Now/then, now/then


It’s always best to make your intentions clear before entering a verbal minefield. This blog concerns (but is not directly about) the biggest story of the moment in the entertainment industries (and beyond) – the recent explosion of sexual harassment, assault and rape allegations which have hit those industries, particularly in the USA, in the wake of the Harvey Weinstein revelations – as well as the previous, very similar set of revelations and accusations which followed the Jimmy Savile expose in Britain. I don’t intend to address those issues themselves – that has been and continues to be done exhaustively on news and opinion platforms and social media – but rather to consider actual and potential implications for archives of film and television content containing the work of those accused or convicted, the public re-presentation of that content and the writing of our cultural history. The fact that many of the most recently accused have already admitted to past “failings” makes it reasonable to speculate on the implications of the scandals for their work, but I seek to imply no judgement on any of those whose names have been linked with abuse but have not had their cases tried in a court, so some of the blog will be hypothetical. All “historic” accusations of abuse need to be investigated according to due process and, whatever the outcome, it may be inappropriate for the work of those accused to be screened or otherwise available, both during and after that process. But an archivist (even a retired one) must take the long view, while everyone else is concentrating on the here and now.

A regular feature of the BBC4 schedule for several years now has been repeats of editions of Top of the Pops from the 1970s and 1980s. Very frequently, these are billed in the Radio Times as “revised repeat”, which means they will have been edited to remove the contribution of Jimmy Savile (or Dave Lee Travis, or….), or performances by Gary Glitter (or Jonathan King, or Rolf Harris, or….). Obviously, it would be inappropriate for any of these to appear in unmediated contexts and, in the case of Savile particularly, the BBC’s own sense of shame and responsibility, as well as consideration for his victims, makes it impossible. In the cases of performers like Gary Glitter, there would also be the imperative to avoid paying royalties to a convicted paedophile. The music of the most popular British star of the 70s has had to disappear from TV, radio and all music purchasing outlets – and probably, as a consequence, from history.

OK, these editions of Top of the Pops are only being presented for the purposes of nostalgic entertainment rather than as the exemplars of social and cultural history they could also be, but there still seems to be a whiff of Stalinism about the re-editing of history at work here – or, perhaps more appropriately, of 1984 and Winston Smith’s job of retrospectively altering news reports to tell the “official” story (remember that ministry of truthOrwell’s Ministry of Truth was partly based on his experiences at the BBC). The purist in me would like to see captions included in any re-edited programme, explaining what is missing at any point and why, but I realise that is not going to happen. The most extreme example of this sort of process in the current spate of scandals is the re-shooting and re-editing of Ridley Scott’s All the Money in the World to replace the performance of Kevin Spacey with one by Christopher Plummer. The film had been completed but not released, so it isn’t a case of changing something which is already a part of film history, but the digital technology to do just that exists and the temptation to use it may grow. After all, film and TV are collaborative arts and it would be unfair on other contributors if something was withdrawn because of the nefarious activities of one star or producer. The Spacey case looks primarily to be a financial decision, rather than a moral one, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, at some future date and if the climate is felt to be right, a “director’s cut” edition appears, with Spacey’s performance reinstated.

The Savile case prompted a flood of allegations against other celebrities from the TV and music industries, some of whom were convicted and jailed (Rolf Harris, Stuart Hall), some tried and acquitted (William Roache) and others found to have no case to answer (Jim Davidson) – a situation brilliantly and sensitively dramatized in Channel 4’s National Treasure. The suppression of appearances by Rolf Harris doesn’t have massive implications – a history of British TV entertainment would be incomplete but not essentially harmed without him. But the William Roache case had different potential implications for our cultural history. If the actor who has been in Coronation Streetcorrie from the very first episode in 1960 had been found guilty of a historic rape charge (or even if his acquittal hadn’t been so decisive) the entire archive of the programme, which represents the greatest fictional social history of the last six decades we possess, may have been compromised.

And what would a cultural history of the United States in the 1970s and 1980s look like without, for sake of argument, reference to The Cosby Show or the films of Woody Allen? Or any history of cinema in the later 20th century without any films starring Spacey or Dustin Hoffman? Not that this is necessarily likely to happen, but the effects of scandals, sexual or otherwise have never been predictable. Consider the different outcomes to the following cases from different periods of film and television history:

ArbuckleThe case of Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle: film history tells us that the two great pioneers of silent film comedy were Chaplin and Keaton, but that could have been very different. Arbuckle’s films were as popular as Chaplin’s and he gave Keaton his start in the business. But the scandal surrounding the death of Virginia Rappe, following a party at Arbuckle’s house, effectively finished both his career and his reputation, despite the fact that he was cleared of rape or any involvement in her death. A nervous studio not only banned, but also destroyed his films – what remains today has been reconstructed from sub-standard copies from the world’s film archives.

