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RUDOLPH CARTIER

Oliver Wake on one of the most innovative directors to work in British television

Rudolph Cartier is best known as the producer/director of BBC television’s ground-breaking Quatermass thriller serials of the 1950s and of the powerful and controversial 1954 version of Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. His role in these production is often as far as any comment on his work gets, making him appear little more than the sidekick to writer/adapter Nigel Kneale, yet his television career was rather more extensive and pioneering.

Cartier was born in Vienna in 1904. He trained as an architect before studying drama under leading theatre director Max Reinhardt. Moving to Berlin, he joined the German film industry in 1929. There he scripted early sound films and began directing before fleeing Nazism in 1935, settling in Britain. Cartier maintained contact with international film industries, travelling to Europe regularly. During the war he was interned for a brief time as an ‘enemy alien’, but released on health grounds, and produced the anti-Nazi stage play Black Racket. In 1945 he storylined the feature film The Man From Morocco, inserting a distinct anti-fascist message beneath the complicated adventure/romance plot. The Times likened the film to a ‘British Casablanca’.

In 1952 Cartier had an interview with Michael Barry, the BBC’s head of television drama. Years later Cartier recalled telling him that their output was ‘terrible’, requiring ‘a new approach, a whole new spirit’. Barry was convinced and Cartier went to work for the BBC, initially as a freelance, then as a staff producer. He would remain with the BBC until his retirement in 1977, overseeing more than 100 productions, including plays, opera and popular series.

For his first production – which he directed as well as produced, as was standard at the BBC until the 1960s - Cartier chose to adapt the short German novel Unquiet Night by Albrecht Goes (known as Arrow to the Heart in its English translation). Goes’s largely autobiographical story is set in a small garrison town in the occupied Ukraine of 1943. The central character is an unnamed padre, called to attend the execution of Private Baranowski, a young army deserter. Through his eyes the absurdities and tragedies of the situation, and the war in general, are exposed. The padre discovers that Baranowski is not the only one under sentence of death, finding himself billeted with the heroic young Captain Brentano, who is due to be flown to Stalingrad the next morning, surely never to return. Cartier went to great lengths in the preparation of the play, going so far as to visit the author at his parish in the remote German village Gebersheim. The play was adapted by Cartier himself, with ‘additional dialogue’ provided by BBC staff-writer Nigel Kneale, thus beginning a legendary partnership. Arrow to the Heart proved a great success and was reproduced by Cartier four years later. The play was performed live on Sunday night and again on Thursday, as was the custom. Sadly neither performance was recorded for posterity. Considering his desire to produce much European literature and his interest in showing both the good and evil of the German people at war – as would become more apparent later in his career - a more appropriate first production for Cartier is hard to imagine. Two fantasy plays followed, then It is Midnight, Dr. Schweitzer, a fictionalised account of the eponymous missionary’s internment during World War One. Although the production clearly owes much to its origins in the theatre, there is evidence of Cartier’s growing directorial innovation, notably in his use of film inserts to expand the scope of the play beyond the main hospital set. The play was recorded and preserved, making it now the BBC’s earliest surviving complete television drama. 1953’s The Quatermass Experiment was a more contemporary subject. It was an innovative thriller serial telling the story of the first manned space flight and its consequences when the capsule returns containing some weird alien creature which has merged the three crewmen into one. Later the survivor absorbs a cactus and ends up an as an enormous writhing vegetable mass in Westminster Abbey. The serial was raised in parliament the following year, when the Television Bill was being debated, as an example of the BBC’s horrific programming.

By 1953 a BBC dramatisation of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four had been on the cards for a while, but the technical challenges it posed had kept it from fruition. After the success of The Quatermass Experiment, Kneale and Cartier were recognised as the men for the job. Kneale was allowed a year to prepare a script and Cartier was given resources unheard of for one television play. With Peter Cushing as Winston and Yvonne Mitchell as Julia, the two-hour dramas went out live in December 1954. Kneale’s script was excellent, reducing the events of the book where necessary but retaining its grim spirit. Cartier directed with precision and under his control the cast imbued many scenes with a raw, edge-of-the-seat power. The result was, and is, captivating. To say that the play caused uproar would be an understatement. BBC - and newspaper - switchboards were jammed by callers protesting at the torture scenes and sexual content. The drama was labelled a ‘horror comic’ in the tabloids and no less than four motions were tabled in Parliament - both for and against the BBC’s freedom in programming. The Corporation’s very independence was called into question, and staunch advocates of each position quickly appeared in newsprint. However, it was Orwell’s grim vision of ‘English Socialism’ that caused the most violent reaction, with the play vitriolically condemned in the pages of the socialist press. The Daily Worker called the drama ‘anti-human’, a ‘sick perversion’, and its appreciators ‘semi-literate’. In a piece entitled ‘Repentant? No, I am Proud!’, Cartier told the Daily Express that ‘it was right and wise to put this terrible vision before the largest possible audience. As a warning... against totalitarianism in all its forms such as Fascism, Nazism, Communism or McCarthyism.’ Meanwhile Cushing spoke of Nineteen Eighty-Four as a ‘campaigning against the possibility of gross abuse of power’ and Mitchell wrote that ‘all of us who took part in this TV play were convinced of its importance, were proud to take part in it.’ The tide started to turn in the play’s favour, and by the time the live repeat took place four days later, with added security at the studio as a result of death threats against Cartier, as many calls of praise as complaint were received. Less than six weeks later, Cartier and Kneale’s next collaboration was broadcast. Cushing starred again, this time as scientist John Rollason, in The Creature. The teleplay was inspired by the recent revival of interest in the mystery of the Abominable Snowman and offered an intelligent and thought provoking take on the story. Cartier’s unique skill at staging the impossible in the BBC’s cramped Lime Grove studios was fully stretched. For the scene of Rollason coming face-to-face with the yeti, Cartier had a diminutive actor dress in a duplicate of Cushing’s costume. Viewed from behind the actor, it seemed that the creature - really about six feet tall - towered several feet over the human. To add verisimilitude, Cartier had – against his superiors’ advice – taken Cushing and a film crew into the Alps to shoot location sequences to insert into the play.

Cartier kept up his reputation for daring and innovative productions throughout the 1950s, with many more plays and serials. When he wasn’t experimenting technically, he was forcing the limits of television drama in his choice of source materials. Cartier naturally favoured a lot of contemporary European literature and broadened the often parochial spectrum of BBC drama. He produced plays by the likes of Jean Anouilh, Carl Zuckmayer, Fritz Hochwalder and Ugo Betti.

Amongst all that came a new serial by Nigel Kneale, this time taking its inspiration from the rapid proliferation of top secret installations and escalating Cold War paranoia. Quatermass II, with its story of government conspiracy and clandestine alien colonisation, was more ambitious than its predecessor, and saw then state-of-the-art contributions from the BBC’s effects men. It is well remembered for the model sequences of the giant alien beastie slopping about in its pressure dome. Cartier made excellent use of an oil refinery for his location filming, creating a suitably eerie setting for the alien-controlled synthetic food plant. His sequences of the workers vs guards battle and Quatermass’s infiltration of the lower levels of the plant have a film noir-ish quality and a times suggest the expressionistic cinema of pre-war Germany.

Cartier’s love of opera also made him responsible for some of the earliest and most ambitious televised operas, an accomplishment which is often overlooked. 1956’s The Saint of Bleecker Street was a contemporary piece set in New York’s Italian quarter. Its story about a poor woman’s manifestation of stigma allegedly moved huge number of viewers to tears. Strauss’s Salome followed in 1957, embellished with all the practical tricks Cartier could muster. The production took the biggest set the BBC had ever used, and then Cartier twisted it by ninety degrees to get one awkward shot. It was no doubt this production which was in his peers’ minds when Cartier won that year’s Guild of Television Producers and Directors Award. He went further for his 1958’s opera version of A Tale of Two Cities, using two studios and an army of extras and animals to create the busy, deep perspective scenes that conventional wisdom claimed was beyond television’s scope. The following day’s Times called it an ‘undoubted success’, noting that the ‘large canvas’ piece must have ‘made an irresistible appeal to Mr. Rudolph Cartier, for he has turned again and again ... to works “foreign to the medium”; and last night his pertinacity was vindicated.’

1958 also saw the third outing for Professor Quatermass. Quatermass and the Pit is largely considered to be the definitive of the three serials and its mix of science and the occult in its story of alien involvement in the evolution of mankind has seen many imitators. It was also the most technically accomplished of all the serials, and had the BBC special effects unit create a Martian racial hive purge and go on to destroy half of London. Under Cartier’s direction, live studio scenes and sequences pre-filmed on duplicate sets were blended seamlessly.

This use of film is characteristic of Cartier’s expansive technique. Many directors disparaged the use of film, finding it intrusive. Others failed to appreciate its potential and used it merely to establish a setting or bridge scenes. Cartier however was a pioneer in the use of film, employing it both for highly effective exteriors and to seemingly extend the boundaries of the studios themselves. For Nineteen Eighty-Four, a few short film sequences effectively establish the ruined London setting and create an illusion of size for the interiors of the Ministry of Truth. In 1957 he had his leading actor filmed in New York for Councillor at Law and a decade later he returned to Berlin to film exteriors for Firebrand, a play about the burning of the Reichstag – an event he had witnessed as a journalist during his time in Germany.

One mistake many commentators make is to call Cartier’s style ‘cinematic’ – even if they do believe it to be complementary. In fact, Cartier’s work was television at its very best, exploiting the medium’s strengths and overcoming its weaknesses – it was essentially televisual. Whereas so much that is ‘cinematic’ proffers style over content, Cartier’s visual style always complemented the content, rather than dwarfing it. In the 1950s it was largely believed that television drama should aspire to intimacy – an enclosed environment with a few characters interacting close to the camera, to make the most of the primitive equipment and small screens. While Cartier regularly pushed at the boundaries of television staging, he did not eschew this style and regularly employed it skilfully. He used long- and wide-shots to establish setting and show off elaborate sets, but it was with the ‘intimate’ that he delivered his punches. In Nineteen Eighty-Four it is not the unfeasibly large Ministry of Truth or ruined exteriors which made such an impression on viewers, but the Room 101 torture scene – just two superb actors and a cage of rats on an almost bare set.

Cartier continued working into, and throughout, the 1960s, though relaxed rules on pre-recording and more advanced methods meant that his characteristic innovation was less often called for. Cartier found himself having to work on projects that interested him less, like popular serials Maigret and Z Cars, with the latter proving particularly at odds to his own style. Yet he still managed to turn out a number of interesting dramas, like Lee Oswald - Assassin, an epic 1966 drama documentary that recreated events leading up the assassination of President Kennedy. A number of his best 1960s dramas took a similar form, dramatising events of recent history, the most interesting of which were those centred on the second world war.

In another fanzine, Nick Cooper has written that Cartier ‘did much to rehabilitate the image of the Germanic people in the eyes of the British public... by confronting the crimes of the Third Reich - and the resistance to them’. Given his background it is understandable that Cartier would wish to do this and, whilst Cooper may be exaggerating their impact, his war dramas are fascinating. 1961’s Cross of Iron tackled the conflict between ordinary German officers and hard-line Nazis in a British POW camp, and the following year saw the expressionistic Dr Korczak and the Children, about the deportation of Jewish orphans to the gas chambers.

1963’s Stalingrad dramatised the horrors of the Eastern front and in The July Plot Cartier recreated the ‘Valkyrie’ conspiracy of German officers to kill Hitler. The holocaust again featured in 1965’s Joel Brand Story, which concerned Adolf Eichmann’s failed attempt to exchange a million Jews for British war supplies. Hitler appeared again in Cartier’s instalment of 1969’s These Men are Dangerous, which dramatised the early lives of tyrants.

By the early-70s, Cartier’s output had slowed to a trickle of mostly stage play adaptations. He stayed with the Corporation until 1977, ending up advising on import programming. He never worked for ITV, hating the idea of his programmes being interrupted by adverts. He had however made intermittent trips to Europe to produce television there. Cartier died in 1994, his passing being overshadowed by that of another television pioneer, Dennis Potter.

Rudolph Cartier came to television at a crucial moment in its development, he saw beyond the perceived restrictions of the time and recognised the untapped potential of the medium. In creating the ‘televisual’, he set a new standard for television. He reached into the homes of the nation and through the dramatic medium moved, shocked, scared, and entertained his audience. He believed totally in the power of television, and wielded it like a weapon.

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THE ADAM AND JOE THIS WAY UP ARTICLE

“It's Home-Made, Home-Made, No Ainsley Harriot or Carol Vorderman...”
Words: Tim Worthington

During the mid-1990s, television and radio were briefly awash with a whole host of what could be loosely termed 'home made' comedy shows. With their humour clearly rooted in the startling late 1980s Channel 4 and BBC Radio broadcasts of Victor Lewis-Smith, the practitioners of the genre targeted esoteric but recognisable popular cultural reference points, and made a virtue of their limited technological facilities and low production values. This gave rise to a distinctive strain of humour that struck a chord with anyone who had ever had to resort to making their own amusement out of the world around them, or who found that no matter how hard they might have tried, they just couldn't stop things that they weren't interested in from permeating their consciousness. Late at night on ITV, Bob Mills' long-running "In Bed With MeDinner" opened with a pastiche of the opening titles of "The Prisoner", and saw the presenter dispense thoughts from a studio 'bedsit' set on subjects as diverse as fast food delivery and the theme tune from the ITV religious documentary series "Credo". Over on Radio 1, two individuals calling themselves Kid Tempo and The Ginger Prince reappropriated every piece of kitsch retro iconography that they could find whilst playing at being 1960s-style pirate radio DJs on "Radio Tip Top". Even Victor Lewis-Smith himself returned for one last outing before retiring from comedy, mocking the cosy familiarity of clip shows by serving up an unpalatable blend of outdated station idents and technical captions, no-budget public access television, and rancid scrapings from the cutting room floor in the underrated "TV Offal". However, the best and indeed the most enduring of these was "The Adam And Joe Show".

Adam Buxton and Joe Cornish first met at school in the early 1980s, where they discovered a shared sense of humour and enthusiasm for making audio and video recordings of anything and everything that amused or interested them. By their mid-teens they had become very proficient and prolific indeed; whilst still at school they made some impressive attempts at producing 'proper' films with next to no budget, some of which starred their classmate and fellow future television star Louis Theroux, and after leaving school Joe went on to study film-making at college. Yet they were equally at home exploring their comic leanings in front of the camera, producing surreal vignettes of everyday mundanity and flippant parodies of popular culture more for their own amusement than anything else. Sometimes this even extended beyond what could be considered 'usable' material, and they would often spend their late nights making strange calls to radio phone-in shows in the company of their musician friend Zac Sandler.

By the early 1990s, Adam and Joe were already looking towards making a move into full-time professional work; in 1993, for example, Adam was one of thousands of hopefuls who applied to become the new presenter on Channel 4's legendary and notorious youth show "The Word", and his audition video ("hi - I'm Adam Buxton, but you can call me the future of TV!") stood out sufficiently to be briefly featured on the accompanying documentary "Wordsearch". Their eventual breakthrough, though, came through a more roundabout and fortuitous route. In 1994, Channel 4 had announced plans for a new interactive show called "Takeover TV". Inspired by the success of the station's earlier "Manhattan Cable", in which presenter Laurie Pike introduced highlights from the weird world of American public access television (although it was arguably also possibly inspired by "Soundbites", a David Baddiel/Armando Iannucci Radio 1 show from 1991 that sadly never got past pilot stage despite being utterly fantastic), the show was to take a similar approach by featuring home-made video material submitted by the British public, ranging from throwaway comedy to performance art. An appeal was put out for material for the forthcoming first series, and possibly not realising the effect that it would have on their career in the long term, the duo submitted a tape of Adam in the character of performance artist 'Randy Tartt' ("it's got some swearing in it").

Series producers Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato instantly spotted that there was more depth to Adam and Joe's tape than most of the material that they had been recieving, and after viewing some more of the duo's work they invited Adam to become the presenter of "Takeover TV". 'Presenting' in this instance meant linking short sketches about beatbox chaffinches and early short films by future Spaced director Edgar Wright with their long-established previously private brand of low-budget lunacy. With Joe helping out both behind and in front of the camera, the linking segments incorporated all manner of whimsy from the song and dance routine by the 'Jazz Queens', to parodies of popular television shows and feature films (sometimes performed with the aid of toys as props and 'performers'), Adam's obsessive fan character 'Louise' presenting his/her guides to public places and singing self-composed songs about sending hate mail to the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation, early appearances by the insufferable 'creative' Ken Korda, and hidden camera footage of excursions into the world at large. Although the series did throw up the occasional gem amongst the endless footage of people who clearly thought that they were a lot more talented and clever than they actually were, it is fair to say that Adam and Joe's material was on the whole infinitely superior to the external contributions that supposedly made up the core of Takeover TV, and while they would continue to present further intermittent series of it right through to 2001, it wasn't long until they got the chance to expand on their talent elsewhere.

Towards the end of 1995, Fenton Bailey had suggested that Adam and Joe should put together an entirely home-made half-hour pilot as an example of what they might do with their own show. Recorded mainly in Joe's real-life cassette-and-poster-cluttered bedroom, the resultant pilot Stuffe suffered from having a drastically visually unsuitable setting that looked distractingly cramped, and also from a lack of resources and budget (the early tryout of the 'Vinyl Justice' segment simply featured Adam as a guest, and didn't really work in the same way that the fully developed feature later would), but was strong and distinctive enough to warrant the green light being given for a second pilot. This was a drastic improvement, not least because of the fact that it was filmed on a specially constructed replica of the bedroom set which looked less condensed and allowed greater freedom of movement, and a full series of the now-renamed The Adam And Joe Show was commissioned for December 1996.

