What Were We Watching in 2012

The Olympic and Paralympic Games cloud my vision, I can barely see back before them, though my memory retains a vague recollection that a hot Spring had people from the Environment agency handing out hose-pipe bans and warning we'd need three months solid rain if the aquifers were to be replenished. 

Never grant these men their wishes again. 2012 was the year it poured. The aquifers are now overflowing and still it rains. 

Even most sceptics were won over by the summer of sport, not just by the quality of the achievements but also by the way in which the BBC managed to pull together and get it right. All the BBC, TV and Radio and those never to be left unmentioned web pages where we can get more information about the race we've just watched. What more can a web page add to Mo? 

This is the same BBC that got the Royal Flotilla coverage of the Queen's Jubilee year so wrong and later went on to turn a gun on itself with its treatment of the Jimmy Savile Newsnight story and later accusations leveled at a senior politician. One step forwards, two steps back.

The Olympics were about extraordinary athletic achievement and spectacle. I'm trying to forget Radio 1's Trevor Nelson, telling me during the opening ceremony, 'see that bloke in the crowd there? He's my mate!'. Dear god. Not content with his lame-brain inanities at the beginning of the Olympiad the Beeb had the temerity to wheel him out for the closing ceremony too. 

But oh that opening ceremony. Danny Boyle you made us proud to be British and we all thought we'd have to watch it from behind the sofa, like we used to Dr Who. Surely it would be one long cringe; how wrong could we be. Did I miss Danny's knighthood or is he a refusenik like Alan Bennett, "Thanks but no thanks, I'm ok as I am". 

Would you turn down a gong? As New Year's and Queen's Birthday Honours come around I find myself wondering why we perpetuate these arcane medals. Not that I'm ever likely to be called to the palace, but should the manila embossed envelope arrive I'd have to write back a pithy note saying, "I'll pick up mine when Danny Boyle picks up his". 

There was so much to look forward to twelve months ago. The world had it's eye on us and we  didn't disappoint.

On  the box Mrs Brown took hold as the new sit-com sensation - I remain to be convinced. Most big laugh still rely on the inclusion of the word 'fuck' to get the laugh.

A raft of American shows continued to hold my attention. Justified, Boardwalk Empire, Homeland - though the latter in its bid to become a franchise had some horribly clunky moments and may drift even further from the tension of the fine first series when it returns for series three. 

Game of Thrones was good rather than great but delivered a terrific series ending episode.  

 If you haven't been watching Treme it's time to catch up. New Orleans in the aftermath of Katrina seemed a strange option for The Wire creator David Simon's next project but it's approach is a delightful weaving of human stories.


One actor who suddenly appeared from  nowhere was Bobby Cannavale who played the psychotic Gyp Rosetti in Boardwalk Empire and an only slightly less psychotic doctor in Nurse Jackie. The latter is a treat, a drama masquerading as a comedy. It delights with ever episode.

Finally, Mad Men remains a joy. Despite the show being off air for more than twelve months it returned with a confidence that only a show presided over so tightly by one mind can achieve. Mathew Weiner's compelling meditation of the shifting cultural tides of mid 20th century America is just extraordinary. It shows us what we were and what we now are without ever telling us. The best example of writing one could ask for - but then I'm biased. 

Minnion Meets his New Boss

The following conversation was recorded and sent to me by Michael Minnion, radio show presenter of many years who recently met his new boss.

New Boss: Hi, you must be Martin.

Minnion:    Michael.

New Boss: So...(avoiding eye contact) what did you want to see me about?

Minnion:    You asked to see me.

New Boss: Yes, it's good we get to know each other.

Minnion:    You've been here six weeks.

New Boss: I've been listening.

Minnion:    I hope you like what I do.

New Boss: I don't like, I love what you do.

Minnion:    (taken aback) Really.

New Boss: I haven't heard a whole show...

Minnion:    Oh.

New Boss: You're not the only show on the air.

Minnion:    No but...

New Boss: Tell me something, and be honest...do you think it's getting a bit stale?

Minnion:    The station?

New Boss: Your show.

Minnion:    I thought you said you loved what I do.

New Boss: You mustn't take these things literally. I was speaking generically.

Minnion:    Sorry, you've lost me.

New Boss: You're figures are very good. Figures are very, very important.

Minnion:    We've doubled the numbers of the previous guy.

New Boss: Numbers aren't everything. He wasn't very good was he.

Minnion:    He did the show for twelve years, the audience loved him.

New Boss: If he was that good why did he leave?

Minnion:    He was killed in a car accident with four other people.

New Boss: I want you to think about your show.

Minnion:   I hope I do that all the time. I work hard on the content.

New Boss: I'm not talking about the content, Martin, I'm talking about the texture.

Minnion:    O...K...so that's what...exactly?

New Boss: Pretty self-explanatory.

Minnion:   Actually I'm not sure I understand.

New Boss: Come on Martin, do I have to explain everything.

Minnion:    Michael.

New Boss: could you stop interrupting. Imagine I'm a listener.

Minnion:    You're a listener...

New Boss: I'm driving along in my 7 series BMW, the one that pushes the boundaries with flowing lines and fabulous handling. (stares out the window)

(long pause)

Minnion:    (coughs) You're driving...

New Boss: Um? Yes. Driving. When I have you on in the car I want to be able to reach through the radio and touch you.

Minnion:    Metaphorically.

New Boss: Literally. What will I feel?

Minnion:    Feel?

New Boss: What do you feel like. Are you rough, smooth, sticky, porous. You need to consider the listener.

Minnion:    I do. Always. But what has...

New Boss: I'm not talking about those listeners who listen to you now. I'm talking about all the listeners who aren't listening to you. What are you providing for them?

Minnion:     How can I provide something for people who aren't listening to me?

New Boss: (hand up) Please, don't bring attitude into this office.

Minnion:    If they're not listening...

New Boss: ...if they're not listening it's because you're not giving them anything to listen to. Work on it. OK? (hits intercom) Emma, what time's my one o'clock?

Minnion gets up and awkwardly backs out of the office, his head reeling.

to be continued...

A Touch Of Police Squad

I remember the first time I saw Police Squad - not quite like remembering the moment when JFK was shot but I was too young for that, probably in the garden digging a hole - I don't know where I was beyond 'in front of a TV laughing like a drain'. If drains laughs. 

Police Squad was the invention of Zucker, Abrahams and Zucker (who all sounded to me like people ho had been round the table when they wrote the Bible) Pat Proft wrote episode three (another writer at that bible bash surely). It was a spoof of the police series on Tv in the 70's with a high preponderance of puns, sights gags and non-sequiturs, all gloriously delivered in dead-pan fashion, mostly by Leslie Nielsen playing Lt Frank Drebin. Hank Simms, who'd worked as a TV announcer of 60's and 70'd TV cop shows, announced the title of each episode, though his words never matched the caption on screen. From the tiles onwards the show was a non-stop gag-a-thon. 

