After THAT Wedding

I've got to admit that I watched the Royal Wedding for the best part of two hours yesterday. What a joyous wonderful thing it was. When it comes to Ruritanian Pagetry nobody does it better. The papers have had a field day today; who wore what, who looked great, who looked terrible. I'll leave you to decide the winners and losers, though it seems certain Kate's sister, Pippa, will come out of this well - what a dress, and from the back, sheesh.

All these people getting dressed up reminded me of my favourite dressing up song. From The 5000 Fingers of Dr T here's the magnificent Hans Conried - an actor Hollywood didn't always know what to do with - getting ready for his big day. 5000 fingers is notable for being the only feature film ever written by Theodor Seuss Geisel, Dr Seuss, who was also responsible for the screenplay and the lyrics.

It's just about my favourite film clip ever (okay, so there may be others). As you watch it the second time - and you will - watch the dressers not Dr T. Hilarious.

I imagine this was going on quite a bit at the palace yesterday.

Consider the shark jumped Dr House

"Can anyone else see the shark!"

House proves that you can have a formula show that at the same time fights against formula.

On any given episode House and his team will be presented with a medical mystery that deepens as the show goes on. The guy admitted with a fit of sneezing that can't be stopped will suddenly develop bleeding from the eyes, his legs will turn blue, his hair will fall out and then a hole will appear in the centre of his hand - all whilst he lays in a hospital bed under the supervision of the most brilliant medical brain there has ever been. That's the same brain that diagnoses three or four different maladies before coming up with the right one in a moment of inspiration and clarity drawn from looking at the patterns in the wallpaper.

That's the formula bit.

What's made the series so successful - and so watchable - are the things House gets up to in a bid to circumvent the system, get one over on Cuddy, annoy Wilson, confuse his team and make life interesting.

But we're a long way down the road now, series seven, and coming up with new and weird things for House to do hit the floor in the episode I watched last night. It's the one that starts with the kids firing a model space rocket that leads them to accidentally set fire to a homeless guy in the woods. As Homeless Joe watches his arm burning he can smell liquorice. he's admitted to hospital where House and the team try to solve the mystery of his inability to smell the right smell.  The homeless guy plot was clever, it twisted and turned and had one of the best last lines to any episode ever.

But what was going on around it - for me - jumped the shark.

If you're not conversant with the term it's used to mark a defining moment when you know that your favourite television program has reached its peak. An instant of absurdity when you know, from now on...it's all downhill.  From that moment on the program will simply never be the same.

Jump the shark comes from a scene in the fifth season of Happy Days.  In the episode, the central characters visit Los Angeles, where a water-skiing Fonz, wearing swimming trunks and his leather jacket, jumps over a shark, answering a challenge to demonstrate his bravery. In a series that was never that believable to begin with this moment was Totally unbelievable. (Happy Days went on for another seven years but by the end the original cast and premise had long gone). The shark moment marked the shows decline.

The subplot to the House episode I watched last night has him arriving at work on a two wheeled Segway PT bike - with his Russian bride to be on board.  This was funny, in-keeping with his behaviour since splitting up with Cuddy. But next he's playing table tennis on the X-Ray table with his team...o-kay.

Then he turns up for work driving a Monster Truck! What? What's more he then has a diagnostic conference with the team, in the truck, whilst driving through town. If that didn't Jump the Shark I'm a monkey's uncle.

BUT

Come back to the A plot - the Homeless Guy. Like I said it was a very, very  good story and ended on an incredibly powerful note - but I nearly switched off, I nearly missed the great moment and all because they'd overloaded House with absurdity.

However funny we think out C plots and runners are the message here is simple - don't overdo it, it could be to the detriment of a very fine story.

John Sullivan

Not long after I left the warmth of the BBC I found myself in a warehouse outside Leeds, directing inserts for a crap ITV show. We were there to get an interview with David Jason - but his show was of more interest to me than the show I was working on. He was bringing Mr Micawber to life outside the pages of David Copperfield. At that stage no-one knew how it would work but the writer had the kind of form that suggested it could well succeed. He had a passion for Dickens and had a track record with Jason that was unparalleled. The writer was John Sullivan and sadly it was one of the few things he touched that didn't turn to gold. However, on that rainswept day in Leeds I got to meet the man who dreamed up Del Boy, shake him by the hand and share a coffee. He was quiet, unassuming, amusing and nervous . Micawber was a departure for him, a world well away from sitcoms.