The case of Roman Polanski: Hollywood in the 1970s was clearly a more forgiving place and there was no shortage of support for director Polanski when he fled the US on the verge of re-sentencing, after having pleaded guilty to the statutory rape of a 13-year-old girl. It was still forgiving when he won the Academy Award as Best Director for The Pianist in 2003 and received an ovation at the Oscars in absentia. His ability to continuepolanski his film-making career (in Europe, at least) has been unaffected by the scandal and his previous films remain highly regarded and easily available. Indeed, there has always been a feeling that an artist who draws upon his or her own experiences (and Polanski’s have been considerably more extreme than most), produces more “authentic” work. While not above the law, artists have often considered themselves beyond the norms of socially acceptable behaviour. Not any more.

The case of Chris Langham: after a patchy career full of minor roles, including a failed stint on Not the Nine O’Clock News, Langham made a breakthrough in the parody documentary People Like Us. Then, in 2005, came two roles which seemed to have set him onto the path of success and which brought him both British Comedy and BAFTA Awards for best comedy actor. I remember him accepting the former by ‘phone and wondering why – it soon became clear with his arrest, followed by conviction and imprisonment, for possession of child pornography. But what of those two series he had langhamstarred in? Armando Iannucci’s The Thick of It, in the first season of which he starred as the hapless government minister Hugh Abbot, simply evolved into one of the most brilliant satires of the last decade without him. That first series is available on DVD, though with Peter Capaldi on the cover now, rather than Langham. Paul Whitehouse’s Help on the other hand, in which Langham played a psychiatrist to a variety of characters, all played by Whitehouse, was finished by the case and there was only ever the one season. It was the best thing Whitehouse had done since The Fast Show, but, if you want to see it, the only copy publicly available is on a region 4 DVD at a high price. In the meantime, the release of the second season of People Like Us was delayed and was unheralded when it arrived. So, the approach towards Langham’s existing work was entirely pragmatic and sensitive to potential pitfalls.

I can discern some parallels here with the recent controversies, from Cape Town to Oxford to Charlottesville, over monuments to people whose historic status was built on actions and attitudes which history now condemns: Cecil Rhodes, Robert E. Lee et al. A robert e leekey question is whether these monuments have become a part of history and, if not, how far back do you have to go before they are regarded as such? Monuments to ancient empires based on slavery – Egypt, Greece and Rome – are treasured and are part of UNESCO heritage sites. The British Empire and the American Civil War have modern resonances which make things more contentious. The comparison may seem extreme, but how far things remain in the public consciousness can affect their place as a part of history. Films and TV programmes can be seen as a kind of audio-visual statuary in this context. If something is deemed to be unsuitable for continued public display, then it should be kept in a museum (for monuments) or an archive (for film and TV). Ideally, the cultural institutions involved will be able to make the materials publicly available with the appropriate contextualisation. It can be awkward and the contextualisation is everything. You either contextualise in public (which is preferable for historic continuity) or make materials available in a controlled museum/archive environment, for scholars only (who will then write the history and include or exclude things according to what they find of interest).

So far, understanding the recent cultural past in the light of the Savile case and its subsequent revelations has been superficially done. Channel 4’s It was Alright in the Seventies was an interesting attempt to use TV extracts featuring examples of sexism and racism to understand cultural change, but succumbed to the lure of cheap laughs and sensationalism. There is little more awkward than trying, as I have experience of, to till deathpresent episodes of Johnny Speight’s Till Death Us Do Part to a modern audience. It is a crucial television text from the sixties and seventies, which was made with the best intentions and is brilliantly written and performed, but the racism, in particular, is impossible to present without context and pretty difficult with it. What shocks the most is not the language or attitudes presented, but the delighted reaction of the contemporary studio audience. When the BBC re-made a lost episode as part of their sitcom season last year, they struggled to find one which was free of racist references and, having done so, still had to point out to the audience that the sexist attitudes were from another era.