It was glorious in its freshness, its surreal quality, its joke count. But even as I watched I was aware that I'd stopped laughing out loud and started smiling, then nodding knowingly and then internalizing the humour - my inner comedy man saying, yeah that's funny. It's so hard to keep laughing at this kind of stuff, even when it's hilarious. 

It was cancelled after just six episodes but spawned The Naked Gun: From The Files of Police Squad  films. Those movies took millions, they were and are still loved. 

On Monday the grandson of Frank Drebin - in tone if not name - found his way onto Sky 1 in Charlie Brooker's Touch Of Cloth. A show that does exactly what Police Squad did in every way but a little more gruesomely. It spoofs crime drama beautifully, John Hannah and Suranne Jones gamely play characters not too dissimilar from ones they play in actual cop shows, and it hits you with a hail of jokes that are delivered with such regularity and speed that you have to stop, rewind and sometimes pause to get the full benefit - pause to read the signs, which are everywhere, and are hilarious.

It is relentless. It never stops with the gags, never for one moment are you presented with anything other than full-on jokes. I laughed out loud at much of the first episode but by episode two, shown the following night, I was smiling, nodding and not quite as enthralled as I had been. Maybe this was a fault of the scheduling. The shows run an hour with commercials with a high joke count to sustain, it's also a long time to keep laughing at the same kinds of gags. One a week would probably suffice. 

But well done Charlie for resurrecting the corpse of Police Squad, dusting it down and standing it up for a new audience.  

Nobody Knows Anything

The William Goldman maxim that 'Nobody Knows Anything' in Hollywood extends way beyond California. Whilst those of us who scribble obviously know everything, other less fortunate mortals - those who hire us/fire us, those who are on the staff of broadcasting companies that pay us the money that allow us to buy shoes for our children and bread for our tables - struggle to understand anything.

Patently this isn't true.

I've worked with and for inspiring producers who could spot things that others (me included) couldn't see for looking. Men and women whose judgement, wise words  and light touch is and was to be cherished. They know who they are.

I've also worked for and with men and women who should never have been allowed in any door of any broadcasting company in any known universe. They have no idea who they are.

None of us gets it right everytime, even the mighty beasts - have you seen Aaron Sorkin's The Newsroom?

The pilot was almost unwatchable. I never made it beyond fifteen minutes of episode two. And this is a writer I love. But the whole thing is out of kilter. The idealism that sat so well in the West Wing seems so out of place in a Newsroom. Believe me, I worked in one as a kid and I've walked through them as an adult. Okay, so my experience is British and he's writing an American newsroom where many dynamics are different but even so, they are not populated by young idealists. The idealistic journalist is a thing of the past. Or Hollywood legend.

Young idealists last about a week. Then they become young cynics. Then disillusioned young cynics. If they grow old in the newsroom they become disillusioned old cynical has-beens - and frankly they are a million times more interesting as people and characters than the ones Sorkin has chosen to populate his latest show with.

I heard him say he mis-wrote Studio 60 on The Sunset Strip - a show I had a lot of time for, not just me, there was a sizeable crowd sorry to see that one bite the dust. But Sorkin knows his stuff and when he says he knows what he did wrong you have to believe him. So, when The Newsroom trailers hit the air, like Pavlovs pooch, I began salivating. I didn't realise what I was about to be served was a dog's breakfast. This show feels under researched, under powered; a hark back to a kind of show I thought had disappeared from our screens - and nowhere near as good as Studio 60.

So Goldman's maxim stands. Nobody Knows Anything. Even Sorkin, who has a brain the size of a of planet, can get it wrong. But I'm sure he's working on getting it right.

Someone who got it sooooo wrong that it leaves your mouth gaping was script editor called Ian Maine. Mr Main worked for the BBC at the time a show called Fawlty Towers was being proposed. You may have heard of Fawlty Towers, I doubt you've heard of Ian Main.

He really didn't know anything - what's more, he put it in writing


.

Cheer Up Ken

The BBC Writer's Festival in Leeds last week was fascinating on a number of levels. It's always good to talk to men and women on the same journey, it's good to learn from some of our more successful writers, it's good to shoot the breeze and it's good to hear what everyone else is going through.

BBC Writer's Festival Logo -erm, what exactly is it?

 

Doesn't matter what stage your writing career is at, you will have horrors that haunt your sleeping and waking moments. The series that never was - had a few of them - the episode that got rewritten because the director didn't like it - been there, the T shirt's a little old but still smells - the producers who loved your work so much they forgot to buy it, even though you'd told all your friends you'd had a series commissioned - don't want to even think about that, still shuddering now.
But amongst all that we had a good laugh and swapped some mighty good stories - those that weren't true had been written and rewritten in our heads to sound true. Stories at a writer's festival should be the best stories ever told!
In one of the sessions the question was posed, "Is the Grass Greener...? " It was aimed at dispelling the myth that writing in America for American series is better than knocking things out for British audiences. Everyone agreed on one point - whatever the pain - the money is much, much better. The American system demands a different kind of writer, one who will pool his or her plots in the writer's room as the series is mapped out, arcs found and stories 'broken'. Breaking a story is something I've learned to do even though British writers don't really write the same way as our better paid American counterparts. The 'breaking' is working out what happens just before the commercial break. Makes sense that you work out plot points so that there's a cliff hanger of sorts at the point at which our work cuts away to adverts for diarrhoea pills and sanitary towels - we have to provide an incentive to watch all the way through the break to find out what happens (at least for those people who still watch TV in real time).
In this session we got to hear from some guys who had experienced the best and worst of the American system and also from Swedish writer Lars Lundstrom who's had his work adapted over there although he's never written in the US. Lars being on the panel opened the door to talking about whether life is greener in Sweden. Turns out there's one TV station and not many writers or actors.
Even so, rcent Danish and Swedish series have become must watch TV for so many of us - The Killing, Borgen, The Bridge - have all exerted a mighty influence on the market. Commissioners now look at dramas set in Brighton and ask "Could you make it a bit more  Nordic?" - and with a straight face.