The various sketch items and pre-recorded inserts in the show were linked by Adam and Joe from the bedroom set (which, in a neat touch, they were shown 'building' in speeded-up motion in the opening titles), playing around with the various items of junk and cultural ephemera that they had collected over the years, and offering their advice on how to make compilation tapes and the best ways of fiddling with candle wax to relieve boredom during dull restaurant conversations. This culminated in the unforgettable sight of an uneasy-looking Adam rapidly devouring large quantities of Coca-Cola and Space Dust in an attempt to disprove the urban myth that a combination of the two substances could cause the consumer's head and/or stomach to explode. It didn't, of course, but to say he looked uncomfortable with the virulently fizzing mixture spilling un-controllably out of his mouth would be something of an understatement. Each edition featured an installment of 'Vinyl Justice', in which Adam and Joe descended on the house of a faded 1980s cult pop star such as Nick Heyward, Thomas Dolby and Gary Numan, or present day avant-garde indie musicians like Tim Gane of Stereolab, and rifled through their record collection in search of interesting, exotic or embarrassing anomolies. Most of their subjects were thankfully up for a bit of a laugh at themselves and their tastes, although for some reason the never-predictable Mark E. Smith wrestled the duo to the ground on their arrival.

Another regular feature of the earlier shows were a series of hidden camera stunts that may not have been quite as edgy as Chris Morris pestering increasingly irate drug dealers in search of non-existent narcotics, but certainly made a mockery of Dom Joly and his 'outrageous' scaring of pensioners. One of the best of these saw Joe casually stride through a local mini-mart whilst eating and drinking the promised '20% extra free' of various foodstuffs that he had no intention of paying for the rest of. Like most of their similar efforts, this was highly amusing (as much for the reaction of the staff and customers as for their own antics), but Adam and Joe were never entirely comfortable with the idea of upsetting innocent people in this way, and after an attempt to test the legal validity of signs saying "All Breakages Must Be Paid For" turned very nasty indeed (this was included on The Adam And Joe DVD and makes for very uncomfortable viewing), the stunts were largely phased out of later series.

The series introduced a number of their collaborators and associates in various supporting roles, notably Zac Sandler as both musician and performer, but the real star of the show was Adam's father Nigel Buxton. A successful travel writer and wine critic, he was recast in The Adam And Joe Show as 'BaaadDad', a distinguished elderly gentleman who cast a cynical eye over modern youth culture. Far from the pitiful 'laughing at uncool old people' gambit that has been relied on by far too many comedians courting a non-existent youth vote in recent years, the central conceit of BaaadDad actually turned this notion on its head, using the sort of intelligence and perceptiveness that can only come with age and experience to home in on everything that is superficial and banal about that which is considered to be modern and 'with it'. In the first series, BaaadDad mainly cast his eye over recent pop videos, despairing of the flashy shock tactics of The Prodigy's 'Firestarter' but sounding a far greater note of appreciation for The Spice Girls and their blend of catchy singalong melodies and visual appeal. In retrospect, he was probably right! The 'toy parodies' that had been experimented with in "Takeover TV" were expanded to a lengthy regular feature in their own right. These generally fell into one of two categories - lampoons of films and occasional TV shows using stuffed toys, and recreations of television chat shows and game shows with Star Wars figures. Although fondly regarded, the early examples of these pastiches show that the duo were still finding their feet during the earlier series, and that they occasionally found it difficult to strike the right balance. While the Trainspotting, This Life and You've Been Framed efforts are excellent, the parody of Showgirls is uneven, and while their much-needed slap in the face for the bafflingly overlauded cinematic drivel that was Kids is superb, it is also practically impenetrable to anyone who hasn't actually seen the film.

Although hidden away in a post-midnight Friday night slot, The Adam And Joe Show was a genuinely original show with plenty to offer its audience, and it quickly caught on through word of mouth recommendation. In fact, the show proved to be so popular that even before a second series had been confirmed, the duo were invited to record a pilot show for Radio 1. Presumably intended for the Wednesday night comedy slot that had recently been vacated by Radio Tip Top, the untransmitted pilot succeeded in transferring their approach to a sound-only medium, and amongst many highlights it included a sublime parody of automated cinema information phone lines. How any resultant series would have fared in the long term is debatable, given that Radio 1 were then in the process of phasing comedy out of their schedules for good, but the station were keen to pursue the idea further and it was only the commencement of work on their second television series that prevented a full run on Radio 1 from going ahead.

The second series of The Adam And Joe Show arrived in November 1997 in a Saturday night slot, and was a noticeable improvement on the occasionally slightly shaky tendencies of the first. The toy parodies were much better, written and 'performed' in a way that meant even those who had not seen the films or shows in question could get the joke straight away; the visually perfect lampoon of Friends being probably the best example of this, with the toy 'Rachel' looking even more like Jennifer Aniston than the real thing, and even coming complete with Adam and Joe's interpretation of the irritating fast food sponsor tags that preceded Channel 4's showings of the sitcom at that point. 'Louise' had been quietly retired, presumably to a special hospital after sending one menacing letter too many to Jonathan Frakes, but in his/her place Adam and Joe presenter their own guides to how to survive being incapacitated with a cold, having to phone in sick to work, and just going to gigs in general (the latter memorably ending with the unexplained sight of Saint Etienne's Sarah Cracknell angrily telling Adam to 'fuck off'). Stunts included attempts to pass themselves off as street artists, conducting dangerous experiments with microwave ovens, making an absolute mess of an unsuspecting homeowner's living room under the pretence of presenting a new TV 'makeover' show, and most brilliantly of all Adam actually literally trying - and succeeding - to arrange a piss-up in a brewery. Meanwhile, BaaadDad became a roving reporter investigating youth culture, including a stop off at various music festivals with some priceless observations on the drug and dance-music happy clientele, and Ken Korda presented a serialised documentary about the making of his own gritty Britflick crime thriller, "Speeding On The Needlebliss" (for which they employed the services of real unsuspecting drama students). Adam and Joe sent a tape of the resultant movie - a smeary, grimy mess filled with bad acting, cliched dialogue and risible 'trippy' effect sequences - to various distributors. Most sent back letters politely rejecting the project, but some were inexplicably enthusiastic about Korda's work, and an American 'adult film' company actually arranged a meeting with him to discuss the idea of future projects. The best moment of all, though, concerned their attempts to write a chartbound football anthem despite knowing nothing whatsoever about the game. The resultant song was crushingly disdainful about the banality of the game and its fans ("when I go and see Arsenal, I know that they can pass'n'all, when I go to see Villa, my view's obscured by a concrete pillar"), but still rousing enough to have potentially been adopted by the same sort of people who would miss the point of Fat Les' 'Vindaloo' the following year.

The second series was followed on New Year's Eve 1997 by the programme that they were born to make - Adam And Joe's Fourmative Years". Part of Channel 4's fifteenth birthday celebrations, the special saw Adam and Joe raid the station's archives for clips from "the best forgotten shows and the best forgotten shows" that had amused, entertained, confused, annoyed and titilated them in their teenage years, ranging from the gaudy surrealist children's puppet show Pob's Programme, the inevitable footage of Minipops and the unparalleled youth-presenting abilities of Bruiser DeCadanet and Felix Howard, to the simultaneously explicit and boring foreign language films shown in the short-lived 'Red Triangle' slot and the disturbing weirdness of the performance art video show "Ghosts In The Machine". The Vinyl Justice squad counted down their list of most wanted offenders from the channel's music shows (which included Bucks Fizz, George Michael and inevitably poor old Felix Howard), the hopelessness of contestants on The Crystal Maze was highlighted by a teriffic Star Wars recreation, Ken Korda waxed lyrical (and indeed drooled) over Anneka Rice in Treasure Hunt, Adam tried his hand at Star Test (and, as the accompanying clips showed, made less of a fool of himself than Wendy James, Terence Trent D'Arby and Matt and Luke Goss did), BaaadDad was on hand to give his opinions on the channel's insistence on dressing pornography up as something more profound, and most amusingly of all Adam's audition footage from The Word was simply dropped into the middle of a montage of extracts from the show without any sort of explanation. For a show that concerned itself solely with the output of a minority channel within a limited timeframe, Adam And Joe's Fourmative Years" was surprisingly engaging and accessible, and it is a shame that it has not been seen more often.

There was no new series of The Adam And Joe Show in 1998, but the duo were certainly not taking it easy. In addition to writing sketches for Graham Linehan and Arthur Mathews' hit-and-miss BBC2 sketch show Big Train and providing a short programme for the launch night of Channel 4's new cable service FilmFour, they also found time to make rock videos for Frank Black (featuring BaaadDad) and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci (featuring the toys). A video of highlights from the first two series was released, bolstered by the inclusion of some sketches from Takeover TV and the opportunity to send up the familiar space-wasting introductory announcements familiar from most commercially available tapes. There were also plans for 'The Footy Song' to be released as a single in a special 'World Cup Edition' in time to cash in on the attendant football fever, but unfortunately scheduling problems put paid to that idea. There was also a full series of "Vinyl Justice" made for VH1 in America and presented by two Americans, which perhaps predictably wasn't quite in the same league as the Adam and Joe originals. The year was seen out by another New Year's Eve special, "Adam And Joe's Toy Movie Special", which compiled the best moments of their animated parodies to date.

It is perhaps an indication of the status that Adam And Joe had achieved by this point that in early 1999 they appeared in the video for that year's Comic Relief single. Unfortunately this was Boyzone's insipid cover of 'When The Going Gets Tough (The Tough Get Going)', as Comic Relief had long since abandoned the idea of allowing comedians rather than 'proper' pop stars to make the official tie-in records, and many were of the opinion that Adam and Joe should actually have been entrusted with the task themselves. Their third series of The Adam And Joe Show began in April, now in a more accessible 23:00pm slot on Friday nights, and maintained the high standards of the previous run. The toy parodies were arguably the best yet, amongst them Saving Private Lion, Ally McSqueal and the wonderful Shakesbeare In Love ("Gwyneth spinneth!"), while the series also presented a handy survival guide for visiting specialist record shops, charted the street-entertaining fortunes of Adam as a robotic dancer and Joe as an annoying mime artist, and invited the public to view the gallery of stars in Dr. Spankle's Wax-O-Rama. Yet as if to prove their virtually unmatched understanding of the importance of small and trivial throwaway details in comedy, one of the absolute highlights of the entire series was a twenty second pastiche of a then-current Heinz advert backed by a Ladysmith Black Mambazo song and filled with unconnected images of cosy family life. Following on from the success of their attempts to write a football anthem for non-fans of the game, the series also saw the debut of a lilting calypso-tinged tribute to 'Bobby' De Niro ("he did some comedy in a film with Seany Penn, he’ll never, never, never try that again") and a rousing cockney knees-up performed by Adam as 'Bob Hoskins' that basically consisted of little more than the titles of films he had appeared in jumbled up with imaginary rhyming slang. From a retrospective point of view, the most startling feature of this series was Ken Korda's attempt to put together a manufactured pop group called 1471, with its awkward-looking members selected from open public auditions. With the aid of a convincing pastiche song ('Please Hold The Line'), 1471 were even coerced into performing a couple of tryout live shows in front of unsuspecting audiences. Given that this appeared some time before the feverish obsession with Popstars and the various reality/talent shows that have followed in its wake took hold, the fact that it sends up the entire notion of what would become the televised 'starmaking' process with such accuracy is little short of astonishing.

By 2000, Adam and Joe were keen to try something new, and wrote and recorded a pilot for a proposed new series entitled Adam And Joe's Television Show. Shot on a proper studio set with a full camera crew, this would have taken the form of a sketch show based around the television schedules of the day, linked by the duo from 'inside' the viewer's television set. Unfortunately, the end result fell some way short of expectation; although the set looked tremendous, the links felt sterile and far too distant from the viewer (the exact opposite of the problem with the original pilot, in fact), and the sketches did not hang together well, and the pilot was ultimately abandoned and left untransmitted. Evidence of their reaction to the finished pilot can be seen on The Adam And Joe DVD, in the form of camcorder footage of a clearly depressed Adam talking about its shortcomings whilst dejectedly trawling through the somewhat underwhelmed comments left by fans on their website. While rethinking their options, Adam and Joe accepted an offer to present a series for Channel 4 based around cult animation. Preceded in September 2000 by Adam And Joe's Wonky World Of Animation, an excellent show in the same vein as Adam And Joe's Fourmative Years in which they presented their own guide to various aspects of the phenomenon, Adam And Joe's American Animation Adventure followed in a late-night slot in November. As the title suggests, this saw the duo investigate the cult animation industry in the USA, and while it was not quite on the same level as The Adam And Joe Show and at times might well have proved impenetrable to anyone who did not have a strong interest in the genre, it was nonetheless an enjoyable show that strove to provide a humorous context in which to present animated works that might otherwise have alienated a great many viewers. The year also saw Adam briefly fill in for Danny Baker as presenter of BBC London Live's Saturday morning show (for which he was variously joined by Joe, BaaadDad and Louis Theroux), and both of them appearing as themselves in the underwhelming British film The Low Down (a movie of which, ironically, Ken Korda would have been inordinately proud) and as talking heads in a procession of television clip shows, notably Channel 4's regrettable 100 Greatest TV Moments From Hell. Strangely, these appearances did not capture them at their best, relying instead on uncharacteristically casual and lazy observations and generally failing to lift the mood of the cheap, nasty and sneering 'nostalgia' show in the way that they might reasonably have been expected to do, and Joe's likening of resurfacing childhood memories of Animal Kwackers to 'a repressed child abuse memory' came in for some flak. Although they were far from the worst offenders of this loathesome episode in television history, it stands as a blemish on an otherwise gleaming curriculum vitae. The fact that it used many of the same clips as Adam And Joe's Fourmative Years without a shred of the originality, wit, perception or affection of that show says it all about this miserable excuse for a television programme. On the other hand, they also made a memorable appearance on Channel 4's otherwise dull Jamie Theakston and Zoe Ball-presented lifestyle show The Priory, where their polite contempt for the whole setup can surely only have been exacerbated by the fact that the production team of The Priory insisted on showing them their own awful self-made toy movie parody of their own show. In response, Adam later recorded a 'director's commentary' of an episode of The Priory as Ken Korda, which sadly has yet to officially surface anywhere.

The fourth series of The Adam And Joe Show may have been a last resort after attempts at moving on to new ideas hadn't quite worked out, but perhaps as a result of their recent experiences it turned out to be the best yet by far. This time installed in a midweek slot, the new shows saw them expand their comic horizons within the familiar format, and the results were little short of outstanding. It was clear that the duo had approached the series with a renewed vigour and enthusiasm, and key to this was the arrival of 'People Place', a wonderful parody of the inanity, banality and forced jollity of daytime television. Sporting gaudy jumpsuits, presenters 'Nikki Boxx' and 'Lindsey Munk' wandered around such hives of social interaction as supermarkets, multiplex cinemas and motorway service stations, commenting enthusiastically on their surroundings and engaging bewildered employees and members of the public in directionless chit-chat. Most of the segments were simply improvised on location, which makes the comic strength of their spontaneous wit (for example, Adam's delighted "give it a whizz... and mugs there is!" when inspecting a revolving mug stand) all the more impressive. Another similarly welcome addition was The Urban Chaos Collective, a pair of thickly-accented kagoule-sporting 'comedy terrorists' who spent their every waking hour trying to use alleged 'humour' as a means of subverting the system. What was particularly interesting about these sketches was that they were essentially thinly-veiled swipes at the bafflingly-praised antics of many of their comic contemporaries, giving a long-overdue kicking to the childish and mean-spirited hidden camera tactics of Trigger Happy TV and The 11 O'Clock Show, and even going as far as to gently send-up Mark Thomas' habit of taking out his frustrations on lower-level staff at the institutions he investigates. The most arresting Urban Chaos Collective saw them take on Chris Morris' "jam" in a pitch-perfect parody (so effective, in fact, that Morris later included it on the "jam" DVD) that homed in mercilessly on the less successful aspects of the groundbreaking but flawed experimental sketch show. Adam and Joe had plenty to say about the emergent fad for 'dark' comedy in interviews at the time, not much of it complimentary, and in some regards it is a shame that the Urban Chaos Collective did not stick around long enough to offer their own interpretations of The Office, Bo Selecta and Monkey Dust.

Also worthy of note were the ridiculously complicated game show "Quizzlestick", Ken Korda's documentary slot "Omniken", a barbed sendup of DVD commentaries, and the outstanding 'The 1980s House'. A leftover from the shelved "Adam And Joe's Television Show", this was inspired by a rash of recent Channel 4 and BBC2 programmes that aimed to see how modern suburban families would have fared under historical living conditions, and saw one such family temporarily relocated into a house filled with Rubik's Cubes, Sinclair C5s, Video Nasties and ridiculous hairstyles, with only former Imagination vocalist Leee John to help them to become acclimatised to their surroundings. As a mockery both of unecessary and unrealistic 'reality' television dressed up as serious documentary and of idle nostalgia it scored highly, but it also allowed the duo to revel in their own amused and bemused memories of the decade. The toy movies were as strong as ever, and reached an all-time high with a fantastic recreation of BBC2's highbrow arts show Late Review, in which 'Tom Tortoise' and 'Tony Peanuts' waxed lyrical about extracts (in the form of further toy parodies) from such intellectually weighty television shows as "Loose Women" and "The Richard Blackwood Show". BaaadDad, who had acquired his own amusingly dramatic title sequence, went even further afield with his investigations of youth culture; perhaps in a nod to their old friend Louis Theroux's recent similar television project, one week Adam and Joe sent him to learn rapping tips from Coolio.

