carried over the threshold by Simms) is an amusing moment. It’s also significant, as this caused the original Simms (played by John Dawson) a great deal of trouble – sent off to hospital with a bad back, Dawson was quickly replaced by Jack May.
Everything seems to centre on The Fluffy Club which is a joint where the hostesses are dressed in a fluffy fashion (nothing to do with the Playboy Club, honest). It’s the sort of decadent gambling den you know Adam will find totally abhorrent, even if by today’s standards it looks amusingly tame. And if it’s somewhat predictable that Adam’s ended up in such a place, then it’s even more predictable that Georgina – having ignored Adam’s order not to get involved – has enrolled at the club as a Fluffy Girl in order to be his inside woman.
She has all the attributes to be a Fluffy Girl, her legs seem to go on forever ….
Kevin Brennan oozes melodramatic menace as Vargos, the club owner who intends to ensnare Ahmed (David Spenser), a wealthy Middle Eastern playboy. Whilst Ahmed heads off to be fleeced in the big card game, Adam is lurking about the corridors. At this point it’s hard to see how he’ll fit into the narrative (he can hardly gatecrash the game) but luckily there’s another damsel in distress close at hand and a few toughs for Adam to duff up.
Adam’s new damsel, Helen (Jennifer Jayne), is – of course – an associate of Vargos (poor Adam always seems to hone straight in on the bad women). So clever, but oh so vulnerable. She manages to snatch a quick kiss with him and he doesn’t pull away. Perhaps Adam is slowly moving into the sixties …..
Fictitious Middle Eastern states were an ever-present staple of sixties adventure series and today’s example is a fairly common one. Ahmed is the headstrong young heir to the Sheikdom who’s been assimilated into – or corrupted by – Western culture whereas his father is much more of a traditionalist. The Sheik is played by a browned-up John Woodnutt, which is the sort of casting that may look a little odd today but was perfectly common back then.
It’s interesting that whilst Adam finds himself sidetracked by Helen, Georgina is the one who’s doing all the hard graft – taking Ahmed out for a bun in order to find out what Vargos is up to. And once she’s got the info, Georgina scooters off to Adam’s pad to share the news – almost running into Helen who’s just been enjoying an intimate tête-à-tête with Mr Adamant. Frosty stares are exchanged between the two females.
Eventually Georgina is able to persuade Adam that the Sheik’s life may be in danger (in London for a routine operation, if he dies then Vargos will be able to pull Ahmed’s strings and rule by proxy).
Allah Is Not Always With You chugs along quite nicely with all the familiar story beats of the series – easily duped Adam, plucky Georgina, fisticuffs ahoy – firmly in place. It never quite kicks into top gear though since Vargos is too nebulous a villain whilst Ahmed is also quite sketchily portrayed (given this, it’s hard to feel any particular sympathy for him).
The identical pleasures – a horrified Adam meeting the sedate fleshpots of the Fluffy Club, say – are the moments which really stand out. Not bad then, but hopefully more substantial fare will be just round the corner.
Friend of the blog Berthold Deutschmann has written this interesting article (in addition to supplying an impressive piece of artwork) about Helen Shingler, who played Madame Maigret in the classic 1960’s BBC series
According to the latest dates on the Internet, Helen Shingler (“Madame Maigret”) recently celebrated her 100th birthday, on August 29th, 2019. I have found just one birthday greeting. Actually, I read somewhere that she would belong to a list of “forgotten actors”. I was taken aback by that. And Rupert Davies would be a “forgotten actor”, too. I don’t believe it! At least in Germany both are still known as the ideal tv Maigret couple. In fact, from the DVDs you might get the impression, the Maigrets are still in deep love, even after many years of marriage. This is played so convincingly, that a friend of mine believes there could have been a real relationship between the two actors. I do not agree with her, because I think, both were absolutely loyal to their own familiy.
As for the Maigret tv series, Mrs. Shingler’s desire was to have a bit more influence on the solution of the murder cases of her tv husband, Chief Inspector Maigret. I know of just one case in which she really can help him, shown in the episode “The White Hat” (German version: “Madame Maigret als Detektiv”). Gererally, she remains the housewife in the Maigret flat at Richard Lenoir Boulevard in Paris, but still she is absolutely essential for “Monsieur Maigret”. He would not be the successful Sureté commissaire without her at his side, or in the background, at home. On the writing desk in the commissioner’s office at Quai des Orfèvres there is put up, quite obviously, her framed picture.
For my comic-style illustration I had a scene in mind, in which Madame, for the time being, happens to know more than Monsieur, perhaps some fine detail that could be helpful to solve the current crime mystery. I hope you will like my work.
Below is an interview with Helen Shingler, conducted by Sheila Purcell, from 1962.
Growing up, Terrance Dicks’ Doctor Who novelisations were my staple reading diet. The Target range had other writers of course, but some of their books (like the two by David Whitaker) seemed a bit intimidating (especially the dense Crusaders).