 Lars wrote on the Swedish series Wallander, the character Kenneth Brannagh plays in the BBC series. Both are based on books by Henning Mankell (I read two last summer and they drove me mad. Hated them, which surprised me because they've sold well and provided Swedish TV and the BBC both with series. It could have been the translation - but I hated the structure and the repetitious  procedural, however..) Lars take on the British Wallander was "It's a bit glum, slower than the Swedish version and devoid of jokes". I'm  with you, Lars. Having sat through two episodes of the new BBC Wallander I feel ready to slash my wrists. The gloomy skies, the washed-out pallet, the moments when old Ken looks off into the distance whilst the director holds the shot forever and a day. I swear he was dribbling in the last episode. The plots aren't great, the characters aren't compulsive, the music drones, the dialogues clunks along - you'd never believe that this is getting a sizeable audience. 
Brannagh is such a watchable actor, so inventive and yet here he'd bringing us a character so desperately down beat you want to scream at the telly.  Comparing it with Swedish and Danish series it doesn't come out well. The stroytelling in the Swedish and Danish series may be slow but the pace of the episodes isn't. It's not MTV, whip-pans and cut, cut, cut but they keep going forward. The Beeb's Wallander clumps along in lead boots. But for me the most telling difference is that series like The Killing, Borgen and The Bridge have compelling caharcters that draw you into the story whilst Wallander seems hell bent on concentrating on one character hell bent on pushing you away.

Spidey v The Batman

I know, I know, it's been a while. So many distractions to keep a man away from his blog.

The new Spiderman film is out there. Fantastic! Brilliant! Astonishing!  Oh, I haven't seen it and won't be queueing and paying, the reason is simple.The constant re-invention of comic book titles has now got to the point where I couldn't care less how good it is - I'm bored with the genre. Bored, bored, bored. I hear it's very good. Great. Loads of kids - dads, mums and the odd Grannie - will have a fabulous time enjoying it. But it's going back to the origins again, to reinvent the character again. Fire up the franchise motors, break out the MacDonalds tie-in merchandising, dust off the spidey duvets; ladies and gentlemen it's Spidey time again.

But not for me. No siree.

Last comic book caper I saw was The Avengers. It was good, a bit talky for some but i quite liked that aspect of it. Coming away from the cinema we talked about it as we always do, good, bad or indifferent. Love 'em or hate 'em there always something to discuss. To learn from.

But..

Ask me to describe my favourite scene right now - in fact any scene right now - and...sorry, that was me looking off into the middle distance desperately trying to remember anything that happened. Nope, nothing has stayed with me. Not one moment. 

These movies cost as much as the Greek national debt yet have no lasting effect on me at all. They're bubble gum, comic capers, that re-invent themselves with such regularity now that I can't be bothered any more. They've become the new westerns.

Except...

The Batman 'triology' is different (it was never meant to be a trilogy, it just happened when the first one and then the second one went stallar). What Christopher Nolan shaped in the first two films is something far more interesting than anything else out there that features men in capes. Even more interesting than the Watchmen movie. But then Nolan's cv is unlike the directors of other comic book films - with the exception of Kenneth Brannagh who helmed Thor. Nolan has been exploring extraordinary stories and structures since he first got to sit in the director's chair.

Momento - a story told backwards about a man who has no long term, medium term memory.

The Prestige, two rival magicians vie for the ultimate illusion, tricking each other and the audience.

Inception, a film so dense and layered no one could possibly follow it - or at least that would be the feeling of most studios. However Inception was so clever, so absorbing, so intriguing that it found a huge audience and made those dumb-ass execs sit up and realise we want more from science fiction than cgi monsters and endless explosions (Michael Bay take note).

2008's The Dark Knight wasn't a comic book film at all, it was a proper drama, wrapped up in a thriller. Yes, it had the added edge of Heath Ledger's penultimate performance but this was an astonishing piece of work. So many scenes stay with me, even though I've only seen it once.

Every movie can't resonate like that. I like fluff and balderdash in amongst the great tales but too many sweets make your teeth fall out and I'm of an age where I'd like to hang on to what I've got. So, I'm choosing my goodie bags carefully. I'll catch Spidey on the box - maybe - but the Batman I'll be out there queueing for.

A Televison Tale

This delicious little story comes compliments of Claire Cotton-May who was sensible enough to step away from her television career and step into the real world. However, once a telly gal, always a telly gal....

A man in a hot air balloon realised he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below. He descended a bit more and shouted, "Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am."
The woman below replied, "You are in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground. You are between 40 and 41 degrees north latitude and between 59 and 60 degrees west longitude."
"You must be a production manager," said the balloonist.
"I am." replied the woman, "How did you know?"
"Well," answered the balloonist, "everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to make of your information, and the fact is, I am still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help so far."
The woman below responded, "You must be a producer."
"I am," replied the balloonist, "But how did you know?"
"Well," said the woman, "you don't know where you are or where you are going. You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise which you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it's my fault!"

Brilliant TV - No Writers Or Actors Required

It started with a show called Driving School and a woman called Maureen who was a nightmare behind the wheel. The production team wired the car with mini cams and ever nuance of Maureen's inability to turn the steering wheel, brake, accelerate, change gear or understand the concept of a roundabout was captured on VT. Oh how we loved it. Oh how we clamoured for more. The docu-soap was born.

It was the bastard child of those two genres, documentary film making - which had a long and illustrious place in the British Television schedule, with many talented directors and producers illuminating corners of real life that hitherto had lain hidden - and soap opera, especially Corrie, which always boasted good writing and acting.

And the best thing about this new entertainment, factainment, fictionmentary, whatever you'd like to call it was...it was cheap. Drama costs gazillions, so do proper thoughtful documentaries - not as much as drama but still a hefty investment. What the docu-soap did was feed an appetite at a price the broadcasters could easily afford.

Stick a camera in an Airport, On a Cruise liner, up a gum tree. Watch the 'real people' doing 'real things' hilariously. They milked that cow until they couldn't squeeze another drop out of her - and then they milked her some more.

Oo, how some broadcasters rub their hands with glee at the thought of not having to go through that messy business with writers, that messy business with actors and performers. Real people are hot, they're what it's all about.

And now it holds sway as far as music and entertainment is concerned on TV. No need for the classy acts who spent so much time perfecting their skills, no room for real bands/singers/musicians. Get a window-cleaner in who's done some karaoke and can belt a passable rendition of 'Thriller'. Find some mad woman who can't hold a note and give her five minutes. Get some nutter on who thinks crap balloon animals is the future of entertainment. God forbid we use real talent.


Real people. We love 'em.

Actually I do. I love 'em for their real stories and their real heartache, their real ability to to extraordinary things and the real tragedy they suffer in their real lives. I am inspired by the tales they've told me, exhilarated by the things I've discovered about their families, amazed that people can laugh so much with so little to laugh about.

However...there are limits.

'Structured Reality' - which isn't reality at all but producers giving orange-tanned wannabees storylines to go and 'act out' in a 'real way',  has got more than a foot in the door. It has a leg, two silicone boobs and a fat ass into the room.

And now comes BBC 3's new pilot sketch show - which features people from all over the country 'playing themselves'. Wow. Set in a fictional town with real life characters this show uses no script...and will have no professional performers anywhere near it. It will have catch phrases and play up eccentricities yet it will have no structured script.

Nothing will be scripted.