Of course, the falls from grace we are currently witnessing will themselves become part of our cultural history, as will their effects on existing work, but it is the potential suppression of that existing work that concerns me. A quick scan through the film listings in the most recent four editions of Radio Times reveals no scheduled transmissions on broadcast TV of any films featuring Kevin Spacey and only one (The Graduate on TCM) featuring Dustin Hoffman. This is probably the right call, for the time being, by the broadcasters, who need to protect themselves against accusations of behaving as though nothing has happened, but the speed at which revelations are coming out may remove a significant part of our film heritage from public view, with the work of many fine contributors thrown out with that of the offending few. Interestingly, the letters page of recent editions of Radio Times contains complaints against the removal of the new Agatha Christie treat from this year’s Christmas schedule due to the ongoing investigation against Ed Westwick, thus neatly highlighting the BBC’s current dilemma.

A key question is how far one can separate a work from the personality of its creator and whether unacceptable views or behaviour diminishes how we view that work. For me that has rarely been a problem (as a life-long devotee of the works of Wagner, I long ago reconciled the fact that the man who wrote the world’s finest music dramas also wrote some of the world’s most unpleasant anti-semitic tracts), but I can understand the position of those for whom it is. Much will depend on the nature of the work – a stand-up comedy routine will depend much more on our connection with the performer than a piece of drama will on our views of the writer or director. Which brings me to the most unsettling of the recent cases: that of Louis CK. In this blog and elsewhere, my HoraceAndPeteadmiration for his work is on record, particularly Horace and Pete, which I regard as a modern American classic and my view of which is not changed by the recent revelations about his personal behaviour. It is possible to have integrity as an artist even though it may be lacking as a person. Indeed, if the work is dealing with human failings, as the best work so often is, then it can help to understand those failings personally – maybe it is even essential. Louis CK’s I Love You, Daddy may well turn out to be the most relevant piece to emerge from this whole situation – I would say that I can’t wait to see it, but it looks like I’m going to have to – maybe for a very long time.

In the final analysis, individuals must be answerable for their actions, however long ago and however different the social climate then. Their personal future status will depend on the courts of law and on the court of public opinion, but the products of our shared cultural heritage in which they have previously been involved should not automatically be thrown out like babies with dirty bathwater.

Planets and (TV) Universes


An eel diving into a lake at the bottom of the ocean? A fish with a bulbous transparent forehead so that it can see upwards and backwards? You’ve got to be kidding me, right? No – just two of the many startling sights from the latest edition of Blue Planet II (BBC1, Sundays), delivered from the deepest blue ocean to our bonfire-night living rooms in close-up and glorious high-definition. Oh, and just for good measure, as well as showing us deep-sea creatures which looked like something out of Doctor Who or an advert for cooking with gas, this awe-inspiring hour of television hinted at the origins of life itself and the possibility of it existing elsewhere in our own solar system. This was the secondblue-planet-2-2017-fragman_10062808-14090_1800x945 in the series and the first was pretty spectacular, too – some of the shots of waves were as wonderful as those of the creatures under them and the surfing dolphins were brilliant.

Just as with Planet Earth II last year, and Life Story before that, we are getting the most spectacular new wildlife footage possible, shot using the latest equipment and techniques, the most significant of which is the use of small, resilient, remotely-controlled cameras. Digital technology allows the time and patience required to achieve the best shots, without the need to waste expensive film stock or the equally expensive time of the cameraman in the process.

The other thing which has changed is how natural history programmes and series are put together. The familiar, reassuring presence of Sir David Attenborough is the only remaining link with what has gone before. Just as the speed of light is the only constant ad_204471301in an expanding universe, so the presence of Sir David is the one thing you can rely on in the changing universe of TV natural history. I had the enormous privilege of working with him on a talk he gave as part of our TV documentary season at the BFI two years ago, in which, using the clips we researched and selected, he traced the development of the techniques of natural history programming from the earliest, studio-bound primitivism of the early 1950s to the filming of the landmark series Life on Earth (BBC, 1979), nearly all of which he had led or been personally involved in. His wonderful talk can still be seen on the BFI website here.