Terrance may sometimes have been criticised for being a plain, straight-ahead sort of writer, but it’s undeniable that his books were perfectly pitched for his young readership. When I was slightly older I had the confidence to tackle The Crusaders, but had Terrance not been there first then maybe I wouldn’t have made the leap.
It’s a common refrain to hear people say that Terrance Dicks taught them to read, but it’s also true in so many cases ….
His contribution to Doctor Who in general was immense. He wrote and co-wrote some excellent stories, but his work as possibly the series’ most efficient script editor really stands out. Having witnessed the script chaos which bedevilled the series during the late Troughton era, Dicks (with Barry Letts as a strong and supportive producer) brought stability back to the production office.
Dicks’ formula was simple – find a small group of writers you could depend on (Robert Holmes, Brian Hayles, Terry Nation, Malcolm Hulke, Robert Sloman, Bob Baker & Dave Martin) and then keep on recommissioning them. Sounds simple, doesn’t it?
Outside of Doctor Who, his work as first script editor and then later producer on the Classic Serials is worthy of further investigation. Like Doctor Who they had to get by on fairly small budgets and this might be one of the reasons why eventually they fell out of favour. By the mid eighties, glossy all-film productions of classic novels were the way forward and the humbler Classic Serial began to look second best by comparison. But many have stood the test of time well and still entertain today (such as the 1984 Invisible Man).
I’m also prepared to fight the corner of Moonbase 3, a series which I have a great deal of love for. It’s far from perfect (indeed Letts and Dicks’ series opener is especially stodgy) but it’s something I find myself drawn back to again and again. Although I’m not quite sure why ….
This evening I’ll be spinning Horror of Fang Rock in tribute. Not only is it a great story, it’s also a perfect example of Dicks’ no-nonsense style. Forced at the eleventh hour to cobble together a new story (after his previous submission was vetoed) Dicks didn’t panic – he simply rolled up his sleeves and got on with it.
Fang Rock is archetypical Doctor Who – take a group of bickering characters, trap them in an enclosed space with no hope of escape and then kill them off one by one. It’s hard to go wrong with such a formula and Dicks didn’t disappoint.
He was inadvertently helped by Tom Baker who was in an even more stroppier mood than usual – but his disdain for the script, his co-star, Pebble Mill studios, director Paddy Russell and just about everybody and everything else actually seemed to work in Fang Rock‘s favour. Tom’s Doctor was never more alien and foreboding than he was in this story – and even if this was something to do with the fact that Tom was missing his regular Soho drinking haunts, no matter.
The Fang Rock DVD also boasts a lovely Terrance Dicks documentary and a lively commentary track where Dicks, Louise Jameson and John Abbott swop stories (often about Tom of course).
Judging by the way Terrance is trending on Twitter at the moment I’m sure I won’t be alone in paying tribute tonight. RIP sir and thank you.
Law (Derek Godfrey) finds his cosy basement flat invaded by an old friend, Stott (Pinter) and Stott’s young and mainly silent girlfriend Jane (Kika Markham). Whilst initially pleased to see Stott, Law is less enthused when the pair begin to take ruthless charge of his surroundings ….
Although the third and final Pinter play from his Theatre 625 trilogy may initially seems to be on familiar ground (a mysterious individual indulging in oblique power games) The Basement quickly evolves into something much more interesting than might have been expected from the opening ten minutes.
Based on the first few scenes, the television viewer of 1967 would no doubt have expected a linear development of the opening theme. We have three central protagonists – the ebullient Law, the monosyllabic and slightly threatening Stott and the unfathomable Jane – and a well designed basement flat for them to co-exist in. With a running time of just under an hour, there seems ample scope for the three of them to clash.
And so they do, just not in the way that was probably expected. Whilst Tea Party featured some jarring cuts and fantasy sequences, these are much more pronounced in The Basement. Indeed, it’s possible to have some debate as to where reality ends and fantasy takes over (the final scene – delightfully circular in nature – floats the possibility that everything we’ve witnessed has been untrue).
The first jarring reality shift comes ten minutes in, as the action abruptly switches to a beach. Whilst Jane makes an elaborate sandcastle, the ever-voluble Law does his best to stake his claim as Stott’s true friend and soul-mate. Stott meanwhile, is somewhat distanced from this action. And then we quickly cut back to the flat – and in such a way which suggests that the whole beach scene was just Law’s fantasy.
Is it a good rule of thumb that any scene set outside the environs of the flat is fake? That could be so, but then some inside also have the same dreamlike quality. Time certainly seems to pass in a non-linear fashion (one minute there’s snow on the ground, the next moment it’s summer) whilst the décor of the flat also changes from scene to scene.