If nothing is scripted can I tell you how that'll go - or can I leave you to imagine.

And something else. I hate the arrogance of producers who think they don't need writers/performers to make a comedy sketch show. Here's an idea - why bother with producers or camera people? We don't need professional sound or design. Mick and Jan and Col and Spike can put it all together using Derek's video recorder.

And even if the pilot - after much shooting and much editing - looks and feels okay. How are you going to sustain that? It's a gimmick. It's bollocks. It's the broadcasting world we live in where the stunt commission is readily available to any tosser who wants to re-invent the wheel. Fine, you want to make a square wheel, that's brilliant - but it won't roll.

Just because you know the alphabet doesn't make you a writer and just because you make Dave down the pub laugh doesn't make you a marketable performer.

But it might get you on the TV. 

Homeland

It seems that all the good series these days are loosely based on other series (trace that back and someone somewhere had an original idea). I've been enthralled by the US series Homeland which is loosely based on an Israeli series Hatufim - Abducted. Clare Danes was never better than she is here, playing  CIA officer Carrie Mathison, caught in the homecoming ballyhoo and headlights of US Marine, Nick Brody (Damian Lewis) freed from his Al Qaeda captors and back with his family after eight years. But is he an agent of dark terrorist forces or...

It's that 'or' that everything here hangs on and it's going to take the whole series to discover just where his allegiance now lies.The writing here is excellent, this is not just black and white, multiple shades of grey abound, we never feel we're ahead of the story, never feel 'Oh, I knew that was going to happen'. And that is so hard to achieve.

We're all too smart these days, even people who don't realise they're story smart are because we've all been brought up on so much television, so many films. The series that really make a mark are those that think twenty, thirty steps ahead, outwitting the audience, turning assumptions on their heads and making the whole experience that much more satisfying.

But not for everyone.

There are staple British series that seem to INSIST on hackneyed storylines, hackneyed characters and leak plot points to the press so their viewers can KNOW what will happen.

I don't get that.

Pick up any number of mags from the supermarket and there they are, future plots of soaps and continuing series. You hear people talking about what's going to happen in their favourite soaps. That's like writing a book and at the end of each chapter have a page where the author precises what's coming up in the next and the next.

It's one thing to tease, it's another to put so much information out there ahead of an episode that we come to it knowing where the story is going.

I don't watch soaps - though I did have a period when I wouldn't miss an episode of Corrie, back before issues took over, when the whole thing turned more on character than events.  I would have hated to know what was coming up. As I hate those NEXT TIME sequences at the end of some programmes today. Hit the off button before I can discover that the person who seemingly just died is in fact alive and well and in the next episode. Why do they do that?

I'm not reading anything about Homeland, nothing, nada, ziltch. I am enjoying the experience of watching a tightly written, thrilling story that plays out a chapter a week - it's such an old fashioned idea, wait for next week to find out - but it's something that works in favour of the building tension. The moment I get hit by a spoiler is the moment I dread and Homeland is far too good, too absorbing to spoil.

Radio Radio

Broadcasting a nightly evening show On BBC West Region for the past two weeks has put a crimp in the blog. Sorry. One more week to go and I should be back to normal.

The kind of radio shows I like to do are stream of consciousness, go anywhere programmes that you hear so seldom. To be given the freedom to broadcast this kind of show seldom happens. Everything is tightly formatted, all the music is pre chosen by a computer programme, every link timed, every piece of the jigsaw's edges smoothed so the listening will be lulled into believing what they are listening to is 'great radio'. That, of course, is bollocks.

I won't retread my arguments about this again, I've written about this subject before. What I will say is that sitting there for the past two weeks with 'nothing' is for me the most freeing experience a broadcaster can have. Some hate it. Like the writer scared of the blank page. I love it. A colleague said to me the other night, who gets the programme ready for you? I told her no-one, I fly by the seat of my pants.

She said, "How do you know what to say?".

If you work in radio and have to ask that question you wouldn't understand my answer.

I don't know what I'm going to say until I open the mic. No idea. The record ends and I start to speak....hopefully it is amusing, entertaining, bizarre, surreal, informative and worth listening to. I arrive ten minutes before the show, with a few notions scribbled on a scrap of paper and off we go. I go where the listener takes me and I lead them where I think they might like to go. It's a fool who expects the listen to come up with comedy gold but I've been doing this, on and off, for enough years to know how to create the smoke and mirrors necessary to make it work. It helps if you know your listeners and they know you. I'm in that lucky position.

Comedy on this kind of show works in a different way to the kind of thing we'd recognise on TV or the stage or film. Here the atmosphere is more intimate. You are talking to ONE PERSON. The text machine gives me access to comments and stories - but here's the mistake I hear so many young broadcasters make:

They read what is in front of them.

Not enough.

You need to play around with it, read ahead, comment, go off at a tangent, speak directly to the writer, speak to the listener, get conspiratorial about things, 'we are all in this together', it's you and me versus THEM, whoever they may be. It's those atmospheres that create the tone of the show.

I know I'm swimming against the tide of received management wisdom - they believe everything must be the same. I believe in constant surprise and innovation.

But then if I didn't believe that I wouldn't be a writer.

Long Ago and Far Away

Back when I was still at primary school kid's TV was a lure once the school bell signalled the end of the day. We'd run home to catch an hour of our favourite shows before heading out to play.

An hour.

Not come home, flop in front of the TV, retreat to the bedroom and fire up the X box and stay all night. An hour of kids TV.

There were usually two programmes and that was it, the end of children's telly for the day. Seems incredible now that kids have so much 'choice'. Of course that choice is to sit and watch five hours of Hannah Montanna. Canned laughter is alive and well and plastered all over American teen comedy shows.

For us, an hour was just enough. We'd fill our heads with Robin Hood and William Tell, The Lone Ranger, Timeslip, Just William and Ivanhoe and off we'd go to recreate the moves our heroes had just made - or kick a ball around.

The 'choices' available to kids today aren't choices at all. By giving them what they want, endless episodes of one show, we give them no variety. Some of our shows may have been corny but we had variety; Casey Jones, Circus Boy, The Freewheelers - one about a train engineer, one about a kid in a circus troupe, one that involved lots of speed boat chases and kids searched for Nazis in 1970's England! (Surf Nazis Must Die!)

And then the thing that prompted this blog, a show that suddenly pooped into my head after 40-odd years - Mr Piper.

Suddenly there it was, the opening song from the show and I couldn't get it out of my mind. It was sung by a rotund tenor called Alan Crofoot who was Mr Piper. From what I recall he introduced various segments, 'Down on Animal Farm' and 'Port of Call' I remember. I think there were cartoon in there too.

But how about that. More than 45 years on, not only I am singing the words to the theme tune (in my head) but I can remember bits of the show. I wonder if the kids watching TV now will have the same kind of fond memories of their shows as I do.