John Sullivan died yesterday, he was 64 and had been making people laugh most of his working life.

The first time I laughed at something he'd written I didn't know he'd written it. It was a sketch on the Two Ronnies Show on BBC 1. The first show where he got due credit for his work was Citizen Smith. "Power To The People" was the first of many catchphrases Sullivan dropped onto a viewing public in a life spent crafting Funny stories. His great talent was creating such rich and wonderful characters. The laughs came naturally, it was only funny if it happened to that character or came out of that character's mouth.

Though his crowning glory will always be Only Fools and Horses he was no one-trick pony. Citizen Smith, Just Good Friends, Dear John were all favourites, as was the Only Fools spin-off Green Green Grass. He tried his hand at comedy drama with Micawber and Roger Roger and Over Here but he was never the best dramatic writer - good god, he had the gift of comedy! most dramatist would cut off all their appendages to have that talent.

I haven't watched an Only Fools in a while, they've been repeated so often I feel I know them like old friends, but when we were away last week on the Canary Island of Fuertaventura the kids found a pile of DVD's at our villa. Amongst them was an episode of Only Fools, the one where Del gets tricked into hang-gliding. Watching it was a treat, a real master class in a plot that works like a comic clockwork mechanism.  

With the irony that a sudden death brings the latest episode of his Only Fools prequel Rock and Chips is screening on the BBC this Thursday night - but it's the David Jason, Nicholas Lyndhurst version that made Sullivan famous. The one that will stand the test of time.

When the public know the name of the writer you surely do have a hit.

Update

The Loftmen came. They laid. They left.

Houston, we have insulation.

Cut to

Caps in the air.

"All we gotta do now, Darlene, is fix 'em windows".

This blog will return after Easter. Have a good one.

Insulation Day Part 2

Having cleared out the loft in preparation for new insulation, when the guys from British Gas arrived they didn't have the right stuff on board. The Right Stuff makes insulating a loft sound like rocket science, it's not.

So, there we were sitting in a house full of boxes, cots, lampshades, headboards, carpet and everything else I mentioned yesterday. We knew we had to go through it all and reduce the mountain to a mole-hill or at least a hillock.

I began with fifty reels of recorded programmes that dated back to when I first sat behind a microphone a lifetime ago. There were whole programmes, insert tapes, trailers, music, all sorts - it's all gone. The lot. I'm not sentimental about these things, I'd rather move forward than look back and like so many other broadcasters I can't stand to listen to myself - I always want to edit, rearrange, revoice. It's all gone, along with paintings and chairs and curtains and all the things that should have been booted out ten years ago or more.

But in amongst the flotsom of loft-life we discovered a tin, a Treasures Tin.

I remmebered it the moment I saw it but not having seen it for over twenty five years - I had no idea of what was inside. I lifted the lid. Sitting on the top was a photograph of a young man with sporting aspirations.

Me attempting to fill my father's boots

There were photographs of girlfriends past; Debie, Wendy, Karen, a girl with long legs whose name I can't recall from a holiday romance in the seventies. I can't say the pics didn't stir a few memories and set me wondering what had happened to...(note to self - idea - start website where old friends can get back together again).

There were letters from my old buddy John who joined the army from school. I'd forgotten the length of time we'd spent writing to each other. Diaries - I never manged to fill anything in past January - holiday photos of the family, boy did I have long hair! some newspaper clippings from my early attempts at stand-up, trick playing cards, a lighter - still works - love beads and most remarkably of all a green velvet box that contained my Granfather' gold shirt studs. Long ago I'd given these up for lost, long ago I kicked myself for not putting them in a safe place. Turns out they were in a safe place. 