Following the fourth series, Adam and Joe parted company with Channel 4, with their last work for the station to date being voiceover duties for the predictably underwhelming clip show Shock Video late in 2001. The following year, however, Adam (who had already proved his straight comedy-acting credentials with a guest appearance in Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer's needless revival of Randall And Hopkirk (Deceased)) did appear as a failing singer-songwriter in The Last Chancers, a pilot directed by The Office co-writer Stephen Merchant which went out in the channel's generally woeful Comedy Lab slot. The Last Chancers was in some respects a difficult show, certainly nowhere near as bad as most of the other efforts that it shared Comedy Lab space with that year but still sufficiently in debt to Merchant's more famous creation to appear undistinguished and contain few actual jokes. Nonetheless, there was at least some potential in the pilot, confirmed by the fact that at the time of writing a full series of The Last Chancers is in production and scheduled to air on Channel 4 soon. Meanwhile Joe presented This Week Only for Channel 4, a short-lived topical discussion series that wasted the potential of its host by repeatedly booking pointless guests with little or nothing of interest or amusement to add.
Adam and Joe's next port of call as a double act was the now-defunct BBC digital channel BBC Choice, where they presented yet another archive-raiding extravaganza in the form of Adam And Joe's Glastonbury Experience, and handled some of the presentation duties for the 2002 Glastonbury Festival and the Fuji Rock Festival in Japan. The latter almost certainly paved the way for the eight-part Adam And Joe Go Tokyo, which followed in 2003 on BBC Choice's successor BBC3.
Instigated by fan of Adam and Joe and of Japan in general Jonathan Ross, this was something of a departure for the duo, as it was essentially a magazine show based around Japanese entertainment news and popular culture, but they brought the same sharply observed sense of humour to bear on proceedings as they had done for their earlier shows. As well as tasting bizarre foodstuffs, interviewing eccentrics ranging from actors and directors of bizarre superhero movies to a really rather odd 'fish expert', evaluating Japanese insults, and generally being bewildered by speed-eating contests and the strange leisure activities of businessmen, they also launched their own campaign to become 'Big In Japan', gatecrashing film premieres in the hope of getting their photos in the press and pushing themselves as potential popstars, movie stars and models. Unsurprisingly their campaign was ultimately unsuccessful, but they did manage to score dates with the glamourous models The Kano Sisters, so they didn't do too badly out of it! The shows also gave a welcome platform to some exciting Japanese bands that might otherwise have passed UK audiences by, including the inventive Hoover Over and the deranged hard rock act Guitar Wolf.
Since finishing Adam And Joe Go Tokyo, the duo have been hosting a Saturday afternoon show on London-based radio station XFM, which is reputedly very good indeed but it's not as if most of the rest of the country would know that. They also showed up towards the end of the 2003 Comic Relief night presenting Adam And Joe's Comedy Masterclass, another tremendous archive trawl that proved that their style of humour does not really sit too comfortably with live studio audiences, while Adam guest-starred in the The Fast Show sitcom spinoff Swiss Toni, Joe appeared as a regular contributor on the bizarre Vernon Kay gameshow Headjam, and both made separate appearances on Never Mind The Buzzcocks.
Quite what their next double act project will be is unclear at this stage, but 2004 saw the release of "The Adam And Joe DVD", which contained highlights from all four series of "The Adam And Joe Show" combined with a staggering amount of extra features and even some new material. Highlights included the documentary "The Story Of Adam And Joe", which traced their career from their early self-produced films to the present, taking in all manner of interesting diversions, previously unseen footage (including clips from all of their pilot shows and a genuinely unsettling montage of members of the public who were less than amused by their antics, from the notorious 'all breakages must be paid for' incident to a really quite frightening encounter with a threatening barman when Ken Korda was trying to familiarise himself with 'the language of the streets'); "Adam And Joe's World Of Sound", a random collection of audio-only items including the full versions of the various songs featured in the shows, clips from the unbroadcast Radio 1 pilot, some of Zac Sandler's crank phone calls to radio stations (which really are a lot better than might be expected), and most gloriously of all a recording of Ken Korda's call to David Geffen's office in search of a collaborative movie project; and Nigel Buxton's fond look back on his days as BaaadDad. Poignantly, one unlisted item hidden away at the end of the disc features The Urban Chaos Collective phoning Channel 4 in search of the name of a programme with "two men and t-shirts". After relentlessly using any angle in the description to plug current hot properties like "Bo Selecta" and "Dirty Sanchez", the person on the other end almost reluctantly concedes that it sounds like a programme called "The Adam And Joe Show" that "hasn't been on for a long time now", and states there are no plans for a commercial release. With a cry of "there is and I'm on it!" and an elaborate slamming down of the receiver, Adam and Joe have the last word on how much has changed for the worse since the days when a couple of bedroom-based amateurs armed with a sense of fun and a seemingly endless supply of great ideas could be given a chance on their own merits rather than being reshaped to meet a 'targeted audience demographic'.

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THE THIN LINE BETWEEN GOOD AND EVIL

`Carnivale` explores the nature of religion, superstition and myth
Words: Ross Eldritch

The creator of Carnivale, former Star Trek writer Ronald D.Moore is proud of the fact that his series looks like nothing else on television and it is also that very feature which explains why the series has so impressed those who have seen it. There is no easy way to enter this world nor is there any easy way to read the characters we find. The tone of the production is slow, deliberate and bleak with no effort to draw in the casual viewer at all.
The opening episode MiIfay suggests isolation and superstition will play a part; the bleak sequence with Ben outside the house seems to symbolise his plight and there are plenty of hints of a higher purpose. It is certainly a series that doesn’t try to make you feel relaxed and quips are left to one side for the most part. Set in 1934, the show follows two stories leading to speculation as to how they will eventually join though in the first series they are linked only by strange dreams.
Carnivale mixes up religion, superstition and myth and places them in the dustbowl of 1930s depression era America. The tent poles are chain gang escapee Ben Hawkins’ reluctance to exploit or even accept his mysterious healing powers – which even scare his dying mother in the first episode to the point where she refuses to let him touch her- and the priest Brother Justin’s zeal to try and help migrants whom the church ignores. While appearing to unfold slowly, the series actually covers a lot of ground in a few weeks, particularly in Justin’s strand. Yet what really makes it fascinating is the fact that neither of these characters are really explained. We experience their feelings now and again but their histories are left vague; Hawkins for example seems to have had a father with a connection to the carnival so its arrival just as he is trying to bury his mother in the opening episode is surely not coincidental. The unseen `management` of the troupe also deems Hawkins to be essential.
The themes are powerful and Carnivale is not afraid to bring out some disturbing scenarios such as the burning down of the migrant’s church or, in the powerful episode Babylon, the murder of Dora May. The latter sort of act is a gambit that always works with series where a character you expect is a regular is cut down early on but the unsettling nature of her demise raises all kind of darker elements in various characters. This is a pivotal episode as it exposes the underside of the carnival’s life and their rough justice and bring home how strong the direction is; we are encouraged to look at things voyeuristically, things that maybe you feel we shouldn’t be seeing on tv. As it’s an HBO series of course, there is considerable artistic freedom, which the series uses sparingly for maximum impact.
The viewer’s beliefs are challenged by the show on several occasions by the way the means may justify the ends – for example do we support the `carnival justice`, is Justin right to use bribery to get the migrant’s church set up and so on. A myriad of issues are brought up from the inherent racism of the town’s dislike of migrants to the questioning of authority that lies behind Samson and Jonesy’s arguments and each seems to grow naturally out of the story while exploring the repercussions of sin.
The religious motifs that crop up during Justin’s story are equally as strong in their own way, suggesting some basis for divine power; take the scene where coins start to pour out of a migrant woman’s mouth or the way Justin can seemingly affect the atmosphere around him. These are fantastic visual realisations of the sort of power a less educated population might belief a priest has and hark back to the way priests were the centre piece of the community. In piecing together Brother Justin’s story the writers have come up with a riveting character, arguably more interesting than the carnival itself at times. Their sharing of and appearing in each other’s dreams underlines that Hawkins and Justin are linked whilst the `management` that tells Samson where to travel to is probably in on the secret.
As the series progresses there’s a neat juxtaposition of the `management` that Samson purports to communicate with and the God that Justin cannot talk to. When Samson is later shut out, there’s another parallel.
The dream sequences themselves are surreal, like paintings slowly coming to life and raise all sorts of mysteries, particularly the world war one scenario which recurs in Pick A Number. The swirling quality seems to suggest events out of control.
If Justin has a purpose that seems to be foiled sending him off `into the wilderness`, then Hawkins is drifting without purpose and seemingly not in a hurry to find one. The scenes where Professor Lodz is trying to guide him are the best character moments in the carnival storyline; Black Blizzard in particular has some great sequences where Lodz attempts to tease Hawkins into accepting his help but is met with stoic refusal. Perhaps the writers have made Hawkins just a little to monosyllabic; it’s difficult to know what the character is thinking most of the time but it could be a deliberate ploy. One thing we do know is that he doesn’t want his `gift` yet when we see him healing and even it seems having power over the storm, his attitude is understandable. Perhaps the reason why he wants to find his relatives is to try to make some sense of it. As a fugitive it makes sense for him to be in the carnival; only in such a community of outsiders can he hide. They are quick to make use of his supposed powers despite some distrust and this shows how nobody can really be trusted.
The casting is one of the series’ strengths. Nick Stahl can convey world weary and wary with precision and you can feel all his angst and pain; a good thing given the Ben Hawkins’ relatively sparse lines. In the episode where he’s trying to stay awake, Stahl seems born to portray this kind of role. Clancy Brown puts over Justin’s fervor with power and determination; his performances are a revelation in a role that it would be very easy to overplay. As Samson, Michael Anderson manages to pull things together with confidence and just enough shifty looks to suggest a hidden agenda; when he delivers the ultimate carnival justice at the end of `Pick A Number` you can see the darker side of the character showing through. The female characters are less prominent though Clea Duvall is great in her conversations with the mother who just lies there. Perhaps he most shocking portrayal is that of the Professor who runs the gamut from reasonable discussion to blazing anger in seconds; Patrick Bauchau is brilliant throughout. Adrienne Barbie as Ruthis is the archetypal tart with a heart but she does it so well you can’t fail to like her; in fact it would be affair to say she’s he only really likeable character in it.
Visually the show has its own distinctive look and feel; the opening titles and quirky, stop/start music alone stand out, perfectly conveying the colourful characters and religious undertones. There are a lot of excellent sequences, notably the Black Blizzard scenes between Hawkins and Lodz, the post Dora May murder sense of desolation, the aftermath of the church fire, the dust and heat of the carnival and the disturbing asylum sequences.
Whenever matters threaten to become to melodramatic, there is always a wonderful human moment lurking; lines like “you wouldn’t begin to know how to leave me” which Ruthie tells Stumpy in The River that speaks volumes about their relationship and builds to the scene where he seems physically unable to drive off. This sort of thing ground the series beautifully.
There are a couple of meandering episodes but the final two certainly pull a lot of strands together and even provide a cliffhanger with the question of who survives the burning trailer. Ben’s dilemma is well written but maybe Professor Lodz isn’t dead; it would be a pity as he’s a strong character. We still don’t get to see the Management but that voice seems to conjure up enough mystery in its own. As for Justin, he snags the best line; “There is no demon in me – the demon is me.” Which is perhaps a suitable tagline for the whole series.
Ultimately, Carnivale is a show you will love or find the height of tedium, but if you do invest, the payback is well worth it.

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HAUNTED BY THE PAST

Ten yeas ago `Century Falls` proved to be a different kind of telefantasy serial.

Words: John Connors

A sea change has occurred with regard to children’s programming over the last few years which has seen the genre orientated towards the pre teen viewer based on research suggesting teenagers now watch adult programmes like soap operas and reality shows like `Pop Idol` and Big Brother`. This has had the unfortunate side effect of closing the final door on home-grown telefantasy. Following a series of high profile flops - `The Uninvited`, `Neverwhere`, `Invasion:Earth` , the revived `Randall and Hopkirk` and `Strange`, evening sci-fi has been left to American imports. However, for years after the cancellation of `Dr Who`, teatime series would attempt to keep the genre thriving and these serials were often more inventive than the shows targeted at adults. `Century Fall`, broadcast ten years ago, was one of the finest examples of this sun genre and also notable as Russell T Davies’ first major television work. Viewers of his later work such as `Queer As Folk and `Second Coming` may barely recognise the writer from their knowledge of his shouty and hectoring adult shows because `Century Falls` is full of restraint and poise, dark menace and brooding fear. It doesn’t shout at you, it whispers secrets in your ear.
For a concept, Davies dug up something that might have worked even better in a novel as the haunted villagers of a place called Century Falls hide their secrets and try to re-create Century (their collective consciousness) in the baby that Tess’ mother is carrying. It is macabre, oddball stuff that hints at true horrors tat could certainly never be shown at 5.10 in the afternoon but you get enough of a sense of it to give you chills. It helps that it all looks fabulous; the fire in the waterfall, the appearances of Century, the scenes where the events of something terrible that the villagers had done forty years earlier are conjured up and other scenes where powerfully realised. Tony Harding was responsible for the visual effects and chose simple symbolism and stylish angles rather than try to fill the screen with unrestrained mayhem and it works all the better for it.
Its production values are stylish but never overwrought and filming in a quiet, rain sodden English village allows director Colin Cant to capture the isolation of the place, something that’s key to the plot. The place seems eerie and unsettling and the initial episodes are filled with sweeping swathes of incidental music and enough clues to keep the viewers involved without giving everything away at once. One weakness is that when the explanation does come at once in a massive info dump when the Harkness sisters tell Tess lots of things, the last few episodes are robbed of some mystery. The direction does often impress; notably when Ben is threatening his father or that first glimpse of Josiah’s scarred fingers or the village hall gatherings. However, Cant is sometimes less certain of himself with the indoor filming and a couple of juicy visual points are thrown away shoddily when Julia is unveiled and the first appearance of Josiah Naissmith. The whole thing draws together in a conclusion that eschews the all smiles, happy ever after approach as Julia plunges into the water, symbolically cleansing the village yet also emphasising her wasted life.
The acting is up to quite high standard, even if it is occasionally apparent that some of the cast had no idea what was going on. Bernard Kay manages to keep a lid on any desire to overdo his melodramatic role, though the role of Julia is mis-cast. Tatiana Strauss doesn’t manage to convey the horror of a woman who has no soul, but is simple the village consciousness which is a terrific idea that doesn’t really stun you, as it should. On the other hand, Mary Winbush is excellent, particularly so inn the last two episodes as she brings across the extent of the hurt that has left a collective wound throughout the village. As Tess, Catherine Sanderson is also very good; watch her shocked looks when Tess’ mother insults her and also her gradual realisation as to what’s happening. Simon Fenton and Emma Jane Lavin play the Naismith twins with just the right amount of weirdness and we’re kept guessing for most of the serial whether they are evil or not.
It is a serial you need to keep your concentration on especially as some of the exposition had to be edited out due to time restrictions which can make matters confusing. The basic idea is that the waterfall holds the collective memory of the villagers, all of whom are psychic. On July 17 1953, they attempted to harness their combined powers to create a “psychic incarnation” that they called Century but it’s presence proved too powerful for them to control and the temple in which the ceremony took place burned down killing a lot of villagers and leaving others mentally scarred. A tragic side effect was that none of the women were able to have children. Julia is a manifestation of the villagers’ `inner self`, an embodiment of the dark temptations bubbling beneath the surface while Tess’ mother was a baby at the time of the disaster and was sent away for adoption. Naismith has brought her back so that Century can be reborn through her; mother and child would thus be linked forever. Ben and Carey are also psychic but being twins they balance each other’s powers (something Carey only realises at the end) while Julia is controlling events. Tess has some mental connections with the villagers but having lived outside the place she also has faith in the future, something that is absent in the other people of Century Falls who are prisoners of the past and try to keep “re-opening scars”. At the climax, Tess is thus able to break Century’s powers by concentrating on the future and a vision of her as yet unborn sister – the child Century is trying to return through – as a healthy normal girl. Perhaps the most important missing scene is the one, which shows us how Tess severs Century’s link; she holds Ben’s hand and thereby absorbs some of the waterfalls’ power that is within him. Clever stuff but because 35 minutes of footage was cut, this can only be fully gleaned thanks to Russell T Davies’ subsequent explanations I interviews at the time. Now if ever there was a candidate for dvd release, its this serial and it would be a perfect chance to see it intact as intended. Mind you, the one thing that was never meant to be revealed is just how and why the villagers set about their course of action in 1953.
Packed with tension, the serial could easily be interpreted as a post disaster allegory and there are certainly feelings of deep regret and pain that have not been washed way by the decades on display in the script and characters. We all have our own versions of `Century Falls` to get over and what Davies seems to be saying is that you need to move on and no wallow, not wash away what has happened. One thing that is worth regretting though is that they just don’t make series likes this any more and perhaps it’s about time they did.