Hunky Dory, 1976 and The Long Hot Summer

I grew up in the 60's and 70's. A kid in the 60's - which looking back seemed more like the 50's, grey, old old cars, nothing open on Sundays, church. I was a teenager for most of the 70's, I loved the 70's. I can taste what that decade felt like; taste it, smell it, I can close my eyes and see it.

Ricky Gervais tried to capture it in Cemetery Junction, and went some way to bringing it to life. Some way, it has plenty of flaws.

But watching Hunky Dory, the new British indie movies, felt like I was back there, living it all over again. You sometimes wish you could go back - step into a time machine, relive moments in your life, or watch as a spectator from the future. Flip back, take a look, flip forwards. This movie was my time machine.

It is set against the heatwave of the the summer of 1976 that had we Brits gasping for water, filling bottles from stand pipes and being told to take baths together,  the birthrate went up 9 months later. Here, we find ourselves in South Wales where keen drama teacher Vivienne (Mini Driver) fights the heat, curmudgeons in the school and general teenage apathy to put on an end of year musical version of Shakespeare's The Tempest. 

All the songs are covers of classic pop songs from the 70’s, including The Who, The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd, and a brilliantly glamorous performance of David Bowie’s song Life on Mars (a track off the record Hunky Dory, from which the film takes its name). Not only are the young cast all immensely talented singers, in particular the focal student Davey, played by Aneurin Barnard, but there was also not a bad performance to be seen.

Beautiful boy Aneurin Barnard (he is going to be such a big star) leads the teenage contingent, growing up, having his heart broken, falling for 'Miss', singing like an angel. But this is an ensemble piece and every single character that speaks a line here has an arc. They all have a story, however small, they are all three dimensional. That director Marc Evans and writer Laurence Coriat have managed such a feat in such a small - but wonderful picture - should be shouted from the rooftops. It can be done, it can be done.

This is quite glorious, funny and dramatic, full of hippy weird and full-on racist attacks (the skinheads here felt horribly real) performances that capture the teachers of the time and the kids and parents too.

 

There were just four of us in the cinema, it was lunchtime, but laughter rang out - and tears were wept. It did that thing Alan Bennett does so well; shows you something you think only happens inside your head, or something only you think you've experienced. Suddenly you discover that amongst the universal truth up there is also a specific truth. 

It's supposed to be a feelgood film - and it is - but it has 'bottom' as they say. It really affected me; watching my youth up there on the screen portrayed almost perfectly. You never feel a period prop has been placed, a room decorated, a costume newly made. This feels like the real thing. 

It won't get much publicity - and what the tired critics will do is link it in some way to Glee. That's bollocks, this is way better, a marvellous little movie, a gem. When people sing here there are real musicians, playing real instruments. 

And it feels just like the real summer of 76. Go and see it - it deserves to find an audience.

Oscars

So, it's all over for another year. The statues were handed out the speeches were made. Applause, applause, applause.

As a Brit I have two choices how I watch - stay up and go right through the night, or record and watch later. Well, what would you do?

Recording means I can skip the ads...and the walk ups...make it tighter so it zips along. Except Oscar never zips along. This year he stumbled along like an 84 year old on a zimmer frame.

Nowhere in my dreams have I ever dared to think about being the recipient of one of those little golden men, it ain't gonna happen, it's not on the radar. But I have been to other awards ceremonies where I've been nominated and also won things. Let me tell you this - you spend all day waiting for your category to come up and then it's over and done in the blink of an eye, moments if your lucky, a minute or two if you're a star.

Awards ceremonies generally suck. Was that always the case? Maybe I've just grown bored with the notion, I'm sure the presenters were funnier in days gone by, the recipient speeches sharper, better thought out. Thank God for Christopher Plummer this year, a man who'd thought about what he wanted to say, said it, got a laugh and went off smiling.

And Meryl too. She done good too. But best make-up for The Iron Lady - winning over harry Potter? What? Don't ask me.

Most of what transpired on Oscar's big night this year was...dross! There, I've said it. It was not a good show.

And can someone tell me why Angelina Jolie thought that standing on stage posed like some kind of skeletal hooker was a good thing?

Billy Crystal chalked another mark on the presenting duties wall, nine times! He's been good in the past - which is where his career is, and where most of his jokes this year would sit better. Seen it, done it Bill. Look, I've laughed along with Billy but when you come out glistening like a white billiard ball, pumped that full of botox you can't furrow your brow any more I start wondering where the self-awareness has gone?

So many gags fell on deaf ears this year - better to be deaf, you didn't have to hear them, they stank so bad. I had to open my window to let the stench out after Robert Downey Jr and Gweneth Paltrow did their 'hilarious' skit to announce best documentary. Jeez Louise! This is Hollywood, where you have the pick of every comedy writer in town and they go with that? Sheesh.

There were no surprises, all awards went pretty much with the betting - except Girl With The Dragon Tattoo beat Hugo to Best Editing. Otherwise the bookies lost nothing. Not a red cent.

When we came out of the cinema after seeing The Artist I said 'That could win the Oscar for best picture' I said that. Predicted it, all those weeks ago. Me and everyone else who came out smiling. It is a wonderful picture, shame only four people in the US have gone to see it. What do they know, Transformers 950 just took 4 billion dollars.

So that's it for another year. the dresses have gone back, the suits, the shoes - you didn't think the stars actually bought those did you? All is done and dusted for another year. What I shall treasure from this years ceremony is the look on Gary Oldman's face as time after time the marvellous Tinker Tailor... lost out to inferior movies. But then, do little golden statues matter?

You bet they do.

Downton Abbey v Upstairs Downstairs

Downton Abbey has taken the television world by storm whilst poor old Upstairs Downstairs - which began it's second 'series' on Sunday - is in some people's eyes the the unwanted bastard interloper.

A lot of the critics who approached Downtown's first series with noses held higher than Maggie Smith's Dowager Countess have since fallen for its charm. They emerged from Lady Sybil's coattails this week to pronounce Upstairs Downstairs not a patch on the Abbey. Hmmm. For me, is the other way around.

Downton is melodrama, riddled with cliches and plot holes, historical inaccuracies and cardboard cut out villains. On the other hand what Heidi Thomas has created, in her reawakening of Upstairs Downstairs, is a more thoughtful, dramatic piece that draws heavily on pre WWII history shedding an authentic light on late 1930's England.


And that might be the problem.

One has the construction of soap opera - albeit very well dressed,shot and acted - whilst the other is an out and out historical drama. DA is an entertainment - fluff - short scenes that almost all end on a tiny cliffhanger but let's not be snobbish about it, people love it. Love it to bits.