The final few scenes, although flat based, are clearly fantasy (Law and Stott, each stripped to the waist, attack each other with broken bottles) although whilst the men are scrapping, Jane is shown to be working in the kitchen, which appears to anchor her – if not them – in reality. This switch between the unreal and real is fascinating.
Although The Basement was staged several times (the London production of 1970 with Donald Pleasence as Law, Barry Foster as Stott and Stephanie Beacham as Jane sounds particularly intriguing) the strength of the piece is definitely its ability to rapidly change from one reality to another. Something that was simple to achieve on television (provided you had the time and the budget) but much more difficult to achieve on stage. I’d certainly be intrigued to see a staged production of the play, but I think it probably works best as a television entity.
Critical reception was mixed, but most writers had positive things to say, even if some had to confess that they didn’t understand it all. Kenneth Eastaugh, writing in the Daily Mirror, decided that it was “a unique master course for everybody who ever aspired to write” although this was qualified by some criticism of Pinter’s performance whilst he felt that Markham was merely “adequate” in her role.
J.D.S. Halworth in The Stage and Television Today also found some fault with Pinter’s Stott, although he/she was much more positive about Markham (both critics agreed that Derek Godfrey indulged in some skilful playing).
Max Wilkinson in the Coventry Herald declared that although “I am not certain what the play was about or what it was saying … I will confidently assert it was masterly”.
The Basement might be on familiar Pinter ground (unsettling and oblique) but it’s enlivened by some humorous moments. His final original work for television, it’s yet another which has aged rather well.
Albert Stokes (Tony Selby), a shy young man, lives with his emotionally suffocating widowed mother (Anna Wing). His big night out – a works party – turns sour after he’s falsely accused of groping one of his female colleagues. After this bad start, his night just get worse and worse ….
A Night Out was Harold Pinter’s first substantial success. It debuted on the BBC Third Programme in March 1960 before transferring to television a month later as part of ABC’s Armchair Theatre strand. This version, starring Tom Bell, Madge Ryan and Pinter himself, can be seen on volume three of Network’s Armchair Theatre releases.
The opening scene establishes the strained relationship between Albert and Mrs Stokes. She reacts with surprise to the news that he’s planning on going out, despite the fact that he’s already told her several times. Her cheerful manner doesn’t waver – even when she’s bemoaning the fact that he’ll miss their regular Friday night game of Rummy – but it’s plain that in her non-confrontational way she’s keen to prevent his departure (not revealing the location of his precious tie, for example).
Anna Wing offers a well judged performance, pitched just right. When Mrs Stokes enquires whether her son isn’t “leading an unclean life, are you? … You’re not messing about with girls tonight, are you?” it lays bare her central concern (with her husband dead, Albert is all she has left and clearly can’t bear the thought of losing him). Is it just a coincidence that these themes would be deeply mined just a few years later by Galton and Simpson in Steptoe & Son? Even down to the name Albert?
Meanwhile, Tony Selby – as the softly-spoken, down-trodden Albert – is equally impressive. Although he’s treated with contempt by some of his colleagues – such as the arrogant Gidney (Patrick Cato) – Albert also has his supporters, notably Seeley (John Castle). Seeley and Kedge (Richard Moore) form an entertaining duo, enlivening the early part of the play with their inconsequential chatter. And once both reach the party they prove to be an instant hit with the ladies – indeed, they’re everything that the awkward Albert isn’t.
Albert’s humiliation at the party sends him back home, but as he finds no succour there he heads out again, only to be picked up by a prostitute (Avril Elgar). Her lengthy, rambling monologue is deliberately wearying (it’s Albert’s misfortune to have stumbled into the company of somebody who, in their own way, is as controlling as his mother). Given this, it’s plain that their encounter won’t end well.
Although Albert has found himself unable to express his true feelings to his mother (when he finally returns home again their uneasy status quo is maintained) he can at least vent his frustrations on the unfortunate chattering prostitute. If Selby has been cast in a submissive role for most of the play, then this climatic scene allows Albert’s tightly-wound persona free reign to explode. It’s nicely played by both Selby and Elgar.
A Night Out, given the fact it was the most straightforward of the Pinter Theatre 625 trilogy, attracted the most critical acclaim. But whilst it has the most linear and comprehensible storyline of the three, like the other two it’s replete with disturbing and memorable dialogue.
Edward (Maurice Denham) and Flora’s (Hazel Hughes) idyllic countryside life is disrupted by the arrival of an elderly matchseller (Gordon Richardson). Despite never speaking a word, the old man strikes fear into the heart of Edward and awakens in Flora long-buried sexual desires ….
The first of three consecutive Theatre 625 plays by Pinter, which aired during February 1967, A Slight Ache was originally broadcast by BBC Radio in 1959 (Denham reprising his original radio role).