Life on Earth was the high watermark of natural history series in terms of both the quality of its images and the scope of its ambition: to explain the evolution of species in 13 parts. He followed this with a succession of brilliant variations on the theme, all designed to explore aspects of the natural world in more detail and all containing the trademark word “life” in the title: The Trials of Life (1990), Life in the Freezer (1993), The Life of Birds (1998), The Private Life of Plants (1995) etc. Each one showcased even more spectacular advances in wildlife filming than its predecessor and, as widescreenLife on Earth (1979) and high-definition television systems arrived, so the familiar stories were re-told in higher quality, interspersed with whatever new animal behaviours had been found in the process.

Where, previously, footage had been sought to illustrate a chosen thesis, more recently it seems that each series is designed to showcase whatever spectacular footage has been obtained. Hence the “movie sequel” titling of series like Planet Earth II and Blue Planet II. Now into his 90s, but miraculously still as vital and engaged as ever, Attenborough’s contribution is confined to an introductory piece to camera in the first episode of a series and a concluding one at the end of the last, plus, of course, reading the narration, which he no longer writes, though he does insist on having the final say on its contents. The last major thing Attenborough did which had a proper thesis was The Rise of the Animals in 2013 and that was actually an updating of Life on Earth, using state-of-the-art high definition graphics and revealing the results of the latest dinosaur excavations, which the then 87-year-old presenter climbed up a Chinese mountain to investigate. After a long lifetime of intrepid and memorable location work, he has certainly earned his place of comfort in the narrator’s chair.

But there are also fewer words now. The key element of the natural history programme today is music and the building blocks of each programme are self-contained sequences, usually containing dramatic confrontations between species. These are clearly designed as much to stand alone on video sharing and social media platforms as to constitute part of a programme and they often look like music videos. And the composers have been recruited from the worlds of TV drama and the movies: firstly Murray Gold, whose dramatic scores are such an integral part of Doctor Who; and more recently the renowned and prolific Hans Zimmer, the most relevant of whose numerous credits are probably Gladiator (for the animal “battle” scenes) and The Lion King (obviously!).

The music certainly makes the sequences highly dramatic and, because the style is associated with fiction and conveys emotions through association, could even be accused of having an anthropomorphic effect. It can also be used to provide sound effects where they do not otherwise exist, such as underwater. Some fish look very frightening, but they don’t roar, though music can suggest that they may be doing something similarly menacing. The letters page of the current Radio Times is full of predictable complaints about the use of music in Blue Planet II, but, for me, it has contributed massively to some fantastic sequences: one thinks of the barnacle goslings leaping from the cliff in Life Story, grippingly scored by Murray Gold and embedded here (though only in part – the whole sequence lasts about 10 minutes and is well worth checking out); and, of course, the iguana hatchlings escaping the marauding snakes in Planet Earth II. And, for humour, the flamenco dancing spider in Life Story is hard to beat.

One other recent development is also worth noting – the ten-minute “making of” sections at the end of each programme, which provide transparency where there may previously have been distrust as to how the programme makers may be manipulating their footage (remember the polar bear cub?). But, if you look back at the clips selected by Sir David Attenborough for his talk at the BFI, you will find that the most significant milestones in the development of natural history programming were similarly up-front about how the filming was done. The evolution of natural history programming on TV is, after all, a great story in its own right.

Trouble in Store (TV not for keeps)


You may have realised from the headers on this site that I am an avid collector of television and film on DVD and Blu-ray. I’m often asked, not least by my wife, why our shelves are so full of these things and, moreover, why I keep buying more of them, when so much is available online or through TV subscription services. The answer came by e-mail at the beginning of this month, though I was aware it was on the way. On 1st November, the BBC Store, designed both to unlock the treasures of their archive and (ultimately, I assume) replace the distribution of BBC productions on home video formats, was closed down.

I always regretted the move away from home video release – as a former archivist, I knew that the only sure way of knowing you had something was having it on a shelf (I would certainly never have trusted the cloud, as some archives do). But I had got used to buying music as files rather than physical objects (and, indeed, I enjoy the flexibility of use that gives me) so I was resigned to the fact that it would have to apply to film and TV titles in future and I have downloaded movies and TV from iTunes where it has been the only source of things I wanted, such as the films of Henry Jaglom or the US release version of Kubrick’s The Shining. OK, I know I could get a dual-format player and import discs of these titles, but that’s not the case with Louis CK’s instant AmericanHoraceAndPete classic Horace and Pete, which was originally only downloadable from his website (which is how I bought it) and has never been released on disc.