Okay, Upstairs Downstairs has missed several tricks, despite being the better of the two shows dramatically. Julian Fellows plundered the old Upstairs Downstairs in coming up with his Downton Abbey and in doing so he recognised that far from being battered old stereotypes the characters the public loves are pretty much the ones who inhabit the Abbey. Damn it, DA's Lords, Ladies, Maids, Footmen and Butlers are just more...colourful. But then this is his world, he's a lord married to one of the Queen's Ladies in waiting. If anyone should be able to write about class devide it should be him. Having said that the continual hob-nobbing that goes on between the Earl of Grantham's family and the servants who butter their toast and pick up their knickers is quite unbelievable, as many have pointed out.


The colour in Upstairs Downstairs was mainly supplied by Eileen Atkins and Jean Marsh. Eileen Atkins jumped ship before the second series citing differences in opinion over her character's development whilst poor Jean Marsh (Rose from the original 70's series and the housekeeper in the new one) suffered a stroke and had to be written out. Both these actors were instrumental in creating the original series and their absence from the new series leaves two gaping holes. 

I read one reviewer this week who criticised Upstairs Downstairs for not be funny enough! Come on, there wasn't a better line on televison this week than Pritchard the butler commanding "Place this hot water bottle 18 inches from the bottom of Lady Agnes's bed, slightly to the left."Whilst the show isn't trying to be funny it has it's moments of humour - but it wouldn't hurt to have a few more lighter moments and some more intrigue. 

I shall stick with Upstairs, let's see what this full series brings.

Strictly Gershwin

On Valentine's night I got a real birthday treat, a seat to see a great show - Strictly Gershwin, presented by English National Ballet at the Hippodrome, Bristol.

Whoa, hang on there big fella - Ballet? Really?

Yep.

I can't pretend I know much about the subject beyond seeing the Red Shoes/Black Swan/one previous outing to see ENB's Cinderella and all those extended ballet equences in Gene Kelley Movies. I know nothing. Technicaly I am an ignoramus. I react to what I see on a purely instinctive level. And what I saw here was magical.

What was so wonderful about this show was there was so much to react to. Great orchestra, great dancing - no fabulous dancing - ballet, tap, ballroom - and one added little gem.  I grew up playing the trumpet so my eyes always scan the tumpet section first - and sitting in the first trumpet seat was Mike Lovatt. I could barely contain myself - I know I was there to see the Ballet but Mike Lovatt is a hero of mine. His brilliant playing has graced countless movie soundtracks including the James Bond films ‘Tomorrow Never Dies’, ‘Die Another Day', ‘Chicago,’ ‘Beyond the Sea’, ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’, ‘Madagascar’, and Tim Burton’s ‘The Corpse Bride’. His solo trumpet and Cornet was featured in the George Fenton score for ‘Mrs Henderson Presents.’

He also plays with the John Wilson Orchestra who for the past three years have been the must see Orchestra at the BBC proms.

So now the night is working on lots of levels - not least of which is the music the orchestra is playing: Gershwin. George Gershwin was my way into classical music. The jazz melodies chimed with my early preferences. Rhapsody in Blue was glorious, it opened doors to other composers, other eras.

I can praise it no higher than saying this is as good a show as I've ever seen - and I've seen a few. It's currently on tour in the UK an if you get the chance to see it it's worth selling your furniture, your house and your children to get a ticket. Okay, maybe not the house.

Valentines Day - Movies and Massacres

Valentines day gets muddied for me because it's also my birthday.
When I was a kid the St Valentines Day marketing machine had yet to get into full swing. I remember watching the iconic children's TV show Blue Peter as they 'told the story of how St Valentine's day came into being' accompanied by a montage of hand drawn pictures - where is that kind of TV now!!! And then they showed us how to MAKE a Valentines card - I'm not even sure that you could  buy one in the 60's.

The whole point of the Valentine was to send it to someone you Secretly Admired WITHOUT signing it. It would get them guessing and the next time you were around that person you could smile in a knowing way and she/he might put two and two together. Oh, such innocent times.

Nowadays the card shops are full of red Valentine cards/balloons/mugs/cuddly toys/plastic roses/dangly key ring things/badges (Be My Valentine)/bags/wrapping/inflatable sheep. "For my Husband/Wife/Girlfriend/Boyfriend/Ex/Next/Newsagent. Every possibility is covered. I've just watched a news report where the Duchess of Cambridge (Kate) was handed some flowers by a little girl who said 'Happy Valentines Day'. All meaning has disappeared.

Me, I'd like a card with some gangsters on.

St Valentines Day was the day in 1929 when seven mobsters were gunned down as part of an on-going war of the hoods between Al Capone and Bugs Moran. It also featured in Billy Wilder's 'Some Like It Hot'. It's the event that puts struggling musicians Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon in jeopardy. Once the gangsters know the boys have witnessed the killing they have to be silenced. Quipsters though they may be, Curtis and Lemon don't hang around long enough to try and talk their way out.

As we all know - and if you don't, shame on you, go and find this film immediately - their way out was to dress as 'Dames', join an all girl band and take a train heading for Florida. I don't know how many times I've watched this movie over the years but it never gets tired. Curtis and Lemon are on top form, Marilyn Munroe was never better.

So forget the chocolates and the roses and the Simpson's novelty Homer-Valentine underpants, the perfect Valentine's present for me? A night in with a magical Billy Wilder film.

They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To - But Sometimes They Do

It's the kind of blog title that would suggest this is an article about The Artist - it's not. Though the Artist proved that you could re-invent something thought to be long dead and give it a knowing twist without coming over all post-modernist and too knowing. It may be a thing of fluff but it's also a thing of wonder. With the momentum it's gained over the past months at various awards ceremonies I'd say it's a very good bet for Best Picture at the Oscars.

But, hang on this isn't a piece about The Artist, I wanted to draw your attention to The Lincoln Lawyer, last years adaptation of the book by Michael Connolly. Screenwriter John Romano did a terrific job in turning this into a little gem. A gem of the old school. No car chases, CGI, running gun battles or  helicopters,  just a good old fashioned plot with some great twists.

I missed it when it came out and caught it on TV last night; Matthew McConaughey has never been better. He's always had a look of Paul Newman about him but here he turns in a solid gold performance that is all his own. McConhaughey plays a defence lawyer who works all the scams to turn a fast buck. His office is his Lincoln car (registration number NTGUILTY). When told it looks a mess inside he quips, 'The maid comes Tuesday'. It's the kind of sassy comeback I like and this is peppered with them. He knows all the angles and the angels too - there's a nice subplot involving the local chapter of Hell's Angels.

What makes it joyful is a plot so tight you couldn't squeeze a cigarette paper through the cracks. It's one of those films that takes you on a ride where you think you know what's going to happen and then it flips your expectation. The 'big question' most writers would put at the end of the piece is answered half way through. McConhaughey's client is a scumbag but it's how he manipulates the system that makes the whole thing sing.