The oppressive nature of silence, very much a Pinter trait, is a key theme of the play. Remaining mute and pretty much insensible throughout (although there are occasional indications that he can understand at least some of what Edward and Flora are telling him) the matchseller becomes a blank canvas – enabling Edward and Flora to project their own fears, hopes and insecurities onto him.
Both direct several lengthy monologues towards him – for Edward they’re corrosive meetings, culminating in his total collapse. Denham excels throughout (and despite having to handle some very intricate dialogue rattled off at a high pace never falters). He’s matched by Hughes though, although Flora’s meetings are very different from Edward’s.
Edward rambles around a stream of disconnected topics, finding difficulty in asking any straight questions, whereas Flora is much more forthright. For example, she begins by wondering if he could previously have been a poacher (she confides in him that she was raped by a poacher as a girl). This remembrance awakens a sexual thrill in her, which is designed to be a disconcerting revelation in someone previously presented as a loyal and dutiful wife.
Prior to the arrival of the matchseller, the pair have several lengthy scenes – beginning at the breakfast table – which help to establish their relationship. A running battle with a wasp (eventually trapped by the forceful Edward in the marmalade jar) takes up a good few minutes and manages to be both amusing and oddly disturbing. At this point Edward is the dominant force, but once the matchseller appears, their roles become increasingly reversed.
Apart from the actors, Barry Newbery’s sets are an obvious star of the production (the lush garden is particularly impressive). Christopher Morahan’s direction has some nice flourishes, but with an enclosed location and only three actors it has to be fairly static at times.
Amanda Wrigley’s notes in the BFI booklet reports that contemporary critical reaction to A Slight Ache was poor. That may be, but there was the odd positive notice. Kenneth Eastaugh in the Daily Mirror commented that the play “like all Pinter’s works is for all times and for all mediums. Because it’s all about what goes on inside people – and we never change”.
W.D.A. in the Liverpool Echo was less forgiving though, finding it doubtful that anybody would have given the old matchseller such free reign (“it seemed highly questionable”).
Whilst it’s easy to sympathise with W.D.A.’s point of view, it doesn’t prevent A Slight Ache from being a tightly performed psychological drama. True it does sag a little in the middle, but it may be that future rewatches will prove to be rewarding.
Disson (Leo McKern) seems to have a perfect life. A self-made millionaire, he has a beautiful new wife, Diana (Jennifer Wright), has welcomed his brother-in-law, Willy (Charles Gray), into the business and has engaged a bright and efficient new secretary, Wendy (Vivien Merchant). And yet ….
Broadcast in March 1965, Tea Party was a prestigious commission for Pinter. Part of a Eurovision project, entitled The Largest Theatre In The World, it saw the play performed in thirteen separate counties over the course of a single week (with each county either tackling their own translated version or broadcasting a subtitled copy of the UK transmission).
Disson is a ruthlessly efficient man, beginning the play by proudly informing Wendy about the various products his company produces. That they’re all bathroom related strikes a humorous tone (reinforcing this point, on the way to his office she passes several prominent displays of toilets and baths). As you might expect, this light tone simply softens us up for the darkness to follow.
Disson might react in shock to the revelation that Wendy was forced to leave her last job because her previous employer wouldn’t stop touching her, but the way that director Charles Jarrett has already begun to focus on Wendy as a sexual object (foregrounding her legs whilst relegating Disson to the background) provides us with a clear pointer about one of the play’s key themes.
Considering the period (this was a time when television cameras were bulky and difficult to handle) Jarrett’s direction has a surprising fluidity. Interesting shot compositions abound – from this first scene (with POV shots from Wendy’s perspective) to later in the play (several sweeping tracking shots catch the eye).
Pinter remarked on the way that Disson was a marked man right from his first appearance. This is very much the case, which means it doesn’t take long before he starts to unravel before our eyes. And as the play progresses there’s a definite blurring of reality – some of what we see is the truth, whilst the remainder is no more than Disson’s fevered imaginings. How to differentiate between the two? As so often with Pinter the individual viewer is left to draw their own conclusions.
This means that we’re left with some intriguing mysteries. Diana and Willy have a very close bond – is this simply a natural connection between brother and sister, the hint of something incestuous or are we being invited to consider the possibility that Willy is no relation at all? Also, Disson’s two children, Tom and John (Peter and Robert Barlett) possess an uncomfortable stillness at times. Again, the reason for this is opaque – a sign of malevolence or are they simply ordinary children viewed through a confusing prism by the increasingly befuddled Disson?
Pinter seemed quite confident that the audience wouldn’t have any problems following the play. Talking to the Daily Mirror (who dubbed him one of Britain’s most controversial playwrights) on the day of transmisson, he stated it was simply a story about the relationship between a man and his new secretary, albeit one “with a strong sex theme”. The same article offered up a few more nuggets of interest, chiefly that it took Pinter a month to write and that it was extensively edited by Jarrett (understandable, given the scope of the production).