By the end of the weekend we'd been througn a mountain of paper and shredded and burnt everything that could be of any interest to anyone seeking a new identity or an inclination to try and draw on my Midland Bank Account from 1982. We'd been to the dump, recycled and binned so much stuff - and still the mountain stared at us. It was like some magic pile that replenishes itself the more you take away. How can it be possible that we have as much now as we did three days ago?

And still no call from the people at British Gas.

I set my demeanor to grumpy and sat down to make the call. First problem - nowhere on any piece of paper I have or website I surfed, do they give you the correct number to ring. After four attempts, two of which left me with a dead line having been promised I was about to be 'transferred', I got to talk to Panos. Poor Panos.

I was calm, I didn't get loud or resort to bad language but I did tell him I wasn't happy. He'd been on a course, he sensed it. He said it was their bad (I'm still not sure I like that phrase) and offered an apology. When I pointed out that I had to phone THEM  to get the apology he got the message that this caller was going to be 'difficult'. All his 'how to handle the difficult bugger' training kicked in. What could he do for me? I said how about a new date, this week. We can't live like this much longer, even if I had found photos of girlfriends past the tingly feelings I got looking at them was wearing off.
Okay, says Panos - ah...
Ah? I don't like Ah. What Ah are we talking about?
I can't give you a new date because you already have a date.
Yes, last week, when you didn't actually do the work.
Yes but you've got a date so...
So, give me a NEW date.
It won't let me do that.  (I'm going to call all my computers IT . When a producer phones to ask how things are progressing I'll just say, sorry, IT won't let me finish).
I'll have to email Planning.
No, I'm living in hell, give me the number I'll ring Planning.
You can't do that.
Why not?
They don't have a public interface. (I don't know why but that phrase makes me want to buy a Kalashnikov)
Then YOU ring
I can't. I have to email.
How long will this take?
They promise to get back in 48 hours.
No. No, no, no. You don't seem to realise my house is sinking under the Crap from my loft. It has to be done this week, Planning have to phone me today.
Long pause.
It's usually forty eight...
Today!
...Okay. I'll stand over them till they ring.

God bless Panos. They rang - eventually. Insulation Day has been rearranged. In the meantime we're still some way off our throwing out target amount of crap  - but we're getting there.

IF they arrive on the right day, IF they bring the right materials, IF all goes well we might be able to see the floor before the weekend.

But then IF is a mighty big word. I'll keep you posted.

Insulation Day Part 1

I have just spent far too long on the phone with some eejit from British Gas. If I wanted to write a plot line that involved frustration, mess, anger, old girlfriends, antique gold and bonfires this would be it.
Here's the outline:

Some weeks ago my mother phoned to tell me, amongst other things, I can get my loft insulated for FREE. She's seen it on a website and the people next door to her are having it done NOW.

I don't believe in a free lunch but when I investigate I discover it's true - as long as your loft/wall space isn't bigger than.... they quote some dimensions I don't recognise.... and I think, that's their get out clause, that probably describes something no larger than a Barbie House. But I fill in the online form and someone rings and books a date for a surveyor to come.

On the appointed day we wait in, he doesn't come.

I get a call mid way through the afternoon telling me he broke his hand, they'll have to rearrange. When would be convenient? Today was convenient, the rearranged date will be inconvenient. They don't follow my logic.

On the rearranged date the surveyor calls. Takes out a laser measuring device and proclaims that I DO qualify. Now I feel like I live in a small house. A date is arranged for the insulation to be fitted. But the loft must be cleared out. Completely.

Whilst some people choose to load the detritus of the lives in their garages we have, over the years, put more and more stuff above us, in the loft. A ton of crap. The Sunday before Insulation Day the loft is cleared. Me, my wife, my kids, humping boxes, tables, lamps, carpets, files, more files, even more files, old scripts, old bags, suitcases, Christmas decorations, more files, curtains, curtains, poles, curtain tracks, boxes full of music, cases full of linen and more files. And so, so much more. Everything we have chosen to forget is now laid out in front of us; filling spare bedrooms, filling the hallway and the landing, filling the conservatory. I'm tripping over things on the stairs, walking into things in the night, this is what our home would look like if we hadn't shifted it to rest, forgotten, above our heads. Don't throw that away, it might be useful has suddenly become why did we keep this crap?