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REIGNING STONES

Spooksome 70s village goings on with stone circles

Words: Adam Hope

From the start, `Children of the Stones` is drenched in cold pagan shadows which is ironic considering it was filmed in an obviously glorious summertime. Standing alongside `Sky` and the much later `Century Falls`, (and of course prime 70s `Dr Who`) this is TV made for kids with adults in mind which refuses to pander to teenage whim resting instead on storytelling and mystery. There is a tremendous sense of identity to the 7 episodes helped by the fact that most of the incidental music is choral and a bit mad but it has the effect of pulling you right into things (not to mention having to reach for the remote control to turn the volume down). The script is delightfully fulsome and packed with science based exposition that, thanks to the able cast, never sounds dull and is actually rather fascinatingly grounded stuff.
Visually, the series is impressive; the atmosphere conjured up by all the askew camera angles and manic chanting reels you in and the sequences where the villagers are all singing with their mouths permanently open and odd expressions of their faces is just bizarre; I bet they had fun filming it! Save for the rather awkward stop mid episode for ads, the pace rolls along seamlessly; there is barely a wasted moment to be seen and much of the early threat is symbolic or couched in visions that may or may not be real. Director Peter Graham Scott plays brilliantly with what technology was available at the time, utilising wipes and mixes while that soundtrack reaches a crescendo with each moment of impending doom. Yet for all the hints of ancient powers and dark ritual, much of the reasoning is logical and scientific. Worlds away even from the pseudo science of `Star Trek` or `Dr Who`, writers Jeremy Burnham and Trevor Ray have really done their research here and it’s almost a pity when one of those old fashioned computers appears near the end; it’s the only bit that seems fake.
The village of Maybury is a seemingly idyllic place albeit one steeped in history, much of it concerning the ancient stones that ring the village. When scientist Adam Brake and his son Matthew arrive for a three month stay they discover most of the villagers existing in a blissful state of apparent happiness which recent arrivals seem to soon succumb too. The mystery is heightened when both father and son receive electric shocks from the stones and Matthew begins to have visions of the future. The mystery seems to surround Hendricks, the local landowner who appears to have the village in his power.
It’s a great set up for a story and the resulting production lives up to it. The “happy day” mantra and the false joy is effective because it’s underplayed and it plays neatly into the countryside ritual we’ve all experienced wherein those folk seem stuck in a little world of their own. Hendrick’s raison d’etre; the elimination of sin, also raises issues of morality which, considering the intended juvenile audience, is a worthwhile excursion however straight laced it makes the character seem. Is Hendricks really just an exaggerated preacher come to cleanse the village? His tone is messianic at times and we’ve seen those believers’ eyes that Iain Cuthbertson does so well many times in real life. One senses a certain scorn from the writers towards country folk though; the maypole dancing tradition is used as a representation of people finally being absorbed into Maybury and it is tempting to think that messrs Burnham and Ray were getting their own back after a terrible visit to somewhere similar. To their credit though, they do explore every facet of the situation; probing at ideas and concepts – there’s a brilliant conversation in which Hendricks’ role is discussed – is he a magus or a god or what? A side trick maybe, but this attention to detail adds so much to a production already steeped in mystique and brimstone. Another aspect of its appeal may be that the script gives equal weight to both young and old characters. There is no talking down to the kids here, no “and don’t talk to that crazy Dai again” shoutiness from Adam, simply a gleeful exchange of clues as the mystery unravels.
Gareth Thomas excels then in such a milieu; Adam Brake is the archetypal ordinary man thrown into extraordinary circumstances and he convinces far more than he did just a year later in `Blake’s Seven`. Even the hints of a growing friendship and maybe more with museum curator are noticeable because of the way Thomas plays it coy and reticent when his scientific attitude is bold and curious. Matched against him, Iain Cuthbertson has enormous fun playing Hendricks with slippery guile; he is a loathsomely slick character and when you have a villain like this to kick against, it helps. Peter Demin is the real surprise though; sidestepping kid actors’ usual traps, he makes Matthew Brake a likeable, bubbling and, most important, intelligent teenager a long way from the cardboard acting of many of his mid 70s peers. A pity he never seemed to pursue his acting beyond this really. Freddie Jones has a meaty role too, as a seemingly gibbering tramp who is the only villager to have escaped the programming. A sequence where he seems to have been killed is a genuine shock to watch.
There are a few structural flaws though, the most glaring of which is whether a village of he size we see would really only have 50 odd inhabitants and then there is the unlikely coincidence of three single parents and their offspring all moving into Maybury so closely together. Also, enjoyable though the results are, it is stretching credibility to have a teenage boy discussing complex science and problem rationalisation with his scientist father on an equal level and occasionally one step ahead. Finally, at the climax, just how does Hendricks fail to notice that the usual large pillar of light and whooshing noise has failed to happen?
Nevertheless, `Children of the Stones` delivers on almost all fronts and is still saturated in atmosphere today; go get it now on video or dvd now and have a happy day...

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SEVEN THIRTY

It’s thirty years since `Blake’s Seven` was first shown. Paul Hope looks back on Terry Nation’s other famous creation.

Terry Nation has a lot to answer for. And I mean that in a good way; without him, `Dr Who` would never have become the hit it was and would probably have been cancelled sometime during 1964. Instead, thanks to Tel’s Daleks, the series became the phenomenon it now is. Years later, he had another good idea for a series set after an apocalyptic plague and `Survivors` was born. Then, along came `Blake’s Seven`. This was another good idea but twenty-five years later is somewhat diminished in stature. There are three schools of thought when it comes to the series. Loyal B7 fans see it as a powerful examination of the bonds between a group of not exactly perfect people fighting a corrupt regime. It could easily be an allegory for any one of a number of countries whose history features oppressive dictatorships and it opens the debate about the difference between freedom fighters and terrorists. B7 is filled with corrupting and corrupted individuals and there is a sense even amongst the `seven` themselves that they are partly out to get what they can for themselves. On the other hand, B7s reputation has suffered in a similar way to that of `Dr Who`; casual viewers tend not to recall the subtleties of the show’s scripts, preferring to remember vividly the crap sets, naff acting and the silly looking aliens. Over the past dozen years of so, a third group within fandom came to see the series as a triumph of high camp, filled with innuendo and, in Servalan, complete with it’s own camp icon.
Yet for quite a while, really until the arrival of `Star Trek – The Next Generation`, B7 was seen as the second most important sci-fi series in this country after `Dr Who` and was marketed as such. There was a `Blake’s Seven Monthly`, fanzines started to diversify from just DW or Trek to incorporate B7 material and while the show never quite reached the dizzy heights of the Monday morning playground debate in the same was as the Doctor had, it was a must-see fix for fans starved of the kind of daily telefantasy diet we enjoy today. It even had an active fandom, which still exists though in inevitably more modest dimensions.
Watching episodes now is frustrating at times. While there is a breezy flamboyance to the episodes, almost as if the designers just didn’t care what anything looked like, and a pace that never allows boredom to set in, the actual writing is lukewarm to start with and steadily drifts downhill whilst some of the acting is very poor. Yet, B7 has charm in bundles and can occasionally knock your socks off with a delicious snatch of dialogue or an act of surprising impact. Those sorts of moments though are too few and far between to sustain modern audiences. What is even more infuriating is how Nation’s original ideas are fragmented or mis-interpreted. There never really is any attempt to justify the evil of the Federation, whose aims are muddled; that they all dress in black and threaten people seems to be seen as enough and the writers increasingly rely on traitors and eccentric scientists to essay any glimpse into the Federation's raison e’etre. Even Servalan starts off as a scheming power crazed nutter and finishes up as the show’s version of The Master; there is no surprise in her re-appearances and gradually Jacqueline Pearce turns the character into a parody of how she starts out. The biggest conceptual error, in retrospect, is the Liberator. This all-powerful super-ship gives the heroes such an advantage at times that the tension is sucked out of some episodes and, of course, it’s an easy fix for the writers.
All this being said, B7 did attempt to introduce arc plotting long before we knew what it was and on a smaller scale could be seen as a proto `Babylon 5`. Its central characters were far from the sort of heroic stereotypes that `Star Wars` had foisted on us the year before B7 started. Instead, viewers welcomed a coward, a fraudster, a killer and a thief for company and what’s more we were jolted out of any sense of cosiness when one of the crew was killed. Seven was probably too many regulars though and it was to be the female characters who were sidelines; notice how the only strong female characters behaved like men. Nation did write the first series himself and his best cards are played; moving adventure, plot twists, odd science and a certain grimness particularly in the first episode, `The Way Back`, often cited as one of the `grittiest` telefantasy episodes of the time. Certainly it pulls few punches with Blake being set up on a false child molestation charge and being shipped out to the penal planet Cygnus Alpha. As the first season developed we saw him picking up his ragbag crew of petty criminals and there was an unusual amount of continuity and character development on display. The mix of regulars was interesting, at least early on and certainly on paper. Villa made an early impression as a coward interested only in self-preservation. Such people as him and also Avon seemed harder characters than you’d expect to find in such a series. Nation had clearly drawn inspiration from the Robin Hood legend and Gan was the most obvious example of this. The female characters were seemingly there for glamour; Cally had a promising start but soon deteriorated. There were also a couple of recurring enemies. The ruthless Travis who for some reason had a burnt eye patch and of course Servalan. Furry boas, shaved head and vampish in behaviour, she was meant to be evil but the longer the show went on, the sillier she seemed.
The show began strongly though it began to look as if the series had settled into a rut once recurring villains showed up. The grudges between Blake and Travis work surprisingly well thanks to Stephen Grief’s acting but things start to become repetitive late on in the first season. There are some very derivative pieces like `Mission To Destiny`, that old Agatha Christie idea again and also `Duel` with it’s familiar `humans being forced to fight for aliens’ entertainment` motif. The show was also unafraid to offer familiar locations; whilst sometimes making an effort to look alien and unusual (`The Web`), more often than not, the show is happy to shoot scenes in old gasworks or castles with little attempt to disguise where they are.
The second is regarded as the best of the four seasons, with an ongoing plot about the search for Star One and there is an early climax in `Pressure Point` in which Blake’s obsessions lead to the death of one of the regulars, Gan. An unexpected and shocking moment, this definitely was a school talking point the next day and jolts the show into new waters, especially as the following `Trial` sees Blake examining his own actions. The episode, written by Chris Boucher, also attempts to draw parallels between Blake and Travis suggesting that both are fighters for the cause they believe in. Blake’s subsequent self awareness and feeling that he must act in a way that future generations will judge to be right leads up to the last episode of the season in which he declares that they have to win to avoid making all the deaths there have been up till then meaningless ones. As if that were not good enough we witness the asides of two court observers, which exposes something of the true nature of the Federation. The season sees B7 stretch itself in other ways too; the much-lauded `Gambit`, written by `Dr Who` stalwart Robert Holmes is visually enhanced and beautifully played with classical over the top ness. Servalan is at her best too, blossoming into an upper class bitch of the highest order and wearing ever-sillier costumes. This is the only time the show tried to live up to it’s original promise and it could be argued that B7 might have been better finished here as a 26 episode saga.
High ratings and increased popularity stopped that and the third season proved to be a difficult starter especially as the cliffhanger at the end of `Star One ` seemed to have changed everything. The most noticeable thing is the lack of Blake himself. The Blake/Avon dynamic is actually much more interesting than the Avon/ Servalan one; previous to this point Avon has already tried to take control and proved himself to be rather ruthless even to apparent friends; he never really seemed to see himself as part of Blake’s group. In charge of them now, and with a particularly over acted feud with Servalan brewing, season 3 was the most left field of the quartet, occasionally wandering over the line towards being surreal. New characters Tarrant and Dayna had interesting backgrounds but were mis-cast with Steven Pacey in particular often attempting to out ham Paul Darrow. Conceptually, the series moved away from its roots; rather than being freedom fighters, the Liberator crew were now little more than `Star Trek` on a shoestring, getting involved in adventures as they wandered about. The writers inspired the level at which the production was played too, adding titillating innuendos and silly developments while the designers served up such horrors as the infamous insect in `Harvest Of Kairos`. When the series did reach higher, on the more literary SF minded likes of `City At The Edge Of The World`, the results were stronger and much more interesting to watch. `Children Of Auron` and `Rumours of Death` even manage to touch the levels of season 2. The underlying question of whether Avon is just going mad is suggested though never fully explored and the best thing about the third year is the spreading of the roles a little as some of the others get a bit more to do. It’s now well known that the fourth season was never really intended to be made until the BBC bosses decided at the last minute to go ahead with it, hence the there are more new faces and even a new ship; the decidedly shaky looking Scorpio. You can almost visualise the writers under a new producer scrabbling round to try and pull this season together even to the point of including Servalan who had clearly been killed in the season 3 finale `Terminal`. Visually, it’s clear even less money than usual is being spent and the sets on the Scorpio are unconvincing and tatty. It is a well-intentioned attempt to re-define the show but the plots are repetitive as each week yet another all powerful device shows up which Avon and co must find only for it to be destroyed in the last minute. The best conceived episodes are the ones that hark back to the characters such as `Sand` which is the only latter day attempt to treat Avon and Servalan’s relationship as anything other than pantomime, and `Orbit` ` in which Villa and Avon are trapped on a ship.
The final episode, `Blake` adds a shocker of such magnitude that it doesn’t really work; tacking a serious episode to such a frivolous season seems to smack of desperation. Blake is now a psychotic and paranoid individual (perhaps he’d been forced to watch his old pals’ adventures since he left!) and there is a misunderstanding in which Avon shoots him whereupon the rest of the crew are shot too. The final shot is of Avon smiling and raising his gun. It is an effective climax but the season doesn’t deserve it though it’s kept B7 fans debating for decades as to whether or not the crew are all killed at the end and if not what happened to them? Perhaps, fans say hopefully, they were all just stunned.
B7 is easily boiled down to its constituent parts and I think it would be fair to say that it isn’t a series that benefits from repeated viewing. Using bits of left over stuff from `Dr Who` (and I don’t just mean props and costumes) and shot in harsh studio lights or on locations that were clearly in the south of England means it can never stun visually notwithstanding the innovative Liberator set. Too often the show played to the lowest common denominator and preferred to camp it up and lark about rather than address itself towards greatness. It has enormous potential as an idea but save for a few episodes per season it is never realised. Yes, it is enjoyable and some of season 1 and most of season 2 are good but on the whole B7’s enduring popularity above some finer one off telefantasy serials is baffling.

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HEX APPEAL

New Brit fantasy show `Hex` is both absurd and wonderful.
Words: John Connors

If you can imagine a cross between Angel, Buffy, Hollyoaks, Dead Like Me, Randall and Hopkirk and a low budget British horror film, then you have the essential ingredients of Hex.
Implausible, slow at times and not exactly brimming with characters, the series would appear to be another in a line of poorly conceived homegrown fantasy of recent years. So, how come it’s so watchable?
At an isolated sixth form boarding college (is there really such a thing?) inhabited by students who don’t seem to do any proper work (and certainly not of a standard you might expect from 17year olds) and who mostly look well into their twenties our heroine is quiet Cassie. In common with many American high school films she is pretty but can’t get a boyfriend and, in an unlikely scene, finds an old vase that appears to contain strange powers. She begins to hallucinate and suffer dark visions of a girl hanging from a tree, violent occurrences and other low budget Hammeresque nightmares. She has also acquired a stalker, you know the sort - one of those casually dressed piercing eyes type of bloke that hangs around in the distance but isn’t there when you turn round again. He turns out to be a fallen angel called Azazeal, who is trying to unleash 400 (not 399 or 392 but, 400) demons but must do so in the most complicated way he can think of.
This seems to consist of murdering Cassie’s best friend, lippy lesbian Thelma, planting a worm in the ear of Cassie’s potential boyfriend Troy, which, after they’ve slept together turns her into Bad Cassie. Then, she sleeps with Azazeal himself, gets pregnant at a fast rate leaving her with the dilemma of whether to terminate the sprog or else those demons will get released. Throw in some nifty powers that come and go depending on the exigencies of the scene and a dose of teenage angst and you have a recipe for, at best, a mild diversion. It is patently absurd.
Yet there is something about the series that keeps people watching; it had over a million viewers when first shown on Sky a few months back and a growing internet following also helped yield the prize of a second 13 part series which will be shown this autumn.
The first thing to notice about Hex is how the style and approach seems to abruptly change. It starts off a straight forward horror piece and, give or take the odd flip comment, is mostly played seriously with some visual tricks to make the flashes from the past seem more scary than they are. Swift editing of the shocks contrasts with the leisurely pace of the main narrative in which it takes quite a while for anything much to happen or to find much to identify with in the characters. Then, once Cassie starts to change, an element of black comedy seaps in, largely thanks to Thelma’s ghostly sarcasm which is one of the strongest parts of the production to the point where Cassie thanking her for electrocuting her seems a perfectly natural thing to hear! The verbal interplay between Cassie and Thelma is a joy and this is where the Randall and Hopkirk similarities appear albeit with a modern spin.
Under pinning their relationship is the fact that Thelma is in love with Cassie and the fact that now they can never even touch adds a poignancy; both actors do tremendous work in conveying this; Jemima Roper gets to deliver some classic lines and never lets Thelma descend into a character we feel too sorry for; she remains feisty to a tee.
Christina Cole as Cassie has almost a dual role; her demure and uncertain normal Cassie is so convincing that it’s quite a shock when she becomes bad Cassie and she clearly takes delight in the transformation.
The rest of the cast don’t receive as much attention and in fact are missing from much of the final third, but there’s just about enough to make them interesting. Joseph Morgan’s Troy is a bit wet, though this is essential so he can play off Cassie’s transformation but all the viewers reckon she’ll end up with cheeky Leon, played with confidence by Jamie Davis. Gravitas is provided by the presence of Colin Salmon as the Principal (do we have Principals in the UK?).
Stylistically the show never loses its smooth touch and the undercurrents of sex layered throughout are established in the initial flashback; it’s a pity that is so poorly conceived cos the rest of it is done well. Seductive music and clever direction keeps matters constantly on the edge and the shower scene between Cassie and Leon after the truth or dare game is particularly steamy, perhaps because they’re still fully clothed; its certainly not difficult to have to re-watch this scene, purely for the review of course!
The horror visuals are equally well produced. Obviously restricted from a budgetary point of view, the use of fast cuts and a minimum of prosthetics is an advantage. Azazeal’s real form puts a new spin on an old trick and I especially liked the `funny eyes` they gave Cassie and Troy when they’re under the influence of evil. There is a brutality to the series too, notable Thelma’s death which is unexpected at such an early juncture
A second series would need to spread out the milieu a bit and perhaps try a little more realism in some matters and also give each of the supporting characters more to do. Somehow though, despite it’s silly bits and mix of influences, Hex has certainly got a lot of people under its spell.