Performances, as you’d expect, are very strong. McKern – always a favourite actor of mine – doesn’t disappoint as Disson. His final collapse (by the end of the play he’s reduced to a catatonic state) is deeply disturbing, but then so are numerous smaller moments along the way which suggests a crisis is looming.
McKern’s scenes with Vivien Merchant crackle with an uneasy sexual tension. Given Merchant’s familiarity both with Pinter and his work (she was his first wife) it’s possibly not surprising that she seems so connected to the material. Although they didn’t divorce until the late seventies, their marriage (due to Pinter’s extra-marital affairs) had already begun to flounder by the time of Tea Party, which only serves to give her scenes a little extra frisson.
Jennifer Wright has the less rewarding female role, although it’s not totally without merit. Like all the people closest to Disson, it’s possible to take Diana’s actions at face value (she appears to be a totally supportive wife) or conversely to consider the possibility that some of Disson’s suspicions may be grounded in reality.
Charles Gray offers a typically rich performance as Willy. Gray’s penchant for playing sinister types ensures that he invests Willy with a pleasing duality. He’s perfectly charming on the surface, but there’s also the sense of hidden manipulative depths (although this could simply be a reading based on his wider career).
Disson has been complaining of eye trouble for some time. Wendy has attempted to ease his discomfort on several occasions by blindfolding him with a piece of chiffon. However it’s notable that he seems most emboldened to grope her when his eyes are covered. Are we to assume that Disson’s “illness” has been induced by his feelings for Wendy and that his jealousy of the close relationship shared by Diana and Willy is simply his way of covering his own conflicted feelings?
The final scene is an extraordinary one. Disson, now with his eyes firmly bandaged by Disley (a somewhat underused John Le Mesurier), has his clearest hallucinations yet. Ending the play in a vegative state, Disson’s unhappy journey therefore seems complete.
Contemporary critical reaction was generally very positive. Clifford Davis, writing in the Daily Mirror on the 26th of March, said that the story was “skilfully told, in a succession of short, penetrating scenes” and “provided a masterly study of one man’s obsession and final disintegration” concluding that “it was a play which was just right for its players and just right for television too”.
But if Davis found everything was explained to his satisfaction, then W.D.A. from the Liverpool Echo began his review by stating that since Pinter “conventialy declines to explain his plays, it is up to the poor critics to do the interpreting”.
The Stage declared that Tea Party was a work which enables you to “go on thinking and surmising, discovering further depths and weights of thought”. That’s certainly true. More than fifty years after its original broadcast, the play has lost none of its power to intrigue and discomfort.
This is an incredibly welcome release, as it brings together a very healthy chunk of Harold Pinter’s BBC output (none of which has been commercially available before). Indeed, Pinter’s television work on DVD has, until now, been rather sparse (a few isolated offerings from Network – the Armchair Theatre production of A Night Out and the Laurence Olivier Presents staging of The Collection – have been the highlights so far).
Disc One
Leo McKern in Tea Party
Tea Party (25th May 1966). 76 minutes
Tea Party was commissioned for a prestigious Eurovision project, entitled The Largest Theatre In The World, which saw the play performed in thirteen separate counties over the course of a single week (some took a subtitled version of the BBC original whilst others staged their own adaptation).
It’s a layered and uncompromising piece, with Leo McKern mesmerising as a self-made businessman who begins to lose his sense of reason (and also his sight). Has he been destabilised by inviting his brother-in-law Willy (Charles Gray) into his business or has his infatuation with his new secretary, Wendy (Vivien Merchant), pushed him over the edge? Do his two young sons from his first marriage really harbour evil intentions towards him or does his new wife, Diana (Jennifer Wright), possesses secrets of her own?
So there are plenty of questions, but as so often with Pinter the answers are less forthcoming. The final scene is extraordinary. Disson (McKern) – his eyes firmly bandaged – sits immobile in the middle of a party held in his honour. Although Disson plainly can’t see, we’re privy to his thoughts (he imagines a three way intimate exchange between his wife, brother-in-law and secretary) as he slowly regresses into a catatonic state.
All of the principals offer polished performances, with Merchant – Pinter’s first wife – especially eye-catching. Given the subject matter and the already rocky relationship she was enjoying with Pinter, it’s fascinating to ponder just what she made of the material. Tea Party is fluidly directed by Charles Jarrott and given that the cameras of this era were bulky and not terribly manoeuvrable, some of his shot choices are quite notable.
It’s a shame that the telerecording isn’t of the highest quality (a new 2K transfer was struck for this release, but given the issues with the original recording the benefit of this was probably minimal). A pity, but at least the worst of the print damage occurs early on.
The Basement (20th February 1967). 54 minutes
Harold Pinter contributed three plays to the Theatre 625 strand in 1967. For some reason the third of these plays appears on the first disc whilst the first two are featured on the second. That’s slightly odd, but since all three aren’t linked in any way it doesn’t matter which order they’re watched in.