But we don't panic because Insulation Day is almost here. Then it can all go back.

Insulation Day dawns. Excitement in the house. The kids go off to their schools, Mrs Lewis to hers, when they return we can put it all back.

Cut to eight hours later, Mrs Lewis wants to know why it can't go back. Because they brought the wrong depth of insulation. Why? Because the surveyor told them we didn't have any insulation up there. Why? Because he's an eejit. So, when are they coming back. They'll phone, rearrange. And there's one other thing...we can't put it all back without boarding out the entire loft. Why? Because we can't rest this stuff on the new insulation. Why? Becuase it's against the rules. What rules? I look sheepishly and try to remember what the Insulation men told me in the minute detail that will satisfy the forensic mind of my wife. I can't. But I do remember that we will have to board it out and that means we have to raise the joists. What does that mean? Make the joists higher. Yes, I realise that, but how?

I run to the Internet. Raising joists...Christ. I can't do that I had an operation on my arm, ten weeks ago. And even if I hadn't I still couldn't do it. I make some calls. HOW MUCH? Jeeze, suddenly this free insulation is looking like a really bad deal.

We hatch a plan which entails getting rid of two thirds of The Crap, as it has affectionately become known.

That's when we started to go through things, piece by piece, box by box...and wait for the call from British Gas. No call.

To be continued...

A Clever Turn of Phrase

I think if you're going to say fuck on television you should say it. Not freak, as in "What kinda freaking idiot are you?", not feck - for goodness sake why bother? Not eff off or naff off. When the word needs to be used it should be. How could the magnificent Malcolm Tucker (rhymes with Mother....) be the terrifying monster that he is without a lexicon of swear words that would make an old sea-dog blush. It's positively poetic.


But here's my grouch, it crops up so often that its shock value has been devalued. Worse still in some comedy it's used as a word to get the laugh. It's put at the end of a not very funny sentence just to ignite the studio audiences laughter muscle. 
Lazy.

When it's used in Empire Boardwalk it has a nice old fashioned feel to it, in the Sopranos you couldn't imagine any of those Wise Guys saying anything else, it's the rhythm of their speech. But don't use it because you could find a better way of getting your laugh.

Whilst we're on the subject, I have conversations with people who tell me that today's comedy is far too coarse. It's defended on the grounds that we're all grown up (no we're not) people use that language in their daily lives (not everyone) it needs to sound authentic (why?). Again, 'bad' language used in the right context can be hilarious - when it's part of the character  - but if everyone in your script is foul mouthed you may as well not use it at all.

This criticism isn't born of prudishness - I can curse with the best of 'em -  it comes from watching shows that aren't funny thinking they are because they're hip, on the edge - give me funny over the edge every day. Once you have an open door there's nothing to push against, and the dramatic structure in narrative comedy needs that. If, as heard in a new show on Channel 4 this week, the jokes comes from talking about anal bleaching and a woman who's 'fanny is a tight as a lobster pot' - her description - where's the inventiveness? Aren't we barrel scraping.

I think also we have to put the best bad words into the right mouths. The two instances I cite came from the mouths of characters I didn't like or care about, put them in other characters mouths and well, it makes a difference.

Surely part of a comedy writer's job is to find new (funny) ways to say things, that means being inventive with the language. Look at some of the best American shows that came from networks where once upon a time you couldn't say 'belly'. Cheers, Friends, Frasier didn't need to resort of bad language because they had such good characters. Sometimes it's good to have limitation to what you can say or do, it makes you think harder. The euphemism can often be a joy in a comedy script.

I don't think it's old fashioned to prefer Frasier Crane to Frankie Boyle but then I'm not on the front line of guerrilla comedy, hacking away at the frontiers so we can say what we like. It's not a question of censorship, more  the pleasure a clever turn of phrase brings.

Glee

Anyone else given up on Glee?
That presuposes you were watching in the first place. Let me put it another way, if you were a big fan of the all singing all dancing ratings sensation of last year are you still watching?