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HOSPITAL CORNERS

Kingdom Hospital is much better than you think according to John Connors

One of the worst things for any artist must be a public reaction that borders on indifference and that’s what Kingdom Hospital received. Then again, it is a very odd series and there may well be some people so enraptured by the source inspiration – Lars Von Trier’s The Kingdom mini series – as to feel they were short changed. Stephen King does also seem to have been given more chances on tv and film than any writer ever in the face of flops and disappointments yet to write off this series would be to ignore a mysterious gem that becomes more fascinating as you absorb each episode. There are few series I watch were the temptation to fast forward a little or pop over to see what’s on other channels isn’t succumbed to sooner or later, yet Kingdom Hospital did not press me to do that. It seemed important to watch every bit of it.
On one level it’s a dark comedy about procedure, protocol and our paranoia of it. The Keepers for example are built up in early episodes as powerful and influential but they seem to achieve very little despite an absurd initiation ceremony. Then there’s Dr Jesse James (dontcha just love the names) sitting in his office extolling the virtues of Operation: Morning Air, a pointless initiative meaning nothing much at all which anyone who works for a large company will recognize with a knowing smile. Part PR, part inspirational it seems to consist largely of ignoring real problems while creating buttons and posters. It could be just me, but I had an uncanny feeling that if I were to suggest something like Operation: Morning Air at work there are people who would really think it was a good concept. On a different level the series seems to tilt at medical malpractice; the patient’s head going missing is a very silly rendering of this (though whoever thought of playing `Where’s Your Head At?` on the soundtrack as the headless corpse runs about haplessly deserves a medal!) but on a more direct level, Dr Stegman’s increasingly desperate attempts to hide his own incompetence that led to a girl suffering brain damage becomes more powerful as events move to climax. King seems to want it both ways though presenting Stegman as a deranged kind of doctor he is pushing the viewer towards wanting him to get his comeuppance and yet there is also a scene in which Dr Hook is seen to have an understanding that everyone makes mistakes in their job and even surgeons will, hence his miniature graveyard of mistakes. The rivalry between Stegman and Hook intrigues because the latter is the kind of manipulative character the former aspires to be. Stegman’s daily frustration and hassles (his car gradually comes to pieces over the course of the series!) will be recognizable to us all and do evoke some sympathy – he is just a man in over his head. It may be that some of the characters were too arch for alot of viewers; certainly on first sight they seem over familiar couples – the seemingly backward twins who know everything, the surgeons with ethical and personality clashes, the innocent lost little girl and the manipulative bad older boy and so on. Its only when they mix them all up that the sparks fly; just like one of those British mystery dramas, half the fun is watching all these powerful actors doing their stuff. Sometimes it is laid on with a trowel; why the idlers should take such exception to Stegman for example is never explained even though it is the springboard for his breakdown. Nevertheless it works despite the location never particularly seeming to be a real hospital; compared to the building outside, the corridors and pokey rooms bear little resemblance though that could be budget related.
The other threads that join up the diverse characters are part ghost story and part religious study. The latter is revealed in a surprising couple of episodes that appear to re-play the crucifiction and resurrection in a modern setting. A street preacher (whose initials inevitably are JC) is found crucified and the next three days follow a familiar religious pattern taking in miracle cures, bodies disappearing and so on. This may seem to be laying on a bit thick and its hard not to see them as fillers but the result makes for powerful viewing especially as the fervour of people’s response to what’s happening grows. Perhaps the sequence is there to show us the wafer thin divide between myth and religion? The clash of magic and science is also represented by the fact that by the finale we have a group of intelligent medical staff sorting the problem via a séance.
The series is a ghost story first and foremost though; while there are plenty of shocks to be had, it’s not really horror in any sense of the word and matters never really become truly frightening. King is riffing here on an old staple – the restlessness of spectres that hang about – but he makes a good go of it drawing from myth and religion in equal measure. There is a palpable sense of unease generated by the direction and script, which has been rather unfairly dismissed as boring by a lot of critics. There are some inventive concepts suggested
The cast get into their parts with relish; I’d love to have seen their faces when they first saw the scripts. Bruce Greenwood gives a tremendous performance as the increasingly deranged Stegman, all the more clever because you can never quite see him as evil; in fact wouldn’t you be angry if people kept messing about with your car, challenging your authority at work and so on? His exasperation is fun to watch; most of all his characters’ distaste for the hospital and the keepers. Ed Begley Jr is very funny too; he’s matured into an actor who can produce the eccentricities of a role like this. You could argue he isn’t even an essential character but it balances the more intense strands of the drama. Andrew McCarthy, last seen in lame late 80s comedies makes an effective Hook, pulling off a tricky role, Dr Hook has high ideals and standards, yet he also looks after himself and is practical where the hospital’s administration seems hidebound by procedure (hence the big MIR scan argument with Stegman). Of course there are similarities between the two it’s just that while Hook wants to cut corners for the sake of the patients, Stegman is out for himself. Greenwood and McCarthy’s scenes together are full of tension.
As Mrs Drew, Dianne Ladd seems at first hokey if well intentioned and I like the way she has to struggle to find things out; the actress giving those scenes where she’s connecting to other worldly happenings a far away intensity. She does get some of the silliest lines (swedeborgian space!) but delivers them all with utter conviction. There’s a whole babble of other staff, each of whom have their part to play, while Jack Coleman gives a solid everyman quality to Peter Rickman even if we don’t learn that much about him. Kett Turton as Paul shows his versatility; it’s a shame he doesn’t get more things to do really; in fact there is no real resolution or confrontation with Paul in the last episode
The setting is incongruous but works strikingly well; there’s a surreal contrast between the modern exterior and shadowy interior of the hospital which has an atmosphere reminiscent of those old 70s telefantasy programmes where they had to create a mood on a shoestring budget. Its simple but effective and when we see the old kingdom below and the use of lighting is excellent; proving you don’t always have to go for the most spectacular effects. The horror elements are safe enough for mainstream tv and I would argue they don’t need to be any stronger or they’d undermine the other parts of the script.
Being the most striking visual motif for the show, Anubis works particularly well despite being CGI; the sounds and walk are perfect (not that I know exactly how an anteater might move!).
Visually Kingdom Hospital veers towards the surreal style first pioneered on tv by Twin Peaks and now so familiar that we tend to forget how good it is. From the opening credits –which resemble a moody pop video- the series establishes a cool, casual motif which is only occasionally interrupted by frenetic bursts of action. Sometimes this does foster the impression that nobody is in any real danger, a feeling amplified by the flips between what seems real and what are visions or dreams. Yet there is a connection only slowly revealed between the two, though the series tries to keep explanations to an oblique minimum. Perhaps the idea that it’s a boring show was due to the opening episode being double length and scene setting; by the end you have no real idea what you’re watching and the pompous voiceover doesn’t help. I do find it difficult to believe that US audiences did not have the patience to stay with the show because in their view nothing was happening; post Twin Peaks slowburn dramas have been very successful. Also, these are great scenes; in particular the roadside post accident sequence and the first appearance of the anteater. Perhaps showing that this is what Peter was painting makes things seem more gimmicky than they are; had this been a last episode reveal it would have been more effective. I prefer to think of the pace of the series as like that of a novel, slowly unpeeling but if you watch each episode there is nothing boring about any of it, provided you buy into the whole thing. One thing that works especially well is Peter’s internal voice where he thinks he’s talking but isn’t. Throughout the series makes you interested in finding out more, just like Mrs Drew (the closest to a real narrator) you want to piece all of it together.
Perhaps the most surprising thing is that amidst the strangeness there is some genuinely realistic scenes - Peter’s wife’s confused reaction to the accident and the apologetic diagnosis that Hook provides, the inevitability of Lenny’s death, the awestruck belief of the Reverend Jimmy’s followers and most of all the image of a solitary little girl in such a sad situation. Most strikingly of all is a tiny scene where Stegman is hiding in the dark muttering “I used to hate myself. I like myself now.” Easily forgotten, this moment is the key to KH’s most rounded character and the reason why you’ re with him later on when it would be easy to say what a crazy he is. Juxtaposed against this are scenes of black comedy, some plain silliness and a dash of reflection.
Its not perfect of course; some of the explanations at the end don’t really add up, particularly how Anubis and Paul look the same, neither are we really told why Peter is so significant; surely Mary can have had other opportunities to have done all this earlier? Also, why could Anubis only save Mary? Unfortunately showing full length flashback scenes in the finale almost upsets the charged tension that has built up over the past couple of episodes and they are also the only sequences that are not very well staged. I know it sounds picky but there is clearly an opportunity for all the kids to escape; it’s just a poorly conceived scene.
The ending is perhaps inevitably a bit confused if only because the garbled explanation for swedeborgian space does not really explain where the fire extinguisher appears from. The finale offers a bizarre mixture of more conventional fare mixed up with complicated explanations and it doesn’t always blend seamlessly even if it does conjure up a suitably thrilling climax.
I suppose the series’ reputation will be tarnished by the flaws in the opening and closing episodes which is a great pity because in between there is much to admire in Kingdom Hospital. Atmospherics, mystery, shocks and ethical questions all line up in an absorbing mix helped by a top notch cast and some excellent set pieces. Perhaps one day it will be re-considered by viewers less eager to run and more interested in looking into things.

“Solid” Kingdom Hospital Facts

  • The scenes involving Peter’s accident mirror almost exactly what happened to Stephen King in 1999 when he was knocked down by a car on a country road. Some of the other material in the production also relates to this traumatic period. Another inspiration was Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective.
  • The whole 15 hour production has only one director; Craig R Baxley with each episode designed to replicate the chapter of a book.
  • Dianne Ladd is Laura Dern’s mother in real life.
  • Johnny B Goode, the elusive head of security, isn’t seen until the finale when he is played by none other than Stephen King himself.
  • Antubis is all CGI but they use an animatronic model to give the actors something to react against.
  • The locations of the hospital car park and the mission are in completely different places with footage having to be blended together to make them appear across the road from each other.
  • Kett Turton is on triple duty; playing Paul, the human version of Antubis and voicing the anteater throughout
  • The mini-series was a ratings disaster in the US, shedding seven eighths of its viewers over the course of the run. Despite the teaser ending suggesting a sequel it looks unlikely this will happen. Stephen King posted a bemused message concerning this poor reaction and said that he had submitted a second season plan to the studios.
  • Despite the low ratings, the series was nominated for two Emmy Awards, for visual effects and title sequence design.

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PATHFINDING…

The four children’s adventures, collectively known as the Pathfinders serials, which were produced by ABC during 1960-61 are an easily overlooked but interesting entry in the canon of television science fiction. The serials were Target Luna, Pathfinders in Space, to Mars and to Venus, all written by Malcolm Hulke and Eric Paice. ABC commissioned the pair to provide a science fiction serial, featuring children in lead roles, for the Sunday afternoon family viewing slot. The result was Target Luna, which was broadcast for six weeks from April 1960. The story concerned Professor Wedgwood (David Markham) who, having already put the first man into space, was preparing to put a man into orbit around the moon, from his rocket station on a remote Scottish island. Inevitably, the launch coincides with the Easter holidays and Wedgwood’s three children, Valerie (Sylvia Davies), Jimmy (Michael Hammond) and Geoffrey (a young Michael Craze) are back from their no-doubt expensive public school to witness the excitement. Also present are the rocket’s pilot, Flight Lieutenant Williams (William Ingram), and journalist Conway Henderson (Frank Finlay). The ensemble is completed by the obligatory children’s pet, Hamlet the hamster, playing himself. When Williams is suddenly taken ill, thirteen year old Jimmy secretly steps into his shoes as pilot for the rocket. Whilst Wedgwood’s team struggle to bring the rocket down safely, Jimmy contends with electrical storms, the freezing temperature of space, cosmic particle bombardment and the dangers of re-entry.

Drama Supervisor Sydney Newman had specified that the serial must not only be a good adventure story but should have an educational element, and not be too fantastical (hence the not-too-ambitious moon orbit plan, rather than dashing to far-off worlds). No opportunity was lost for the rocket station experts to answers the children’s scientific questions and Jimmy’s space perils are rooted in reality. The writers were also keen to show the world (then in the middle of the Cold War) uniting in the cause of space travel, with tracking stations on both sides of the East/West divide pitching in. The serial was broadcast live from ABC’s Birmingham studios. It was directed by Adrian Brown and used a few filmed inserts, for which the Essex coastline doubled for Buchan island. It appears not to have been recorded on transmission and is therefore lost for good. Target Luna, with its feet firmly on the ground, could perhaps be considered a prologue to the next three adventures, which share none of its cast and boldly send the whole Wedgwood clan into space.

Pathfinders in Space appeared five months after Target Luna had concluded and was handled by regular ABC director Guy Verney. This time Professor Wedgwood was portrayed by Peter Williams, Geoff by Stuart Guidotti, Valerie by Gillian Ferguson, and Jimmy by Richard Dean. Henderson also returned, in an expanded part, now played by Gerald Flood, and the cast swelled with the additions of Harold Goldblatt as Dr O’Connell and Pamela Barney as Professor Meadows. O’Connell was the party’s maths and geology boffin, while Meadows was a leading expert on the moon, a useful mouthpiece for all that Hulke and Paice wanted to teach the audience about the Luna surface. For this adventure, Wedgewood plans to land his MR2 rocket on the moon, with the MR3 supply rocket to follow on automatic pilot. But whilst the first launch goes to plan, the second does not and it falls to the children – again, the launch conveniently coinciding with school holidays – plus Henderson to take the second rocket up themselves. Both rockets make it to the moon but land 150 miles apart, necessitating a hazardous trek for Wedgewood’s crew to the MR3. Meanwhile, the children’s party leave the MR3 and discover a humanoid statue and then the calcified remains of a body in an underground cave system. The ancient caves are sealed with doors displaying, somewhat bizarrely, the ABC logo. There they also discover a spaceship, pronounced by O’Connell to be 400 million years old (shades of Quatermass and the Pit?). Whilst the MR2 crew journey to meet the MR3, their rocket is destroyed in a meteor storm. The surviving rocket cannot accommodate both parties for the return journey, but tragedy is averted hen Wedgewood hot-wires the alien vessel for the jaunt back to Earth.

The production was more ambitious than its predecessor, with Guy Verney filming many special effects in advance, mainly rockets taking-off and landing. The space-suits worn by the cast caused problems for the first episode’s live transmission; once the converted crash-helmet headpieces had been donned, the actors became inaudible. The improvised solution was to remove the visor and replace them with two crossed wires, suggesting the presence of a visor. The serial was broadcast from September 1960 as part of ITV’s ‘Family Hour’ slot. Although the episodes had a nominal length of thirty minutes, it appears the final instalment was only to divert its audience for thirteen minutes. The reason for this remains unknown; perhaps production problems meant that sections of the script had to be dropped at the last minute, or perhaps it was always meant to be that short. The serial’s live transmissions were all telerecorded and subsequently shown abroad. These recordings still exist.

Less than two months later a sequel adventure was on the air. Suffering from the broken arm inflicted in the last serial, Wedgwood made final last appearance in the opening instalment of Pathfinders to Mars, handing his new MR4 rocket over to Henderson. Gerald Flood and Pamela Barney returned for the series, as did Stuart Guidotti, although the other children were dropped. One new youngster, Conway’s niece Margaret, was introduced, played by Hester Cameron. Hamlet also returned, the exacting role now tackled by a guinea pig. This strange regeneration appears to have gone unnoticed by his fellow space explorers. This time, extra drama was created by the presence amongst the crew of an apparently hostile element. George Coulouris played Harcourt Brown, a science fiction writer fanatical about finding life beyond Earth. He is ruthless in his aim and waylays the new Australian crewman Professor Hawkins on his way to Buchan island, impersonating him to get on board the rocket. The MR4 launches successfully but, whilst on route to the moon, Brown sabotages the radio and takes Margaret hostage. He steers the rocket towards Mars but is out-manoeuvred by Henderson, who forces his capitulation. Landing on Mars, the adults of the crew set out for the ice cap to replenish their water supplies for the return journey. But not until they have taught the kids a little more cosmic science, naturally. The party is hit by a sandstorm and Brown sneaks back to the rocket, telling the youngsters that the others have fallen down a ravine (the rotter) and leading them off in a search for Martian life. Meanwhile Henderson and Meadows are attacked by Martian lichens. Both parties eventually meet up, traverse a perilous narrow ledge and dice with quicksand. Brown reaches the rocket first and, with Mars and Earth at their closest, prepares to take off without the others. A lichen saves the day, tackling Brown in search of his water content. Henderson and co retake the rocket but, having missed their launch window, find the MR4 too short of fuel to reach Earth. The crew are able to use the sun’s gravitational pull to give the rocket the momentum it needs to complete its journey, although this sees them suffer radiation sickness. Benefiting from the passing shadow of Mercury, Henderson recovers enough to switch the rocket over to remote control from Buchan island.

The serial this time was pre-recorded, being videotaped a few days before transmission at ABC’s Teddington studios. The recording was made ‘as live’ in two sections, to be divided by the commercial break on broadcast, and as such many line fluffs and minor technical problems remained in the finished episodes. Guy Verney directed again.

Less than two months later the pathfinders were at it again. This time it wasn’t simply a mission of exploration, but a rescue. Returning from Mars, the MR4 receives an SOS message from American astronaut Captain Wilson (Graydon Gould). Close to Venus, his craft has been struck by a meteor and he is losing air. Brown, desperate to visit a Venusian city he believes to exist, fakes a message stating that Wilson has crashed, and the MR4 lands on Venus in search of him. The surface of the planet – in a break from earlier attempts at scientific realism – is portrayed as verdant. A lush jungle with dry-ice mist is ambitiously staged in the studio, though it proves too small to comfortably accommodate all the locations demanded by the script. Wilson’s capsule lands shortly after the MR4. By the time Geoff and Margaret reach it, it has been ransacked, and Wilson is missing. Meanwhile the rest of the crew are disappearing one by one, kidnapped by the ape-like natives who had taken Wilson. There is also a tribe of Cro-Magnon people on Venus, who prove a little more affable, with a young girl befriending the expedition - and being nicknamed ‘Kiki’ for her troubles. Separated from the rocket by the eruption of a volcano, the crew must trek the long way around to safety. On the journey they meet impressive stop-motion dinosaurs thanks to excerpts from a little-known Czech fantasy film. Well, they weren’t going to make their own dinosaurs, were they? Learning that the Americans plan on colonising Venus and exploiting its mineral resources, Brown radios Earth to say that the rest of the crew are dead. He then attempts to destroy the rocket, knowing that their reported inability to survive the apparently inhospitable planet will deter the colonisation scheme. The cosmic hippy is ultimately thwarted by Henderson, presumably allowing the Americans to help themselves to Venusian uranium. When a Russian vessel arrives to top-up the MR4’s depleted fuel supply for the return journey (more of the writers international co-operation, but would the Reds get their share of Venus’s uranium deposits?) Brown decides to stay behind with new pal Kiki and search for more intelligent life elsewhere on the planet.