In these cases, the files I purchased have been capable of being moved around and I have copied them from my PC to my iPod for security against machine failure. But buying files from the BBC Store was different – they couldn’t be moved and you had to download a special app on which to keep and play them. With the closure of the Store, this has gone, too. So, the prospect of buying and downloading titles to “own” (as indicated in the publicity still at the head of this post) was basically a con (though I’m sure they will have covered themselves against this accusation in the terms and conditions – who knows? Nobody reads them). Buying from the BBC Store was not buying for keeps – just a long-term loan (and not so long, as it turned out).

ddare1To be fair, the BBC are refunding money spent on purchases, so this must be an expensive mistake for them and one which has set back the aim of unlocking the archive. Which is such a shame, because there was some great stuff there and the promise of much more to come. For me, the collection of previously unreleased Dennis Potter plays was the main attraction – I had downloaded some of them and was planning on getting more when the axe fell. I’m not sure we will ever see them released on DVD or Blu-ray, but I can hope. The same goes for several recent series which were only ever available on the Store. Top of my list would be the first season of Stefan Golaszewski’s wonderful Mum – hopefully the imminent arrival of season 2 may prompt its release.

Opening up public access to the BBC Archive, which I worked at for ten years and with for a further thirty, has long been a source of both promise and frustration. I remember Greg Dyke, when he was Director General, getting up at the Edinburgh TV Festival and promising that the archive would be thrown open to all, but all that materialised in the end was a handful of wildlife footage. The idea that we, the license payers, “own” past BBC content because we paid for it is understandable but misconceived. What we paid for was a professional and creative organisation which made the things we enjoyed watching by entering into contracts with talent, who still own their individual shares of the intellectual property in the material, making it expensive to release to the public (which is why we got the wildlife – animals have no intellectual property rights though they do, we are often told, have “talent”). I imagine the limitations on how things were distributed through the Store, which I am complaining about here, may have had something to do with rights questions, as the prices were cheaper than they would have been for DVDs, even taking the cost of manufacture out of the equation.

Anyway, the e-mail that erstwhile BBC Store customers received states that “the BBC is currently exploring ways by which archive programmes can be viewed” and “we do hope to make the programmes you could only get on BBC Store available elsewhere at some point in the future”. Plus ca change……

And, while I‘m on the subject of the home video industry, I might as well air another, possibly related aspect that is also pissing me off and that is the unavailability of certain titles, film and television, in Blu-ray formats when they are being newly released on DVD, especially here in the UK. I don’t think this is a question of manufacturing costs, as Blu-rays are clearly being made for other region B/2 countries in many cases and that isUtopia where I am being increasingly forced to source them. In recent months I have received deliveries from (the second season of Channel 4’s Utopia), (Terrence Malick’s Voyage of Time, not released here at all – and I am currently awaiting a Blu-ray of Malick’s Song to Song from I know not where, but at double the price of the DVD version were offering) and, increasingly, from Australia (the second and third seasons of HBO’s visually splendid The Leftovers, plus Ken Burns’ The War – his Vietnam War seems only available on DVD outside the US, but, in that case, it’s OK because of the provenance of most of the footage – see my previous blog on this series). Could it be that we are being subtly nudged towards the use of streaming and subscription services by the absence of the best quality materials on disc? Certainly the BBC, as well as Channel 4, has failed to issue some of its best recent productions on Blu-ray in the UK. Hugo Blick’s The Honourable Woman was initially and for a long time only available on DVD and I bought it, only for the Blu-ray to subsequently appear, which was doubly frustrating!

Keeping a home audio-visual collection is subject to the same principles as professional ones: you can’t just put things on shelves, or into file servers, and leave them there – effort and expense must be incurred to ensure replay machinery is maintained or software is up-to-date and, in these cases, we are all at the mercy of technology companies, themselves always keen to force the consumer and the professional alike towards the next thing. But, given the choice between files and discs, it’s the latter for me for film and TV. Better stockpile some players, though.

Four Yorkshiremen hit 50 (comedy, not cricket)


Who’d have thought, 50 years ago, I’d be sitting here writing a blog about what is still the greatest TV comedy sketch ever? That’s my opinion, of course, and nothing divides opinion quite like comedy.