In Hollywood parlance this feels a bit like Lew Archer meets Quentin Tarantino meets The Verdict. From what I can make out it got good enough reviews and made some money. I'd like to see more. At last Mr M may have found himself a character worth repeating, this could open the door to a franchise.

Originality Is Non-Existent...

The great film-maker Jim Jarmusch said: ‘Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Authenticity is invaluable, originality is non-existent’.

And for those of us digging at the creative chalk face that's true. Each vein we hit seems to be one that someone has plundered before. We can barely work any idea without getting that feeling that 'I'm sure I've seen this somewhere...'. Which is of course the moment when we have to stop, down pen, cease clicking the keys and reassess our stories.

However much we attempt to wallpaper over the cliches once you hit Cliche Town in a script the streets start clearing, the viewers click away.

And yet to see some drama  and comedy on TV these days you'd almost imagine it was the writer's job to deliver a succession of tropes and lines so worn down they are smooth from the pounding. Why is that? I refuse to believe any writer goes in with a notebook full of hackneyed ideas. Heads of This and That tell us - demand - that it is the new and fresh stories that get bought. My arse. If one channel has something the other channel wants one just like it - and then they tell us their product is nothing like the other. Denial. Don't believe them. Remember, people who run television don't watch it. Oh, they get across a landmark series by watching bits, but they don't watch like a viewer watches. Too many spread sheets and number crunchers.

But original programmes do get through, escape the searchlight beam of Stalag Mediocre, climb the fence and break out into the world. Once there they are cheered and applauded for being different - until someone then decides they want one just like it, and so it goes.

The Danish political drama Borgen may not be original - you can argue The West Wing got there first - it may have taken some inspiration from other political dramas but it has a kind of authenticity that I love. I have no experience whatsoever of Danish coalition politics yet this show grabbed me in the first half hour of episode one. I believe the country is run by four people and Danish television news is staffed by six. Doesn't matter, it was real. By the end of episode ten I was completely hooked.I can't wait for series 2.

How can a tiny country like Denmark with a small population, a tiny pool of actors, writers and producers suddenly be showing the sharks in the infested waters of UK and American television how to do it?

That is what I - and I'm sure many others are unpicking at the moment. But if we unpick it and use it it won't be original.

In the meantime for those who hark to the hackneyed, the unbelievable and the resolutely cliched there is a drama, in it's third series on British TV, that shows, for some, originality is non-existent: Whitechappel. It began with a good idea and is now so far down the road of implausibility it is hilarious to watch - if you can bare to watch at all.

Happy Birthday Mr Dick

Charles John Huffam Dickens is two hundred years old today. Well he isn't, patently, no-one is meeting him down the pub for a few pints before going out clubbing. He may have shuffled off his mortal coil in 1870 but today anyone who remains in the consciousness the way Dickens does after two hundred years has to be special. He remains the most revered novelist of his time.

But do we read him?

Over Christmas the BBC presented us with another version of Great Expectations to go with the many other versions of Great Expectations that have gone before. A Christmas Carol remains an all time favourite for many people but have they read it or have they seen one of the many film versions or the the stage musical, or the updated Bill Murray comedy 'Scrooged'?

Everyone knows the story of Oliver Twist but does our knowledge of the story come from watching the film or TV adaptations (the last one was so politically correct I could barely watch). Then there was Bleak House, have you read it or did you seen the brilliant Andrew Davies adaptation of a few years back.

Just a couple of weeks ago the last unfinished novel, The Mystery Of Edwin Drood,  found its way onto TV with a very plausible ending - though I doubt it was the one Charles Dickens had in mind. Very good it was too. But have you read it?

What I'm saying is the majority of those of us who say they love Dickens do so because of the films and television adaptations not because we've all been busy reading the books.

I was given A Christmas Carol and David Copperfield as an eleven year-old boy. I devoured the former and struggled through the latter. Not because Copperfield is particularly impenetrable but because my Dickens novels came printed on flimsy paper in a font so small it was almost impossible to read more than half a page at a time before going blind. I struggled on, through Great Expectations, later Middlemarch and Bleak House - but that it's. I saw Harry Secombe in 'Pickwick'. I saw Ron Moody as Fagin in Oliver. I've seen loads of Dickens but I've only read a few.

My son found him almost impossible to read - and he reads a LOT. Yet his stories survive and work so well when dramatised. I've a notion he'll be around - and relevant - for another two hundred years but I'm not so sure it'll be because people are reading him.

Call The Nostalgia

With politicians from all sides sniping at him Conservative Prime Minister John Major didn't exactly have an easy time in the top job. His cabinet was split on Europe - and other things - he referred to those on his side of the house who were ganging up against him as 'bastards' (I'm sure many a Prime Minister has uttered the same words, but with Major we got to know about them). ITV's satirical masterpiece 'Spitting Image' depicted him as a grey man who wore his underpants on the outside. It was a time when Politicians were thought of as the scum of the earth - not unlike now. It was a time of gloom, crashing financial markets, soaring interest rates.
Against this background a television show captured the public imagination. Simple stories simply told. The darling Buds of May offered weekly tales about Pop and Ma Larkin and their numerous offspring, nothing too demanding, nothing too funny, nothing overly dramatic and yet this confection appealed to viewers in their millions. Huge audiences sat down to watch The Darling Buds of May each week. But why?
Downing Street, never very up on what's on the telly, sent for the tapes. Surely there could be something in this show they could tap into.

But Darling Buds was froth. There was nothing the spinmeisters and statisticians could get a grip on.

Yes, it had 'Del Boy', David Jason fresh off the success of Only Fools, yes it had a very pretty Welsh actress, Catherine Zeta Jones, in her first major role but what was at the heart of the formula. How could the politicians tap into this mix?

My theory about Darling Buds has always been nostalgia and sunshine. It tapped into an England that barely ever existed but one that we all love the notion of. And the sun shone, 99% of the time.

Skip forwards to 2012. A coalition government, headed by a Conservative Prime Minister, beset by Euro sceptics and unloved by the great unwashed. Austerity abounds, times is tough, we live under the shadow of a world going to hell in a handcart.

What are people watching in the millions? A Sunday night drama about bicycle-riding Midwives working in the East End of London in the 1950's - who live with Nuns. 'Call the Midwife' doesn't depict anything too dramatic, nothing too demanding, yes, there's a sprinkling of humour - but not too much and not much in the way of sunshine. But the nostalgia card is a powerful thing. Instead of sunshine we have babies.

In times of trouble we like to look back not naval gaze. Downing street won't need to send for the tapes this time. They can watch on the BBC iPlayer - and wonder how they can tap into the shows success.

Bad Boss III - They're Taking Over The Asylum!