What I liked about the show when it first hit the screen was the irony. It knew it was a piss-take on High School Musical and relished its place in the world. Will Schuester had a terrible wife, Terri,  who put him down at home, had a 'special room' in the house for them to experience crafts together and when it looked like he was falling for the weird looking red-headed pop-eyed woman with the cartoon voice she announced she was pregnant - except she wasn't and several different sized pillows later the cat was out of the baby bag.

What was great about Terri was her scheming and controlling. It was something for Schuester to push against, now all he has is Sue Sylvester. Sue began as a demented cheerleading coach with surreal turns of phrase and a weird eye on the world. In season one she was a comic creation to savour.

There were plots that kind of made sense.  Kurt got dumped in the skip at the beginning of every show. Things happened that didn't always involve a production number. There were surprises. Okay, every week another reference to 'regionals' but hey. Quin was a cow, Finn  was getting shafted, Puckerman was the bad boy and Britney the dumbest dumb blonde for a generation.  When the musical numbers came they were fresh and often funny and an antidote to High School Musical. And they had a kid dancing in a wheel-chair, way to go.

Cut to

Season two. Where it's pretty much become High School Musical. The tension and scheming has all but gone - as have most of the plots that don't involve a song. We've had some bullying issues and some lame guest appearances - come back Kristin Chenoweth please - and now I've given up...

Kristin Chenoweth and The Boys

I need some grit in the ointment. Sue's become one note, Terri's disappeared, the strange woman who looks like a rabbit has got married so Will doesn't even have the doe eyed dear to swoon about or croon about. It's all got a bit...boring.

It feels to me like they sat down with the Network after the first season and someone said - everybody loves the songs, next season let's give them more songs. But nobody said 'great, but let's twist and turn the characters and make 'em squeal'. They made too many nasty characters too nice too soon - then went back and tried to make them nasty again. That didn't work.

There's still a big audience and LOTS of kids buying the music - which explains the ratio of songs per show - but wasn't it richer and more fun in series one? Somebody do me a favour, let me know when the show's got it's squeal back.

What a morning!

The light on the answer machine was flashing when I got back from the school run.

"You have six messages" said the nice lady in that flat superior electronic voice she adopts whenever I push her buttons.

"Message one, Message received at eight eleven"
"Riche boy, it's Alan from Limitless Productions. We love the script. Love it."
Now I'm thinking what do they have of mine?
"Sorry I know it's taken awhile but better late, eh, buddy".
I'm racking my brains now.
"Here's the really good news Channel 4 are thrilled with it. They want to do eight"
Which bloody script - I'm shouting at the machine now like he can hear me.
"One change they want to make, they want to move it from Newcastle...relocate, it'll need a tweak"
Oh, THAT script. Christ. You've had that for two sodding years!
"Give me a ring, talk later"

"Message two. Message received at eight sixteen".
"Richard, it's Mike Prophet. About the sit-com...I know we passed in October but funny sit-coms are back in vogue, we'd like to option. Call me".

Message three. Message received at eight nineteen".

"Richie boy, it's Alan again. Did I say they only want to make the fucking thing in the fucking Bahamas? Can you believe that. Ring me".

"Message four. Message received at eight twenty five".
"(American female) Is that...is this Richard Leslie Lewis's phone? You have some generic message? (long beat)  I'll ring back"

Message Five. Message received at eight thirty three".
"Richard, it's me (my agent) Prince's Picturtes are very, underlined, very interested in your Ken Dodd biopic. Please don't ever make me speak to a machine again. This is money, have your mobile switched on at all times, Ciao."

Message Six. Message received at eight thirty eight.
(American male - a familiar voice)  Hi, is this...(Amerian female in background heard saying 'It's his number') this is Richard right? Okay, this is Stephen Speilberg, we're doing another Indiana Jones, we saw your work on The Last Detective and we like that quirky take...I'm gonna call you back in thirty minutes, okay. We're gonna talk about this, okay?"

Message Six. Message received at eight forty two".
"Dad, can you get off the phone, the bus hasn't come. You've got to take us to school?"

Hope you all had a good April 1st.