The new serial was eight episodes long and Verney was supplemented by Reginald Collin, the latter directing two instalments. The writers – now working with ‘Script Associate’ Ivan Roe – had done plenty of reading-up on science for the serial, but conveniently forgot it all when it came to populating Venus. Whether this was the intervention of Roe, perhaps in pursuit of a more exciting story than previously, is not known. As with Pathfinders in Space, both Pathfinders to Mars and Venus were telerecorded and preserved in the archives, however somewhere along the line the first episode of Venus has gone missing, although its soundtrack does exist.

There were no further Pathfinders adventures, but the formula, and the key cast, weren’t off the screens for long. Flood and Guidotti returned in ABC’s 1961 six part serial Plateau of Fear, playing, respectively, journalist Mark Bannerman and his pintsized sidekick Peter Blake. Guy Verney produced while Malcolm Hulke was again on the writing team, though Eric Paice had been replaced by Stuart Fellows and Sutherland Ross. The story involved strange goings on at a nuclear power plant high in the Andes. The Bannerman/Blake duo returned in two sequel stories, 1962’s City Beneath the Sea and 1963’s Secret Beneath the Sea. Both wet adventures were again produced by Verney, though John Lucarotti wrote the pair single-handed.

The Pathfinders format was to be even longer lived. On joining the BBC, Sydney Newman decided that a family science fiction serial was needed for Saturday evenings. In creating Doctor Who he drew on the successful aspects of the Pathfinders serials – taking the cliff-hanger serial formula with the same alignment of lead characters from the later adventures. In place of Hendrson and Meadows were Ian and Barbara, the former of both pairs handling the action and the latter on hand for the audience’s education. Just as a there is a vague romance between Henderson and Meadows, so Ian and Barbara’s relationship is forever on the verge of being more than just friends and travelling companions. In place of the youngsters Geoff and Margaret, Doctor Who has Susan, able to get in trouble enough for two. Dr Who himself was a version of Harcourt Brown, an older character who is initially a sinister and untrustworthy figure (e.g. his kidnapping of Ian and Barbara and his sabotaging of the Tardis for his own ends on Skaro), although this element was quickly toned down. Pathfinders writer Malcolm Hulke would also go on to write some of Doctor Who’s most impressive scripts, as would John Lucarotti, who had written the two …Beneath the Sea pseudo-sequels.

Ultimately, the Pathfinders adventures were not the best or most innovative of television serials. The BBC had produced the earliest children’s science fiction serials years previously and the Pathfinders’ technical quality was not television’s finest. The serials were however the first to inject some real science into children’s fantasy and make an attempt at something approaching realism in the space travel sequences, in the earlier serials at least. It is perhaps ironic that these serials were produced by commercial television, rather than the BBC with its remit to ‘inform’ and ‘educate’ as well as to entertain. The Corporation’s previous attempts at children’s science fiction, such as The Lost Planet, may have been the first of their kind but were also notoriously juvenile. Whereas the Pathfinders serials also have their juvenile moments, they were tempered by the scientific element some squared jawed derring-do on the part of the adult cast.

The Pathfinders adventures were also very middle-class, as one would expect for the period, and utterly British. Other nationalities appear of course, but the American is for rescuing and the others are token appearances. It is, naturally, a British boffin’s privately funded enterprise that puts the first people on the Moon and Mars and this home-made ethos runs throughout the series. In a way, the serials were a cross between the trashy space-opera film serials of the 1930s and the Boy Scouts’ Handbook. From the former, they took their form, from the latter their wholesome, very British, practicality. If Flash Gordon took a ray gun into space with him, you can bet the Pathfinders crew packed a penknife and sensible shoes. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

With apologies to Sir Pixley

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DIAMOND LIFE

Words – Tim Worthington

In this world of multi-channel round-the-clock broadcasting, there is no sense of what life used to be like when television simply wasn't there. The instant availability of endless imported American teen sitcoms, small-hours repeats of daytime game shows, films that were too useless even to make it into rental video and Vernon Kay gangling about like an oversized marionette with loose strings make it easy to forget that, not so long ago, there was much less television in the day than we are used to now. Overnight television, breakfast television and a full daytime television service were all little more than the stuff of madmen's dreams, their potential existence only hinted at by occasional rumours that such outlandish feats of olympian broadcasting were commonplace in America, and by whimsical reports at the end of "John Craven's Newsround" which vaguely and unconvincingly concluded that 'experts' claimed that twenty four hour broadcasting could be with us "within four years". Even when they were introduced, it was gradual and in tentative stages (although it seems to have been largely forgotten now, the BBC's launch of a permanent Breakfast service was preceded by several dry runs covering such events as the Commonwealth Games in Brisbane and efforts to raise Henry VIII's ship The Mary Rose from the sea bed), and generally accompanied by huge fanfares of superlative-strewn publicity that seem quite at odds with the manner in which they are now taken for granted.

Back in those primitive times, there were huge portions of the day that were effectively television-free zones. When the listings (which in those days still necessitated the purchase of both the "Radio Times" and the "TV Times" if you wanted to know what was on all terrestrial channels in advance) signified a 'closedown', there was literally no proper scheduled programming to fill the gap. The continuity announcer bade viewers farewell with a simple continuity announcement ("well, we at BBC2 leave you here, and we'll see you again at...", whether delivered over revolving globe, ITV regional ident or shot of crowd at a sporting event, and it was up to the viewer to find more constructive ways of filling their time. As annoying as the chorus of whining brats (or indeed the Janis Joplin-soundalike who took over vocal duties for a while) who sang "why don't you just switch off your television set and go out and do something less boring instead?" may have been, when faced with the prospect of little more than a blank screen and deafening silence there really was no arguing with the stage school bores.
Except that the blank screen was really only part of the story. Those who were daring enough to venture beyond the supposed point of no televisual return discovered a weird and wonderful (with the emphasis on 'weird') world of programming that lay beyond the boundaries and rules of 'real' scheduling. There was a strange, intangible feeling that anyone who watched such transmissions was being allowed exclusive access to a whole new sphere of entertainment far in advance of the comprehensive capabilities of those people who never could be bothered to read those strange small print entries on the average "Radio Times" page; for want of a better word, a sort of 'secret television'. Get up early enough in the morning and you could see the Open University broadcasts, crammed with antiquated-looking programmes made on cheap-looking geometrically themed sets, from which 1970s-attired presenters such as the brilliantly named Stuart Freake tried to work out the precise mathematical point at which a rolling pencil left a steep incline, and linked by a weirdly fascistic animated logo and an overpowering imperial trumpet fanfare cued in at tremendous volume (which would always start after aeons of silence and when you least expected it). The gaps in the daytime schedules were largely filled by marathon broadcasts of the Test Card, which came in two distinct varieties. The BBC's involved a perpetual motionless game of noughts and crosses between a girl with a disturbing Mona Lisa-like enigmatic smile and a gaudy collection of clashing primary colours that made up a sinister-looking clown, backed by specially recorded 'light orchestral' pieces that fans (and believe it or not, there were apparently a great many of them) took great delight in taping off air, randomly punctuated by a three-note 'BBC' signature and disorientating blasts of tone. ITV's frankly summed up everything that was lowbrow about the uncouth commercial rival, involving little more than a series of vertical bars of differing colour and accompanied by those dreaded 'commercially available' records. For those that were game enough to sit through an entire Test Card session in the early days of colour broadcasting, there were the legendary Trade Test Transmissions, short films that toured scientific exhibitions and sites of natural wonder or featured narratives about the construction of home-made cars, backed by tracks taken from library music albums with names like "Ron Grainer's Harpsichord Happy". In the half hour or so leading up to the resumption of transmission in the late afternoon, BBC viewers were treated to a selection of 'Pages From Ceefax', blurry extracts from the day's textual service which always seemed to be accompanied by a low-budget reworking of Cat Stevens' 'Remember The Days Of The Old Nationwide Theme' (sorry, 'Old School Yard'). Even in the middle of the night, when the announcer had said goodnight, the National Anthem had done its bit and the Test Card had long since faded into a blank screen (an event that inspired Jimi Hendrix to sing about the jacks being in their boxes and the clowns having all gone to bed in 'And The Wind Cries Mary'), it was very occasionally possible to catch sight of random, fleeting bursts of vision as the BBC engineers spooled through their test tapes and gave disconcerting fragmentary glimpses of the Trooping Of The Colour, Rod Stewart on "Top Of The Pops", or Jon Pertwee being menaced by Kronos the Kronivore in black and white. Then there was Schools Television that occupied its own regular slot in the schedules, faithfully filling the term-time morning hours every weekday. However, it simply just didn't feel as though it was a genuine extension of the more familiar television output that could be watched in the evenings and at weekends, and seemed to exist in its own personal universe, making contact with regular television when no-one was looking. If your school incorporated little or none of its output into their educational structure, then it seemed even more remote, and committed the worst televisual crime imaginable by being a 'secret television' that you were actively prevented from witnessing. To some, the vaguely sci-fi tinged drama inserts and Derek Griffiths songs about combinations of letters that recur in certain words that made up "Look And Read" form an integral part of their childhood memories of television, whereas to many more they are simply a cause of blank looks. As if to compound this sense that Schools programming was telephoned in from another dimension, the educational slots on both channels had their own standard programme lengths, their own modes of presentation (generally involving as little input from announcers as was technologically possible), and - most importantly - their own idiosyncratic methods of linking programmes.

"Ooh yes", shout Jamie Theakston, Kate Thornton and Peter Kay in unison, "that's when it used to have those clocks with the dots that everyone used to pretend to shoot... oooh, fingers on lips... carton of milk at breaktime blah blah blah waffle please hit us very hard right now". Yes, for a time there was such a clock in operation on both channels, and yes some of the assembled classrooms of viewers did do the 'shooting the dots with my fingers' gag week in, week out, but the fact of the matter is that there was actually a lot more to the strangely fascinating story of Schools Television presentation. The BBC clock, with its circular dots that turned round and blinked out of vision and the legend 'Schools And Colleges' in the centre (which initially rotated, but later stopped doing so, reputedly after the mechanism that powered it broke down and was never repaired), only arrived in 1976 and by 1983 had been replaced by a simple stripey BBC2 logo on a sickly yellow background; a minimalist approach that has pretty much been maintained with all of the station's subsequent 'rebrandings'. ITV's Theakston-friendly clock - initially resembling the gradations around the circumference of a submarine periscope view in a 1960s American action series and later replaced by straightforward rectangular dashes as might be found around the circumference of an analogue wristwatch display - was more enduring, lasting in various redesigned incarnations from the early 1960s right through to 1987, but since then it has long since been superceded by a series of rotating perspex ITV logos and 'ambient' caption slides. And it isn't just the decades that nostalgia has yet to catch up with that house an untold part of the story of Schools Television. Back in the mists of televisual time, the BBC started regular Schools broadcasts (on television anyway - Schools Radio had been in operation since the 1920s, and is still broadcast today, albeit at a million o'clock in the morning on BBC Radio Middle Of Sodding Nowhere) in 1957 with a presentation style so obscure that no-one seems to know what it was. In 1960 they introduced the so-called 'Pie Chart', a circle split into five shaded monochrome segments that disappeared one by one over the course of a minute, to the accompaniment of some rather formal and 'improving' music, before giving way to a straightforward BBC mechanical clock that counted down the remaining sixty seconds until broadcast. And, on the haziest fringes of the memory of those who were too busy wondering what that twangy soft rawk guitar instrumental behind the BBC clock was called ('Bart' by Ruby, in case you were interested) to join in with Kate Thornton's amusements, there was the legendary Schools Diamond.

The Schools Diamond appears to have had scant regard for the widely-loved convention of 'counting down' the blank airtime between educational programmes; it consisted of three concentric modernist-style diamonds that drew themselves outwards, pulsed continually, and then sort of dissolved into a psychedelic shower of smaller diamonds before disappearing completely. Although this may sound as though it was some sort of pre-recorded hand-drawn animation, it was in fact a mechanical model (much like the BBC Globe of the day, which was simply a revolving sphere in front of a concave mirror, and indeed the later Schools Clock) that sat in front of a camera and did its thing live on air. The 'thing' in question was generated by nothing more complex than a transparent strip with regular shaded markings rolling over a shaded background, producing an animated half-diamond effect that was then mirrored vertically to complete the image. Although it has never been confirmed, it is rumoured that the diamond model was constructed by none other than BBC Visual Effects designer Bernard Lodge, the man who would subsequently go on to experiment further with animated diamond shapes when he furnished "Doctor Who" with its long-running 'slit scan' title sequence.
There is some debate over when exactly the Schools Diamond made its first appearance. Although the BBC ostensibly launched a full colour service in 1970, financial and technological limitations meant that colour was effectively introduced in stages, and that some sections of its output did not progress beyond monochrome for several years. Unsurprisingly, Schools Television was near the bottom of the list, and continued to go out in black and white for quite some time (part of the reason why the earlier "Look And Read" serials, such as "Len And The River Mob" and the original version of "The Boy From Space", have not been seen since the early 1970s, although the fact that they have long since been wiped might also have something to do with this), and perhaps equally unsurprisingly, they continued to use the 'Pie Chart' sequence. Exactly when the switch to colour broadcasting took place is something that is beyond the comprehension of anyone but the most dedicated researcher with unrestricted access to BBC transmission logs, but a couple of readers of Jase Robertson's superb website SubTV (http://www.sub-tv.co.uk) had a go anyway; the first official confirmed appearance of the Diamond was in September 1974, although many recall seeing it earlier in the year, and one viewer not only remembers it first appearing late in 1973, but also recalls hearing one of the pieces of music that would later come to be famously associated with the Diamond over the still-monochrome 'Pie Chart' at the start of that term.
There were in fact two pieces of music that accompanied the Diamond's early 1970s take on hallucinogenic animation (which is weirdly synchronous with the way in which Glam Rock had recently reappropriated the gaudy, unfocused psychedelia of the late 1960s and turned it into something obsessed with spangly, neatly-defined designs and minimalist use of bold primary colours). The first, 'Sara's Tune' by David Lord, was played before Primary School programmes and was a sprightly flute-driven jazzy number that sat somewhere between Tim Buckley's excursions into free-form acoustics and the twee cover versions of the theme tunes from "Play School" and "The Magic Roundabout" that showed up regularly on cheapo not-the-original-artists TV Theme compilations around that time. 'Sara's Tune' in itself is interesting enough, but it's Inigo Kilborn's Secondary School programme introducer 'A Tune For Lucy' that really sounds fantastic. Adopting completely the opposite approach, the track is a laid-back collision of fluid electric bass, understated percussion, wah wah guitars, an awkward time signature and best of all generous helpings of early synthesisers. In all honesty, it sounds as though it rightfully belongs on some obscure early 1970s Progressive Jazz album; in fact, Kilborn was (and still is) active on the jazz scene, and how he came to be providing specially composed music for BBC Schools Television is presumably another article in itself. The Diamond was originally pale blue on a black background, in line with the BBC's other continuity visuals of the time, and after a redesign a couple of years later it switched to yellow on a blue background. Interestingly, with this change in colour it also acquired a preceding caption which announced 'The Next Programme For Schools And Colleges Follows Shortly' over a background of concentric red diamonds that bore a suspicious resemblance to the notorious 'colourful swirls' of the first colour title sequence of "Doctor Who". More interestingly still, whenever the actual Diamond model was unavailable for whatever reason, a normal BBC continuity slide bearing a still image of it was called into service instead. However, for reasons that are frankly beyond comprehension, this featured four rather than three 'layers'. The only known surviving visual evidence of this is on a completely knackered video recording that leaps around the screen and warbles like a thing possessed, almost like an avant-garde Eastern European animator's take on the Diamond sequence. Presumably, if this caption card was deemed necessary on occasion, there must have been moments where the mechanical model broke down or malfunctioned live on air. Sadly, we can only guess at how spectacularly dadaist this must have looked.

The faithful Schools Diamond lasted through until the Autumn of 1976, when it was replaced by the boringly over-lauded and not half as interesting Clock, and that final scattering into a dazzling array of fragmentary diamonds really was its last appearance. As the Diamond was a mechanical model that was simply cued in live on air, there was never a videotape recording made by the BBC (as far as is known, anyway), and the 'non-commercially available' status of 'Sara's Tune' and 'A Tune For Lucy' similarly consigned them to the fringes of collective cultural memory (although both are now available, along with various other examples of Schools Television interlude music, on the Codename CD "Natural Born Fillers"). Various archive television websites have unveiled partial but frustratingly incomplete recordings of the Diamond sequence, and one even had a very convincing go at recreating it as a Flash animation (not to mention a couple of attempts at joining the existing fragments together), but those who wanted to see the original mechanical version in all its mesmerising glory were out of luck until the aforementioned SubTV, after years of searching, finally managed to turn up a complete recording late in 2003.
This starts with the end of the preceding programme; a repeat of an earlier unidentified black and white show with the closing credits rolling over a photograph of a farmhouse and a quaint, faintly creepy Olde English folk song bemoaning the fact that "either the rain is destroying his grain, or the wind is destroying his roof". Odd, isolated, mysterious fragments of long-lost television are always fascinating to witness, conjuring up all kinds of strange theories about what peculiar programme they might have originated from, but the most startling thing about this example is that the credits include none other than the still-ubiquitous Ken Morse operating 'Rostrum Camera'! There then follows a caption slide for "Music In Action", which follows in the grand BBC tradition of trailing their Schools programmes with completely unrelated images, this one appearing to feature a Jawa from "Star Wars" trying to bend his arms into the same shape as Terry Jones' from the middle section of "Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life", and saying something indecipherable through the medium of a speech bubble. Quite what this has to do with 'Music' or 'Action' is anyone's guess, not least because the start of "Music In Action" itself (also present on the recording) simply features a man with a Tomorrow People haircut standing in front of some mirrors to introduce the story of Narcissus. As for the diamond itself, it comes accompanied by 'Sara's Tune' (not 'A Tune For Lucy', sadly, although you can always dub that over the soundtrack instead), and pulses across the screen in a refreshingly primitive fashion that looks infinitely more 'real' than today's sterile computer animations.