My thanks to David Kursey, the well known radio broadcaster and pseudonym for this tale, which he will tell in his own words. His boss, on hearing that they'd booked actor John Challis for his show, came up with some ways to make the interview 'non-standard’:

"Now I’m a great admirer of Only Fools and Horses, and my views on it are strong. I rate the early ones best because they’re gritty and real. The storylines are funny in the middle years, and some of the incidental characters really come into their own. But I have a firm belief that John Sullivan should have said “no” the minute popular culture reduced his Peckham to just another Christmas tradition. Trigger became too thick to be real or funny; Mickey Pierce surely wouldn’t still be wearing that hat?... John Challis was there throughout, so this was a good opportunity for me.

My co-host had never seen an episode. (That’s a story for another day.) So the boss decided to motivate…

“You must know it – you know, Del Boy… in the market… wears a hat.”

No.

“Anyway, I think you should split this interview into two parts. For the first five minutes you should interview him as Boycie.”

Oh God.

“Then, after five minutes, reveal that he’s actually John Challis and ask him about what it’s been like to play Boycie: does he get recognised, that sort of thing.”

Oh GOD.

I tried to use the situation to my advantage and asked how, if only one of us knew the series, we could both probe John Challis in character.

“Ask him about the bar… You know… when he fell through the bar. Everyone’s seen that.”

Me: “But he didn’t fall through the bar.”

Bad Boss: "Yes he did – someone opened the bar and he went to lean on it and…”

Me: “That was Del. That was David Jason.”

Silence.
 
“But wasn’t he with him when he fell?”

“No – that was Trigger. That was Roger Lloyd-Pack…”

Silence.

“How about asking about the beard?”

“Uncle Albert – played by Buster Merrifield. Now dead.”

Silence.

“Well, you have to remember you know the series better than most of the audience. I’m sure you can make it work.”

We did. I did. We spoke to John Challis, the actor who’d taken the most insignificant of roles and turned him into an essential part of one of the nation’s best loved sit-coms – probably one of the most instantly recognisable figures in British comedy.

At least to some".



The door is still open for any more Bad Boss stories. 

Birdsong Strictly For The Birds

Over the past two Sundays I invested three hours of my life watching a camera move in ever so slowly on the face of a man who didn't have a lot of luck. By my reckoning he died at least three times during this show. It felt like I'd died many more times.

The BBC's attempt to bring Sebastian Faulk's Great War novel 'Birdsong' to life left me wishing the idea had been tossed into a muddied trench of its own. Abi Morgan (The Hour arrrrggggghhhhhh) adapted the book and decided on a structure that ran two time streams in parallel; Stephen Wraysford's affair with the married Isabelle and his subsequent time spent in the trenches. She elected to discard the other time-line from the book - wisely - that brought the story into the 1970's.

Two time lines were enough, in fact often too much. Just as you were getting your teeth into one story it skipped back - or forward - to the other. We never spent enough time with either to properly get to know the people or what was at stake.What is the one thing we all know? Structure is everything, get that wrong and everything is thrown out of kilter.

Money had been thrown at this. Mucho grande moolah. Crowd scenes of hundreds featured hundreds of real people, no cgi here. The battle scenes were impressive, as were the trenches, this was a production that screamed attention to detail.

But the pace!

If I never see another slow zoom I will die a happy man.

I enjoyed Eddie Redmayne's performance in My Week With Marilyn and when I saw he was heading this cast I was interested to see what he did with the character of Wraysford. What he did was stand very still - a lot - and show no visible emotion at all - a lot. This shot was repeated over and over again whilst a piano theme evolved very slowly beneath.

Yes, the summer sunlight captured in the pre-war scenes was very pretty, as was Clemence Poesy as Isabelle, the fine lady who gives up everything for a clerk. But even this story wasn't properly developed. One minute they are touching ankles in a punt and the next they're bonking while her old man is in Paris. When they run away together they have a brief moment in in the sun but then she breaks the handle on their last cup and their relationship is doomed. We discover later why she really leaves him. But a bit of nicely lit bonking doesn't really convey the emotions of the pair. Wraysford may say she was the the only women he had ever loved but all he does is gazed in to the middle distance with a stupid look on his face.

Pace is a tricky beggar. But this made that other slowly paced show 'Mad Men' seem like it is cut by The Editor Supreme at MTV. There has to be a reason to take things ultra slow. This just made me frustrated and uncomfortable.

If you hadn't read the book chances are you wouldn't have picked up on many of the themes. The characters aren't really people but representations of a changing world. Hence Isabelle, who represent all things beautiful, is literally scarred by the war and is never the same again. 

I know how she feels.

I need to watch something that rip-roars along at a mighty pace, just to rid myself of the feeling of torpor I was left with .

Great 'Bad Boss' Story II

Having written about the Bad Boss who told his producer to "Stop bringing me ideas!" I have been passed a number of other such tales.

Such as:
The Radio station boss who told one of his presenters that time checks were more important than anything else he did...

...the TV producer who told a director lighting was the least important thing to worry about...

...the manager so up his boss's ass that when said boss told him budgets had to be cut and he needed to lose staff he kept his tame monkeys and fired the writer and director - and had no show...

And this little beauty, which concerns an experienced producer of a radio phone in show:

Having spent years putting together sparkling radio shows a new boss arrived. The producer was no longer left to their own devices, each day the topic had to be checked with the boss-man to make sure the subject was to his liking.

Each day the producer would come up with good lively suggestion only to have those topics squashed and replaced by something more aligned to the day's news - but so stale that few listeners were prompted to phone in. After weeks of this the phone-in had all but dried up. The producer complained, only to be told that if they did it the producers way they'd have too many calls.

Any more bad boss stories gratefully received.

A Great 'Bad Boss' Story

Last week I was working with a friend on some TV shorts. She told me a great story that had me open mouthed, speechless and angry all at the same time. Just thinking about it makes me want to  kick ass.

This concerned a boss she worked for at the BBC. Now the hallowed halls of the dear old Beeb are not quite as hallowed as once they were. Neither are all the positions of power staffed by the keenest minds. Cascading down from on high you eventually hit a seam of people who never got beyond 'a little bit of power'. However, some of these people wield it like they're Louis B Mayer but without the insight or sensitivity.

Being a creative force my friend kept taking him ideas until one day, unable to cope with her creative flow, he said these words:

"Will you please stop bringing me ideas. With you it's one after another. We have an ideas meeting on a Wednesday, you know the rules, everyone is allowed ONE IDEA. And I don't want to hear any more from you until you've seen the last idea all the way through".

If she didn't know before that she had to move on - she did - this was the moment that cemented it.

"Will you please stop bringing me ideas!"

In the parlance of the young OMG, WTF. In a creative industry those words should be a sackable offence.


Apparently he is still in the same job. Dear God.