We’re in absolutely classic Pinter territory here as Law (Derek Godfrey) discovers his cosy basement flat has been invaded by an old friend, Stott (Pinter) and Stott’s young and mainly silent girlfriend Jane (Kika Markham). Initially pleased to see Stott, Law is less enthused – at first – about Jane ….
The arrival of an outsider into a settled domestic setting is a dramatic device that Pinter would use time and again, but The Basement – the only one of his three Theatre 625 plays to be an original work – is notable since it plays with the artifice and techniques of television.
Even more so than Tea Party, the line between reality and fantasy becomes increasingly blurred as the play continues. Some scenes (such as when Law and Stott, both stripped to the waist, fight each other with broken bottles) seem obviously fantastical, but what of the others? Time certainly seems to move in a disjointed fashion (one moment it’s winter, the next summer) whilst the final scene posits the possibility that everything we’ve seen has been a fantasy.
Pinter is menacing and monosyllabic as Stott but not as monosyllabic as Markham’s Jane, who is passive throughout whilst Godfrey has most of the dialogue and seems to be the most decipherable character of the three. A tight three-hander, The Basement has aged well.
Special Feature
Writers in Conversation – Harold Pinter. A 1984 interview with Pinter, running for 47 minutes.
Disc Two
Hazel Hughes and Maurice Denham in A Slight Ache
A Slight Ache (6th February 1967). 58 minutes
Another three-handed play which also pivots on the arrival of an disruptive outsider, A Slight Ache boasts remarkable turns from both Maurice Denham and Hazel Hughes. Husband and wife – Edward and Flora – they seem reasonably content in their country cottage, but when they invite a nameless and mute matchseller (Gordon Richardson) into their home everything changes.
Denham’s fussy, pernickety Edward is slowly destroyed by the matchseller’s ominous silence whilst Flora finds that her long-dormant sexuality has been reignited by his presence. Some contemporary reviewers found this a little hard to swallow, but realism isn’t the chief component of this play. The matchseller simply serves as a catalyst for Edward and Flora to indulge in several powerful monologues.
Despite its radio origins, A Slight Ache has a much more of a theatrical feel than The Basement. Barry Newbery’s sets (especially the lush garden) are a highlight of the production.
A Night Out (13th February 1967). 60 minutes
It’s interesting to be able to compare and contrast this production of A Night Out to the 1960 Armchair Theatre presentation. Honours are pretty much even, with Tony Selby here proving to be equally effective as the repressed mummy’s boy as Tom Bell was back in 1960.
Anna Wing, as the mother in question, makes for an imposing harridan – although wisely she doesn’t overplay her domineering nature. Albert (Selby) is all she has left, but she ensures that her psychological games comprise honeyed words and pitiful entreaties rather than abuse.
Albert’s humiliation at an office party eventually leads him to a prostitute (Avril Elgar). That she, in her own way, is just as controlling as his own mother unleashes his ugly side. All the pent-up emotions he can’t express at home are unloaded on this poor unfortunate.
Well-cast throughout (John Castle and Peter Pratt catch the eye) A Night Out is the most straightforward of the three Pinter Theatre 625 productions, but is no less fascinating.
Disc Three
Henry Woolf in Monologue
Monologue (13th April 1973). 20 minutes
We’re now in colour for the fifth play in the Pinter set. At just twenty minutes it’s one of the shortest and only features a single actor – Henry Woolf, but it still packs plenty of content into its brief running time though. An unnamed man (Woolf) addresses an empty chair, which is standing in for his absent friend. Or does he believe that his friend is actually sitting there? Or is his friend simply a figment of his imagination?
As so often, several readings can be made, each one equally valid. The story which unfolds – male friendship disrupted by the arrival of a female – echoes back to the likes of The Basement and is skilfully delivered by Woolf. One of Pinter’s oldest friends (the pair enjoyed a relationship for more than fifty years) Woolf doesn’t really put a foot wrong (he later reprised this piece at the National in 2002).
This might be a Pinter in miniature, but is certainly deserving of attention. Something of a neglected piece (there’s no listing on IMDB for example) hopefully this DVD release will shine a little more light on it.
Old Times (22nd October 1975). 75 minutes
Old Times has a very theatrical feel. This form of television staging would eventually fall out of fashion – for some it was simply electronic theatre (a bad thing apparently). But it’s always been a style that I’ve enjoyed – when there’s no location filming or clever camera angles, the piece has to stand or fall on the quality of the writing and acting.
It’s another triangle story – married couple Deeley (Barry Foster) and Kate (Anna Cropper) find their status quo disturbed by the arrival of Kate’s old schoolfriend Anna (Mary Miller). With Kate remaining passive for most of the play she becomes an object that both Deeley and Anna seek to claim as their own.