It's hardly "Citizen Kane", but this is instantly evocative of a time when people were less inclined to take television for granted, when it seemed as though the medium just 'stopped' (presumably courtesy of someone with a huge on/off switch) at several points in the day and that, in the words of Nick Hancock, there was a "finite amount of television" and as much had to be devoured as was physically possible. It's also an amazing rediscovery of a piece of 'lost' television, recovered by enthusiasts who presumably had even less leads to go on (and probably less supporters too) than the average fan of "Doctor Who" relentlessly hunting down an episode that now 'only' survives as the audio, the photographs, the telesnaps, the novelisation, the DWM archive feature, the dinner jackets, the coffee mugs, and the submarine, and everyone involved deserves a round of applause. Let's see Kay, Thornton and Theakston get all misty-eyed about pretending to 'shoot' that with their fingers.

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MESSIANIC

Before the resurrection of Who, Russell T Davies gave us another second coming

Words: Sean Alexander

The phrase ‘high concept’ is one much bandied about by television executives. But in these days of formulaic dramas, populated by seemingly endless casts of former soap stars, the reality is only rarely glimpsed. One such occasion was Russell T. Davies’ 2003 drama The Second Coming. Davies, previously most renowned for controversial gay-drama Queer as Folk, is perhaps more known now as the man responsible for resurrecting Doctor Who next year. And as a foretaste to what devotees of the Time Lord can expect, The Second Coming is an intriguing glimpse at a path the new show could take. Principally, there is new Doctor Christopher Eccleston’s unofficial audition for the role; all manic energy and other-worldly presence. But perhaps what whets Who fans’ appetites most is the customary grittiness Davies’ writing brings. For a following long-embarrassed by its show’s cardboard sets and occasionally cardboard acting, The Second Coming promises a much more urban and realistic approach to Doctor Who’s future. And in Eccleston himself, perhaps as talismanic a figure of authority as Tom Baker some thirty years previously.
So just how do Eccleston and Davies go about translating the fantastical concept of a modern-day Messiah for a contemporary audience? Simply put, and despite its ultimate pretensions towards a global scale, The Second Coming takes place against an everyday, domestic landscape of smoky pubs and terraced houses. It tells the story of a closely-knit group of friends who we first see on a typical night out in one of Manchester’s numerous night-spots. Marking the recent divorce of long-term mate Judith Roach with a more-than-friendly kiss, video-shop worker Stephen Baxter has a revelation that he is the Son of God. Disappearing for forty delirious days on Saddleworth Moor, he returns intent on beginning his divine work as the new Messiah. Proving his credentials by turning night into day at Maine Road stadium, a frenzied media and terrified authorities react by treating Baxter as some kind of security hazard. Forced to take refuge at the local police station, he appears before a massed throng to deliver his sermon: Mankind has lost its moral responsibility amidst the scientific and cultural strides taken these past two thousand years. To get it back, a Third Testament will be written, this time by the people, in five days as a basis for how they will live their lives from now on.
But if Baxter’s existence as the Son of God proves anything, it is that if ultimate good exists then so must ultimate evil. And malign forces are swiftly alerted to Baxter’s presence. These agents of Satan, in the form of certain strategically-placed police officers and lonely citizens like Johnny Tyler, begin to make insidious and violent attempts to usurp his power. And Baxter is forced to once again demonstrate his divine powers, containing the explosion of a terrorist bomb aimed at him and his ‘disciple’ friends. As the day of reckoning grows near, further attempts are made to separate Stephen from his acolytes. All while thousands upon thousands of ‘Third Testaments’ are sent to his police hideout. And then the revelation: if there is no third testament, then Judgment Day will be passed on mankind; Baxter’s prophetic powers predicting only Armageddon and Death. Unbeknown to him, his prophecy is transmitted worldwide by Satan’s agents and chaos and panic grip the streets of Manchester…and the world at large.
As civil unrest grows out of control, Stephen’s supportive links begin to break down. His father Frank, ostracised and egged-on by a Devil-acting police constable, pulls a gun on his former son; shooting dead one of Baxter’s disciples, Pete, in the process. Meanwhile Fiona, another of Stephen’s friends, becomes desperately unhinged by the new Messiah’s prophetic ramblings, taking the extreme step of trying to kill both herself and her children to escape Judgment Day. As Johnny Tyler, a former blind date of Judith’s, reveals to her the Devil’s plans for the Son of God, Judith concludes that the Third Testament and Judgment Day are one and the same. And this realisation forces her to take the ultimate step in divine intervention…
The Second Coming tells a tight and tense version of the oldest story of all: the return of God to Earth to deliver his people to salvation. But, as a self-confessed atheist, Davies’ script takes a characteristically controversial and novel approach to the Messiah’s place in the 21st Century. Stephen Baxter’s mission is not to save the world from despair with a click of his fingers; it is to shake it from the state of arrogant apathy it has reached at the turn of the Millennium. This is a flawed messiah, in possession of all the quirks and weaknesses inherent of an everyday man. For him, such moments of divinity are analogous to the downloading of huge amounts of information into his brain; as though such knowledge and power are too much even for the son of God. All that Stephen knows is that Man, having achieved the technological position of Godhood, lacks the morality to go with such status and is ultimately doomed should it not change this state of affairs.
Davies’ concern here is to faithfully depict events in a format that is both believable and ‘real’ within the context of modern drama. For a piece fundamentally about such huge concepts as good and evil, right and wrong, the setting highlights how confused these beliefs are in the modern world. These are not supernatural forces battling towards Armageddon, but people struggling with the choices of everyday life. Simply put, being Good is being noble and brave, while Evil thrives on the lazy and base inclinations we all have. But Davies’s biggest conceit comes with the misconception of the Third Testament. His conclusion is that Humanity’s inability to agree on any one doctrine completely negates any attempt such a mandate would demand (and, for the watching Who viewer, creates an amusing parallel with how certain fans recently bombarded Davies with script ideas for the new series…).
The Second Coming is blessed with a uniformly excellent and eclectic cast. In the lead role of Stephen Baxter, Christopher Eccleston gives a typically multi-layered and emotional performance. And, for an actor often overburdened with the label ‘tortured’, provides some surprisingly light moments of relief from the story’s understandably cataclysmic tone. Who fans will be particularly amused by a prescient scene of the Son of God playing mischievously with some adoring acolytes - an omen for Eccleston’s future brushes with fandom perhaps? Elsewhere, his performance is characteristically intense and unpredictable, as befitting an actor whose reputation for gritty and realistic drama is well known. Perhaps his biggest achievement here is to maintain Stephen Baxter’s character as a slightly geeky, ordinary bloke despite his journey towards Messiah-Dom. The result is that, as an audience, we share Stephen’s initial joy at rediscovering the physical emotions of life, while later suffering his impotent despair as Judgment Day approaches.
Special mention should also be made for Lesley Sharp and Mark Benton. As Judith, Sharp has arguably as pivotal a role as the new Messiah himself, filling the Biblical shoes of Doubting Thomas, Mary Magdalene and Judas Iscariot accordingly. Indeed, the story of The Second Coming is as much Judith’s journey as anyone else’s. From sceptic, via believer to deliverer, Judith is the emotional core of the drama, even providing the climactic and controversial solution to its central riddle. Meanwhile, Mark Benton is a revelation as ‘lost soul’ Johnny Tyler, whose bland and blubbery exterior conceals a sinister misogyny that exemplifies the ‘lazy evil’ inherent of the Devil’s agents.
Speaking of Judith, it is important to note that the drama works very well on one level as a doomed love story between her and Stephen. From the opening scene - with The Kinks’ ‘Girl, you really got me’ playing in the background - their tender, awkward and ultimately tragic love for one another is beautifully underplayed by the leads. As Judith notes, ‘We never stood a chance, did we?’, and their relationship - not least of which her defilement of the ‘Virgin God’ - reinforces the idea that Stephen’s destiny is cursed the moment his Messiah-Dom is revealed. (And, for the Who fans watching, how apt is it that Stephen knows who he is after kissing a woman for the first time; somewhat like the Eighth Doctor gets his memory back after kissing Grace).
But it is in its preoccupation with its central themes that The Second Coming scores most highly. As Stephen Baxter warns the people on his first address - ‘If you want the position of God, then take the responsibility’ - The Second Coming takes a long, hard look at the place of religion and faith in a modern world. Its final solution seems to suggest that such concepts are as straight-jacketing as they are helpful. And in examining some of the other Christian concepts of morality, Davies suggests that Mankind has for too long been using an out-of-date manual for how to lead its lives. On the somewhat skewed viewpoint of homosexuality Davies, unsurprisingly, has more reason than most to take the Bible to task. Indeed such intolerance, as with much Bible teaching, is proved to be as a result of the original doctrine mutating beyond a recognisable form. But it is not just towards such bigoted ideals that Davies points his polemical pen; Fiona’s descent into religious extremism highlights how enlightenment can be as destructive as it is positive. And her suicidal attempt to reach paradise has much resonance in a post-Waco world.
The conclusions reached by The Second Coming inevitably gain it most notoriety. And perhaps most shocking of all are how obviously clear these conclusions are. As the one-eyed person in this particular kingdom of the blind, it is Judith who realises that the seemingly inevitable slide to Judgment Day will not be solved by any of the countless thousands of Third Testaments sent from around the world. The reality is that there is no Third Testament; at least not in the manner of the previous two. The impending clash of Judgment Day and the drafting of a new Testament lead her to conclude that Judgment Day is the Third Testament. The solution was there all along in Stephen’s inaugural speech as Messiah: Mankind has to take responsibility for its own Godhood status. And the only way to do that is to destroy all conceptions of God and religion and start all over again.
So the death of God is the Third Testament. And, if God is already here on earth, then he must by definition die too. When Judith accepts this, and convinces Stephen to accept it too, mankind is free to take responsibility for its own actions. For without God, people will be forced to look to each other for answers; and without Heaven and an after-life, people will be forced to make something of their lives. Yet, despite the seemingly cathartic nature of this conclusion, the end sequences set several years later raise doubt that such conclusions are ever so cut-and-dried. And that it may be better to live with the illusion of deliverance after all. Interestingly, Russell T. Davies’ first draft ended with Stephen Baxter resurrected, living the life of an ordinary married man with Judith. And it was only when fellow scribe Paul Abbott pointed out the ‘cheat’ such an ending would make of its conclusions that the existing one was chosen. We can only be grateful to Abbott for his intervention. In a television landscape where such concepts as ‘unhappy endings’ are frowned upon, it is this emphasis on integrity above convention that provides The Second Coming with its greatest testament. And one of the best dramas of recent years the only ending it deserves…

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WEIRD AND WONDERFUL

John Connors looks at the fun new series Seriously Weird

Isn’t it great to discover a series hiding away somewhere that nobody seems to have been talking about but which is snazzily witty, fun and freewheeling and a very good idea all at once? Well, that just about sums up `Seriously Weird`. Languishing in the teatime slot but deserving of an early evening position, this is one of those hybrid co-production series that actually works. Filmed in Montreal, Canada, starring a young English actor and supposedly set in the US, `Seriously Weird` is of the same lineage as shows liked `Round The Twist` or `Eerie Indiana`. I missed the first episode but stumbled upon the second without knowing what I was watching. And it was about some particularly vicious gnomes yet they never actually moved in shot; there was just a tiny screaming sound effect and each time we saw them again they’d move back! Oh, and the expression on their faces had changed. There were some funny lines, a couple of FBI men who gave out a blank business card plus lot of people falling down holes in the floor which, lets face it, is always going to be funny. And I watched this for 25 minutes without a clue as to what the juggins was happening except that it was all as mad as a mooncat!
Harris Pembleton is a very English student with a logical and organised mind who has to move to the obscure town of Stanton in the States and attend the archetypal high school. However after he solves an ancient puzzle that the waiter in a diner brought back from a Greek holiday, Harris is catapulted to the Weird Dimension where he meets an alien looking being who is called Steve. OK, so `Buffy` got to that joke name thing first, but stick with me. Harris refuse to believe Steve is real and unfortunately, as he’s the ruler of the dimension, Steve gets upset and curses his visitor to suffer the attack of all weirdness for his whole life. And that’s what it’s about and it is Fantastic! Harris is played by Ryan Cartwright who was in `The Grimleys` and also `Microsoap` and he is perfect casting. Fussy and pernickety yet meaning well, Harris bumbles through life believing he is right and his only two real friends are Fenella, who is interested in mystical stuff and secretly rather chuffed to have become involved in the weirdness and Hugo, who is so dim and dozy he doesn’t even notice half of what’s going on. Played respectively by Lucinda Davies and Ricky Mabe, they are great sidekicks just this side of eccentric and foils for Harris.
The first episode I saw involved those gnomes I mentioned trying to help Harris win a school election to become social secretary. They chant “Harris! Harris!” in squeaky voices and create holes and obstacles to help him but their real aim is for him to marry their Queen. The frantic pace, witty script (by Danny Robbins and Dan Tetsell) and sense of the absurd was such revelation making the next episode almost seem anti-climactic by comparison. Yet it did involve a large yoghurt monster stalking around in the pipes; lots of subjective camera work and slurping noises of course.. A bit slow to get going and obviously an episode where he central idea wasn’t enough to make a plot, it was still entertaining stuff because pink flying gunge is always funny, right?
By the fourth episode, written by Elly Brewer, I was pretty convinced of how good this series was going to be. How come the kids get all the best TV anyway? This time round, Harris is trying unsuccessfully to persuade his fellow pupils interested in his BUDDE scheme, a wordy motivational scheme for which he has lovingly produced charts and even laminates. “Draper High is becoming Draper low” he says but they don’t care. However the school’s resident ghosts are interested and so he pulls them through it – games of Twister, group hugs and confessions – re-energising them to haunt better. Only thing is, he lingers with the undead a little too long meaning that when the phantom busters call to suck them up, he’s trapped too and gets whizzed away by what he describes as `the great big whooshy thing`. But it rejects him and he’s returned to his friends; apparently it’s “allergic to life…and shellfish”. Hugo gets some great dopey lines here; when the ghosts turn the lights off he doesn’t notice at first “sometimes I hold my blinks too long” is his excuse and he also manages to confuse ghosts with goats. Don’t ask!!
There is something wonderfully askew and delightfully entertaining about `Seriously Weird` and I couldn’t wait till it concludes a 13 week run to write about it, but rest assured it will be back next issue…..

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HELL HATH NO FURY…

…like a woman scorned. Fay Weldon’s feminist allegory ‘The Life and Loves of a She-Devil’ remains a highlight of 1980s British drama.

Sean Alexander looks back at the triumphs and transformations of a woman named Ruth…