Several theories have been propounded to explain the meaning of the play. When Anthony Hopkins tackled the role of Deeley in 1984 he asked Pinter for some pointers. The playwright’s advice? “I don’t know, just do it”.
Anna’s presence at the start of the play (standing at the back of the living room in darkness and immobile) is a early indictor that the production isn’t striving for realism. She shouldn’t be there – the dialogue between Deeley and Kate makes it clear she’s yet to arrive – so her presence ensures that a tone of oddness and disconnection is set. Foster and Cropper duel very effectively (a lengthy scene where Deeley and Anna discuss the best ways to dry a dripping wet Kate is just one highlight).
Puzzling in places (has everything we’ve witnessed simply been Deeley’s imaginings?) Old Timesis nevertheless so densely scripted as to make it a rewarding one to rewatch.
Landscape (4th February 1983). 45 minutes
Landscape is a two-hander shared between husband and wife Duff (Colin Blakely) and Beth (Dorothy Tutin). Both indulge in separate monologues which never connect to the other person’s conversation. Beth in fact never acknowledges Duff’s presence, although he does appear to know that she’s there (or at least that someone is).
The Lord Chamberlain’s office, back in 1967, found itself unimpressed with Landscape. “The nearer to Beckett, the more portentous Pinter gets. This is a long one-act play without any plot or development … a lot of useless information about the treatment of beer … And of course, there have to be the ornamental indecencies”.
A little harsh maybe. Landscape is plotless but leaves a lingering impression. The music, composed by Carl Davis and played by John Williams, helps with this.
Special Feature
Pinter’s People – four animated short films (each around five minutes) from 1969. A pity that a fifth – Last To Go – couldn’t be included for rights reasons, but the ones we do have are interesting little curios (Richard Briers, Kathleen Harrison, Vivien Merchant and Dandy Nichols provide the voices, so there’s no shortage of talent there).
Disc Four
Derek Newark in The Hothouse
The Hothouse (27th March 1982). 112 minutes.
Watching these plays in sequence, what’s especially striking about The Hothouse is just how funny it is. There have been moments of levity in some of the previous plays, but the farcical tone seen here is something quite different. Originally written in the late fifties and then shelved for twenty years, The Hothouse is set in a government rest home which, it’s strongly implied, uses any methods necessary to “cure” its unfortunate patients (who we can take to be political dissidents).
Although a dark undertone is always present (indeed, the play concludes with the offscreen deaths of all but one of the senior staff) there’s also a playful use of dialogue and even the odd slapstick moment. Derek Newark as Roote, the hopelessly out of his depth manager, steamrollers his way through scene after scene quite wonderfully.
A man constantly losing a running battle to keep his anger in check, Roote seems incapable of understanding even the simplest of things. Although he may not be quite as dense as he appears (his culpability in the death of one patient and the pregnancy of another is certainly open to interpretation).
With a strong supporting cast, The Hothouse was certainly the most surprising of the main features.
Mountain Language (11th December 1988). 21 minutes.
A one-act play which was first performed at the National Theatre in late 1988, it swiftly transferred to television just a few months later with Michael Gambon and Miranda Richardson reprising their stage roles. One of Pinter’s more political pieces, Gambon and Richardson (along with Julian Wadham and Eileen Atkins) all offer nuanced performances.
Gambdon and Wadham are soldiers, facing down a group of prisoners who include Richardson and Atkins. Language, so often key in Pinter’s works, is once again pushed to the forefront.
“Your language is forbidden. It is dead. No one is allowed to speak your language. Your language no longer exists. Any questions?”
Mountain Language is another prime example of the way Pinter could make an impact in a very short space of time.
Disc Five
Colin Blakely, Kenneth Cranham and Harold Pinter in The Birthday Party
The Birthday Party (21st June 1987). 107 minutes.
Written in 1957, when Pinter was touring in a production of Doctor In The House, The Birthday Party was Pinter’s first full length play. Revived thirty years later for this Theatre Night production, it’s plain that time hadn’t diminished its impact.
Kenneth Cranham is mesmerising as Stanley, a man haunted by vague ghosts from his past. Treated with stifling maternal love by his landlady Meg (Joan Plowright), the arrival of two mysterious strangers – Goldberg (Pinter) and McCann (Colin Blakely) – marks the beginning of a nightmarish twenty four hours. Also featuring Julie Walters and Robert Lang, The Birthday Party baffled many critics back in the late fifties – the reason why Goldberg and McCann have decided to target Stanley and the others is just one puzzle – but in retrospect it’s fascinating to see how key Pinter themes, such as the reliability of memory, were already firmly in place.
Special Features
Face To Face: Harold Pinter. Sir Jeremy Isaacs is the out of vision interviewer since – as per the style of all the programmes in this series – the camera remains firmly fixed on Pinter throughout. Some decent ground is covered across the forty minutes of this 1997 interview.
Harold Pinter: Guardian Interview. Audio only, 73 minutes. This is selectable as an additional audio track on The Birthday Party, even though it doesn’t directly refer to that play (or run for its whole length).
It might only be January, but this looks set to be one of the archive television releases of the year. Highly recommended.
Pinter at the BBC is released by the BFI on the 28th of January 2019.
Benjamin Kinthly (Charles Tingwell) has a dream. He plans to take over the country with the help of some addictively perfumed plastic flowers (which are given away free with his washing powder Cloud 7). Only one man – and his sometimes annoying female sidekick – stands in his way ….
This is rather more like it. Robert Banks Stewart’s script is ploughing a very definite Avengers furrow, but that’s a plus for me rather than a minus. And given that plastic flowers are key to the story (although these are beguiling rather than killers) I wonder if Robert Holmes happened to tune in? Holmes’ later Doctor Who story Terror of the Autons also had a key role for plastic flowers.
For once, Adam has to face a male protagonist, although a wily female – Shani Matherson (Adrienne Corri) – operates as his sidekick. Once again, it’s best not to study the plot in too much detail – Kinthly is convinced that his scented flowers have now contaminated the whole country. So when he suddenly withholds supply, the nation (by now nothing more than hopeless addicts) will agree to his every demand. Everybody in the country? That’s a bit difficult to swallow.
The Sweet Smell of Disaster works on one level as a sly satire of the advertising world. Kinthly’s buzztalk and the advert we see at the end (which Adam and Georgina watch on a television screen) are good examples of this. Mind you, given how addictive the flowers are, I’m not quite sure why Kinthly’s wasting his time with such an extensive advertising campaign.
The series’ low budget means that we’re denied the vision of the whole country in turmoil, so we have to rely on the sight of Georgina and Simms – both, unlike Adam, affected – to sell the notion that the flowers really are addictive. Of course once Georgina is cured then she can assist Adam (something which the long-suffering Adamant is less than delighted about). However, since this allows her to dress up as a flower girl in a rather brief costume I was quite content. Adam himself seems to be a quick learner about the ways of the 1960’s as her attire seems to pass him by. A couple of episodes ago he probably would have been horrified.
When the episode moves onto film it’s possible to guess that a set-piece scene is coming. Given all the detergent lying around, Adam’s decision to mix it with water and then stage a foamy fight with Kinthly was an inspired one. The foamy catfight between Georgina and Shani was quite eye-opening too ….
An assured effort, the series now seems to be finding its feet.
Adam (with Georgina tagging along of course) heads off to Tokyo to deal with an evil blackmailer who spells trouble for the British government ….
Oh dear. After two pretty entertaining episodes we hit something of a speed bump with the third. Terence Frisby’s other writing credits include a couple of (wiped) episodes of Public Eye but he’s easily best known for penning the play There’s A Girl In My Soup. His sole contribution to AAL! is a curious thing, although the major problem is one key casting decision.
Things start sprightly enough. Sir Ernest Hampton (Maurice Hedley) is an important government official who’s been unwise to find himself ensnared in a honey trap. But rather than do the decent thing and resign, he wants Adam to find the blackmailer and kill him! Another series might have made more of the notion of a Government sponsored killer, but the breezy comic-strip nature of AAL! means that it’s not something that’s dwelt on for more than a moment.
It seems odd for the blackmailer to be out in Tokyo and unlike Blackpool last time, we’re denied any scene-setting. I wouldn’t have expected the production team to jump on a plane to the East, but at least a few stock shots might have sold the illusion. As it is, we simply travel from one studio set to the next (most of the action taking place in a Geisha house) which just as easily could have been anywhere in the world.
Some comedy is extracted from Adam’s horror at being asked to consort with Geisha girls, although he quickly adjusts. He’s a fast learner that boy. There’s no room for Simms in this adventure (although possibly it was written before Death Has A Thousand Faces). There should really be no place for Georgina either, but she rather improbably manages to shoe-horn herself in. The moment when – dressed as a Geisha – she confronts Adam is rather nicely played though.
Given the dearth of ethnic actors in the UK during the sixties and seventies it was common to see British actors playing a variety of nationalities (blacking up as and when required). On the plus side, More Deadly Than The Sword does boast many ethnic supporting actors, it’s just a great pity that the major role of Madame Nagata was played by the very English Mary Webster.
Her cod Japanese accent becomes wearisome very quickly and it’s this one performance which really torpedoes the episode, although Barry Linehan as McLennon doesn’t help either. He was a familiar television face, but I have to confess that his performances often seemed a little off-key. Margaret Nolan (as Sadie) provides one bright spot. Probably best known for playing Dink in Goldfinger, she doesn’t have to do anything except play a dumb blonde, but she livens up proceedings for a few minutes.
Easily the least engaging of the surviving episodes, let’s hope that the next is somewhat better.
Archive Television Musings 