The decade of yuppie culture and Thatcherism marked something of a renaissance in home-grown television drama. The ‘greed is good’ ethos of corporate privatisation, combined with rising unemployment and the now familiar sight of British soldiers defending some far-flung nation all provided ample stimulation for some of television’s most renowned playwrights. Inevitably, such social and cultural upheaval bled heavily into these fictional consciousnesses of the time - with Alan Bleasdale, Dick Clement & Ian La Frenais and Dennis Potter all writing career-defining works come decade’s end. But while Bleasdale‘s Boys from the Blackstuff and Clement & La Frenais’ Auf Wiedersehen, Pet both took tragi-comic looks at the effects of mass unemployment, Potter instead turned his attention to the past; penning the highly-autobiographical, sexually explicit TV-noir The Singing Detective. Indeed, so controversial was it that it marked something of a cauldron-peak in the decades-long debate on suitable peak-time viewing. And the resultant questioning of its cultural merits in Parliament only underlined British drama’s then position at the zeitgeist of popular culture.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that the opportunities for female writers in this apparently male-centric, brave new world were few and far between. But the 1980s was also the decade when opinionated women writers finally found a voice after years of neglect. Principal of these was Fay Weldon, a feminist novelist of some years standing, whose critically-acclaimed work had received many plaudits in print. But she had yet to make any breakthrough on TV. That changed with the four-part adaptation of her 1983 novel The Life and Loves of a She-Devil. Starring erstwhile cockney-copper, come loveable-minder, Dennis Waterman, and the impossibly English Patricia Hodge, She-Devil is on the surface another routine story of failed marriage and infidelity. But it is in its third principal, spurned wife Ruth (played by newcomer Julie T. Wallace) that it achieves both notoriety and lasting resonance. For Ruth’s reaction to being dumped by her serial-philandering husband is, to say the least, unique. And the resultant success of both the drama - and Wallace’s defining central role - came to symbolise the repressed desires of plain, downtrodden women everywhere.
Adapted from Weldon’s novel by Ted Whitehead, She-Devil begins with Ruth detailing the disintegration of her marriage at the hands of glamorous novelist Mary Fisher. Falling deeply in love with Mary, whose idyllic coastal lighthouse offers escape from a cloying suburban home, Ruth’s husband Bobbo at first tries to juggle domestic strife with sexual awakening. But following an embarrassing dress-down by his parents - and an insanely jealous Ruth - he labels his wife a ’she devil’, before leaving her and their two children to fend for themselves. Little knowing that with this accusation Bobbo has indeed awakened his wife’s latent self putting her onto the path of reinvention and revenge.
Torching the family home - and invalidating any insurance claim - Ruth dumps the now homeless children at their father’s lighthouse retreat, before instigating her plan. First up is a visit to Mary’s estranged mother, left to rot away in a nursing home. Posing as a care worker, she weans the less than feeble Mrs Fisher off tranquillisers and - much to her daughter’s chagrin - sends her back to stay with her; carving the first chink in Mary and Bobbo’s seemingly cast-iron relationship in the process. Phase two sees Ruth, along with befriended fellow care-worker Nurse Hopkins, break into Bobbo’s office, where they siphon off millions of pounds of his clients’ money. Pocketing the proceeds, the two set up ‘Vista Rose’, a company employing overlooked women; and the ultimate expression of Ruth’s future plans to release likewise women from their domestic drudgery. Meanwhile Bobbo - now distracted by both his motherless children and his lover’s dotty parent - seeks comfort in the arms of a vulnerable temp at his office. Little knowing that Elsie Flowers is in fact a stooge acting through the Vista Rose agency. Mary forgives Bobbo his infidelity, but worse is to follow when he is arrested for the missing client money; little knowing that Ruth has given it to Elsie to start a new life in Switzerland. And as a fait accompli, Ruth even ensnares Bobbo’s trial judge; ensuring he receives the sentence of seven years for his jumped-up crimes.
As Ruth’s plans enter their final stages, Mary turns to her priest for support as her life crumbles around her. But Ruth has already reached him, seduced him and told him he must do likewise to Mary in order to save her eternal soul. Bereft of hope, salvation and - thanks to Bobbo’s court case - money, a suicidal Mary sells the tower, but is killed when a she-devil-inspired storm sweeps her to her death. Her revenge seemingly complete, Ruth completes the final phase of her master-plan; to transform herself physically into a duplicate of Mary, and take her status at the top of her high tower. With a broken and jail-hardened Bobbo for company, we end with Ruth - physically and metaphorically - surveying from the same tower as Mary all those years ago…
Such a domestic drama, whilst wrapped up in a fantasy-tinged setting, would be transient were it not for its protagonists’ performances. Fortunately, She-Devil’s principals cement the surrounding events in plausibility. Particularly newcomer Wallace, who as Ruth gives a remarkably sensitive portrayal of a woman pushed to extremes by the inequality of both life and love. Portraying the downtrodden wife, she bravely sacrifices any shred of femininity; making her later transformations - from busty vixen to power-dressed executive - all the more startling. Likewise, Dennis Waterman - playing very much against his established ‘cockney-geezer’ roles - perfectly captures the callous, socially-pretentious Bobbo; a man whose deep-seated resentment of his suffocating upbringing help explain his intolerance of domesticity with Ruth. And Patricia Hodge manages to somehow instil the icily aloof Mary Fisher with a sympathetic loneliness belying her shallow exterior.
The script is rich with thematic allusions and peppered with a dark, British sense of black humour. Director Philip Saville - a pioneer of visual technique on the likes of Armchair Theatre and Play for Today - makes full use of the fantasy elements of Whitehead’s script; instilling Ruth’s physical and metaphorical transformations with a mythical edge. Previously best known for his work on Bleasdale’s seminal Boys from the Blackstuff, Saville manages to combine that piece’s gritty, urban reality with here a macabre sense for the unreal. And his characteristic eye for the epic is best illustrated by She-Devil’s signature location; Mary Fisher’s enigmatic tower, located near Sussex’s Beachy Head.
Arguably She-Devil’s principal success lies in its allegorical study of core themes: love, good & evil, and identity. Of the three, it is love that most dominates proceedings; with all three of our protagonists subject to its whims. In Weldon’s world, romantic love has become as destructive a force as it is spiritually fulfilling. The more it demands from its victims, the more it threatens their already fragile psyches. Such are the experiences of Ruth, Bobbo and Mary, who all at one time or another cannot bear the thought of loveless lives. Ultimately consumed by it, their only hope lies in renouncing its obsessive nature. That Ruth is the only one to do so lies crucial to unfurling events; for when she rejects the love she feels for Bobbo, not only does it free her to take her ultimate revenge, but it also liberates her from the definition of loving wife and good mother. Pertinently for her - and crucially for the others - Ruth’s rejection of love is the beginning of her personal freedom.
In relation to love, marriage is also seen as a constrictive and destructive force. Bobbo and Ruth’s ‘open’ marriage - very much a common term of the 1980s - is merely an excuse for Bobbo to explicitly ignore his marriage vows. Illustrated by his callous dismissal of her, marriage has reduced Ruth to the status of a faithful dog in Bobbo’s eyes. His reassurances of ‘loving’ her - but not ‘being in love’ - only attempt to render his infidelity more palatable; both to himself and to a watching male audience. As does his brutal description of their marriage as ‘sexual suicide’. Ruth has clearly encouraged this state of affairs for some time before we join events. But, while Mary is hardly the first example of his liberal approach to fidelity, until now Ruth has tolerated such indiscretions. So long as they were of no long-term threat to her sense of ‘permanence’. For it is not so much sexual betrayal that Ruth fears, but abandonment; and like millions of other women, she finds it better to be unhappy and with someone, than be unhappy and alone.
Weldon’s most damning indictment of love is in showing how it wanes over a relatively short period of time. Together with Mary, Bobbo has reached a state of Nirvanic bliss; but as first his children, and later Mary’s deranged mother, come to remind him, there is no escape from the baggage of one’s past. And being forced by Ruth to look after their two children is somewhat ill-fitting with his new life, so resonant are they of his prior domestication. As circumstances swiftly grow as intolerable as the suburban prison he has just left, it is with no little irony that Bobbo begins to re-appreciate his former wife’s compassion and stability; characteristics much at odds with his new lover’s rootless, carefree existence.
The subject of good and evil is another of She-Devil’s key themes. Given its very title, one inevitably approaches the piece with the expectation of demonic undertones but it is only in Ruth’s growing power as a wilful, dominating force that the drama ever slips into full-blown fantasy. The rest of the time, for ‘good and evil’ one could read ‘male and female’, so redolent are Weldon’s treatises with the age old battle of the sexes. Ruth’s description of her campaign as a ‘battle with God’ may suggest conflict of a higher order. But it is nothing more than an attempt to redress the imbalance of Nature’s inequality; where women are compelled to daub themselves in ‘war paint’ to compete for affection. Later, when she subverts Mary’s priest Father Ferguson to her own gain, Ruth offers herself as an equal opportunity alternative to another masculine ideal: religion.
She-Devil’s most pertinent theme is identity. Illustrated best by the gradual juxtaposition of its two female leads - the drama both begins and ends with women purporting to be Mary Fisher, astride her high tower - the nature of identity underpins the whole of proceedings. From Bobbo’s pretensions above suburban respectability, to Mary’s pseudo-motherhood following his incarceration and Ruth’s chopping-n-changing of personas in between, the nature of who we are and what we want is She-Devil’s raison-d’etre. ‘Peel away the wife, the mother…find the woman, and there the She-Devil is’. With these words, Ruth takes her first steps to reinvention. For when the ideals of being a good wife and a loving mother - which she at one point dictates to herself like a religious mantra - become redundant, Ruth is for the first time in her life free to be who she wants, how she wants it. But in order to create herself anew, she must first destroy the old persona; precipitating the numerous reinventions of herself on the road to Mary’s high tower. Her goal is now to be desired, not just loved; for experience has taught her that love ‘cannot survive reality’, and is an illusion lacking substance. Her new mantra - ‘A woman can be whatever she wants to be’ - provides the template for her subsequent, wish-fulfilment fantasy. And arguably gives She-Devil its deepest resonance amongst female viewers.
Likewise, Mary Fisher is clearly defined by her beliefs and infatuations. For her, sex, adoration and entertainment are the sustenance without which she would wither and die. Abandoned first by Bobbo, then Father Ferguson - whose rejection robs her of any last chance for retribution, be it spiritual or physical - Mary is left suicidal in a world bereft of love, either mortal or divine. Her tower, emblematic of her from the very beginning, inevitably falls into decay and neglect as Mary too loses her attractiveness and vitality. It is metaphorically fitting that she dies by physically falling from its lofty peak, To be replaced by Ruth. It is in its denouement that She-Devil retains its greatest sting, and its most debated aspect. Arguably, had the preceding four episodes not had a hint of the fantastical events to come, Ruth’s physical change into Mary’s double would have been far too much to accept. But, given her final transformation occurs simultaneously with Mary’s death, it merely underlines their cyclical relationship. ‘My friend is dead’, Ruth laments at Mary’s funeral; for the connection between Ruth and Mary is implicit to She-Devil’s resolution. On the surface there is husband and lover Bobbo to inextricably tie the two together, but in final analysis the root goes much deeper. To the ultimate difference between the haves and the have-nots, the beautiful and the ugly, the loved and the lost. Ruth’s ultimate revenge on Mary is to take everything that she has and everything that she is; using her power and affluence to have anything - and, most importantly, anyone - that she wants. But what lesson does this teach the viewer, both then and now? That the price of revenge is never too high if the cause is just? Or that in the pursuit of perfection one ultimately loses oneself?
These are questions which The Life and Loves of a She-Devil chooses not to answer. Whether such ignorance avoids, or merely underlines, its remit is a matter for endless debate. But in a world - both real and fictional - where such stereotypical definitions as right and wrong, good and bad, are inevitably tinged with shades of grey, the central theme of substance over surface prevails. Mary Fisher’s face may look out to sea as the final credits role, but it is still Ruth’s voice which narrates the viewer to a dramatic conclusion. ‘Never judge a book by its cover’, the saying goes. And if She-Devil has just one message to impart it is that there are no barriers to being the person you want to be. Such a rallying cry potentially calls out to all oppressed people, be they man or woman, rich or poor. And Ruth’s own journey, if perhaps not her final destination, stands as a lasting lesson to the ugly duckling inside us all…


Originally transmitted on BBC2 between 8 - 29 October 1986, ‘The Life and Loves of a She-Devil’ is available on DVD from Network, catalogue number 7952245

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CROSSING THE BOUNDARIES

How a bold series tried in vain to reach a mainstream audience
words: Tim Worthington

In the television schedules, there are some timeslots that are synonymous with certain kinds of programming. Channel controllers may ramble on and on about how this isn't the case and their output is diverse and varied blah blah blah etc, but there is no escaping the fact that, by and large, they tend to put the same genres in the same timeslots. If it's on between eight o'clock and nine o'clock at night and lasts for either fifty minutes or an hour, chances are it will be a detective series aimed squarely at a mainstream audience. Similarly, if it is supposed to be shown in a ridiculously unsuitable early evening or late night timeslot but instead ends up being shunted wildly around the schedules to make way for Championship Snooker or Crown Green Rowing, then chances are that it is a popular telefantasy series with a loyal and sizeable audience (who, so the schedulers would appear to believe, are available to watch television at any given hour of the day on the off-chance that their favoured programme might actually end up being shown at some point). Sadly, while science fiction, fantasy and mainstream audiences were once virtually inseparable in the world of television, they are now kept segregated as widely apart as possible, and on current evidence it would seem that most people in the industry wouldn't even have nightmares about combining them. Yet not so long ago, the BBC did attempt to combine them. Back in 1992, with a suitable flourish of publicity, they launched an impressive and highly enjoyable series named "Virtual Murder", which on face value seemed likely to win over mainstream and cult audiences alike. So, in that case, how come it still isn't pulling in huge viewing figures to this day? Well, in all honesty, that's almost as puzzling a mystery as the ones that were investigated in the series itself.
"Virtual Murder" was described in the typically point-missing BBC publicity that accompanied its arrival as being "an Avengers for the 1990s", and many critics and viewers alike made the mistake of thinking that statement meant that the series would be a direct updated equivalent of the classic tongue-in-cheek 1960s adventures of those 'quintessentially English' crime fighters John Steed and Emma Peel. This serves as a perfect example of why previews and press releases should never be used to judge the nature of a television series, as not only would updating "The Avengers" have been a futile and pointless exercise (as indeed was proved by a certain feature film about five years later), there was actually no way in which such a motive could ever have been ascribed to "Virtual Murder". What the badly-worded and ambiguous statement was probably actually supposed to convey was the fact that "Virtual Murder" represented to the genre of 'hard hitting' 1990s television crime drama what "The Avengers" had been for its 1960s counterpart. While "Virtual Murder" shared the same techniques of using off-the-wall, larger than life villains and outlandish, exaggerated plots that had made "The Avengers" so enduring enjoyable, in terms of the actual mechanics of the series it concerned itself very much with present-day methods of crime-fighting, including forensic science and psychological profiling.
The central character in "Virtual Murder" was Doctor John 'JC' Cornelius (Nicholas Clay), a renowned expert and lecturer in Psychology at Birmingham University, who (aided by his lab partner Sam Valentine, played by Kim Thomson), used his vast knowledge of the subject to assist the police in their efforts to track down the more unusual criminals that crossed their path. On face value, this might sound like a perfectly straightforward and conventional premise for a crime drama series, but that was where any similarity with the likes of "Cracker" started and ended. Created by Harry Robertson and Brian Degas (who had previously been responsible for "Specials", a short-lived series about the Special Police Force), "Virtual Murder" purposefully indulged in wilfully exaggerated and whimsical plots, of the sort that simply would have not have been tolerated in a more straightforward detective series. While this concept might give headaches to today's breed of 'focus group'-orientated programme controllers, who would no doubt end up spending many sleepless nights worrying about the format's 'low demographic stratagem audience share value' or something, there is no question that it made for exciting, distinctive and highly individual viewing.
The curious approach of the series was demonstrated in no uncertain terms by the opening episode, 'Meltdown To Murder' – which, in a move that suggests that someone somewhere was determined to make the idea work, was written by the brilliant Phillip Martin, who had masterminded the equally bizarre late 1970s BBC crime drama "Gangsters". The episode (in which Martin, in common with all of his television scripts, took a small but significant acting role) saw Cornelius called in to investigate a spate of incidents in which valuable paintings had simply started melting for no readily obvious reason. The ensuing plot was suitably intricate and complex, revealing the man responsible to be Jed Frewin, a master of disguise and an old adversary of Cornelius, and sure enough the plot involved an hilarious 'flashback' sequence showing the two men in the 1970s, during which Cornelius was sighted in typically "Open University"-style getup! Incidentally, Frewin was played by E!nn Reitel, who was just one of an impressive array of guest stars who enlivened the episodes with impressive performances, including Hywel Bennet, Tony Robinson, and - making a very unlikely appearance as an undertaker - Julian Clary. As the series progressed, the storylines and characters grew ever more peculiar, and even the more 'conventional' episodes, for example 'Last Train To Hell And Back', were littered with completely bizarre and outlandish scenes and premises, from abstract deliberate clues left at crime scenes that were so vague as to potentially not actually be clues at all, to Cornelius sending a fax of his tie by accident. In what was possibly both the most memorable and the most baffling moment of the entire series, 'A Torch For Silverado' featured Jon Pertwee as a pensioner who had made it his mission in life to blow up brothels and sex shops (which was certainly one of the most enduringly disturbing images depicted on television in the 1990s). In many respects, 'A Torch For Silverado' serves as a perfect example of how the series worked. The plot was bizarre and outlandish enough to satisfy fans of the genre, yet it was also true that the techniques used to track down Silverado and his intended targets would have fitted perfectly comfortably into any more 'traditional' detective drama - and on top of all that, it was a genuinely tense and nail biting storyline peppered with plenty of humorous moments. "Virtual Murder" had huge crossover appeal, with the potential to win over disparate audiences, and it's unfortunate that ultimately it didn't really fulfil that potential.
"Virtual Murder" revelled in blurring the distinction between fantasy and reality, and fittingly, the conclusion to each episode was left deliberately vague with regard to the question of whether there might actually have been a rational explanation for the weird goings-on or not. For example, the ending of 'A Dream Of Dracula' was deliberately ambiguous, and left the viewer as uncertain as the investigative team as to whether the suspect they had devoted the episode to tracking down actually was a genuine vampire or not. What made this particularly enjoyable was the way that, unlike many of the similarly inclined series to have appeared on television over the years, "Virtual Murder" did not make any heavy-handed attempts to stress that 'this was something that could have happened in real life', and instead conveyed a gloriously ambiguous sense that even the participants in the storyline were in fact unsure as to whether the events had actually taken place or not. Incidentally, Nicholas Clay claimed during promotional interviews for the series that each of the cases featured in the episodes was in fact based on a corresponding real-life incident. Ahem.
Unusually, "Virtual Murder" was not produced by the BBC's main drama department but instead was made by the Birmingham-based regional station BBC Pebble Mill (perhaps providing an indication of the differences in mindset of what made for 'good' programming that existed at the time), and was broadcast on the main BBC1 network between 24 July and 28 August 1992. The series enjoyed the same sort of prime-time weeknight slot that had been routinely afforded to similarly quirky crime dramas (notably including "The Avengers" and "Randall And Hopkirk (Deceased)") in the 1960s and early 1970s, but which had eluded the fantasy and science fiction genres for many years by that point. "Virtual Murder" was actually, in retrospect, part of a wave of similarly-inclined programmes that blended crime-fighting, fantasy and science fiction, and humour, which also included the likes of "Moon And Son" and "Bugs", that were also launched in similarly high-profile slots. Regrettably, it was to be the exact same straddling of audiences that had made the programmes to distinctive and in many cases exciting that was also to prove to be their downfall. Such series are notorious for taking a while - often as much as an entire two series - to properly catch on with a mainstream audience, and so "Virtual Murder", like all of the others, was dependent on the more immediate reaction of genre fans to be adjudged a success. Unfortunately, the inexplicable reaction of the majority of mouthier genre fans appeared to be to ignore such programmes completely, or worse still sneer and be openly negative about them, and then wait until they had all started fawning over "The X-Files" to start complaining about the BBC's haphazard scheduling of genre shows and asking in baffled tones why the corporation never made any equivalent programmes of its own. Even if they hadn't considered many of the offerings to be exactly classics of the genre, then at least they could have supported the intention behind the initiative, instead of just being pointlessly destructive and then wondering why they were being treated as an insignificant sector of the audience some time later. It's easy to start going on about how great it would be to see this sort of stuff in high-profile timeslots, but the fact remains that it was great to see "Virtual Murder" in a high-profile timeslot, and it remains a shame that so many fans of the genre either seemed to miss the point of the show, or to miss out on it completely.

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