There are plenty of lists of the greatest ever sketches and the results differ wildly (especially depending on whether the lists or polls are of British or American origin), and recent hits sometimes usurp the greats (Little Britain’s Lou and Andy topped the Channel 4 poll), but there are certain classics which feature quite regularly. The Dead Parrot, the One-Legged Tarzan and Two Soups usually make an appearance, as well as a much-loved routine by the Two Ronnies – you know the one. But in my humble estimation, the Ronnies couldn’t hold a candle to the sketch that would top my list – in fact they couldn’t hold FOUR candles to it. That sketch was first broadcast exactly 50 years ago tonight, on the 31st October 1967, though it has become such a classic that it has been performed by different casts on different occasions down the years and is regularly wrongly associated with a different show to the one it premiered in.

at-last-the-1948-show-20050930031415462The Four Yorkshiremen sketch first appeared as the last item of the 6th edition of the second series of At Last the 1948 Show, written and performed by John Cleese, Graham Chapman, Tim Brooke-Taylor and Marty Feldman. The show featured sketches by members of the quartet, linked by a hostess – “the lovely” Aimi MacDonald. The final sketch of each show usually featured all four writer/performers. Which of them actually wrote the Four Yorkshiremen sketch was long a matter of dispute, though it seems that Tim came up with the original concept and he was given a credit of thanks for it on the recent Monty Python re-union shows.

But what makes this sketch so special? Of course, it is hilariously funny and the performances are brilliant, but what else? What makes it such a great experience, no matter how many times you have seen it? And why is this, original performance so much better than the ones which followed? For a start it is beautifully structured – almost musical. I would compare it to a string quartet playing a series of variations, like the second movement of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden quartet. It starts with a few short comments which gradually lengthen into these wonderful exaggerated reminiscences which are repeated in style and elaborated in content as they are passed around the four performers, each echoing and then outdoing the previous contributor. The four are actually seated like a string quartet – Cleese at first violin, Brooke-Taylor as second, Chapman on viola and Feldman as ‘cello. And the script is just so poetic, full of alliteration and echoes: “But it were ‘ouse to us”; “Corridor? We used to dream of livin’ in a corridor”. The direction by Ian Fordyce is brilliant too, full of close-ups and two shots and cut to the rhythm established by the script. Above all, the performances by all four are perfectly timed and judged.

yorkshiremen1_203x150The thing that has made this sketch seem such a classic is the fact that it has been re-performed many times, with different casts, usually as part of live theatre shows, particularly charity galas. it’s first stage outings were as part of Monty Python Live shows, first at Drury Lane (recorded in audio only), then at the Hollywood Bowl, which was filmed. Strangely, Cleese was not involved in that performance – Eric Idle taking his part. Chapman played the same role as he did in the original, with Michael Palin filling in for Brooke-Taylor and Terry Jones for Feldman. And so began the association with Monty Python’s Flying Circus which persists to this day, and it is regularly referred to as a Python sketch. Other performances followed in such events as The Secret Policeman’s Ball and Comic Relief, as well as the most recent Python re-union shows at the O2 referred to earlier, though none have come close to rivalling the perfection of the original, probably because the need to declaim in a theatre ruins the essential rhythm of the piece. Guest performers have included Rowan Atkinson and a revival for Amnesty inFour fundraisers 2001 featuring Eddie Izzard, Harry Enfield, Vic Reeves and Alan Rickman was more of a parody than a performance. More recently, the Four Fundraisers sketch for Comic Relief starred Izzard, John Bishop, David Walliams and Davina McCall trying to outdo each other with their tales of the remarkable things they had done for charity (of course, the sketch is introduced with the Monty Python theme!). You can see them all on YouTube, together with countless amateur versions and even one in Hungarian! (hopefully not a misleading translation).

And the Four Yorkshiremen was not the only 1948 Show sketch re-cycled in other shows. One even turned up in Monty Python’s Fliegende Zirkus (the show the Pythons did for German TV), while Marty Feldman revived the wonderful Bookshop Sketch and a few others in his own show, Marty, for the BBC. Cleese and Atkinson also performed a version of the Beekeeper sketch on stage.

But there’s another major reason why the stage performances usurped the original and the association with Python was cemented – the recording of the 1948 Show in question, along with most of the other editions, was lost for many years. In addition, the show had only been seen in its complete form in the ITV London (Rediffusion) area. Fortunately, that was where I lived and, being a massive devotee of TV comedy in the sixties, I never missed it (I also bought the album of sketches from the first series and bored people by reciting them word-for-word at any opportunity). When I joined the BFI archive in 1988, one of the first things I did was search the Rediffusion collection, which the archive had acquired, for copies of the show and was disappointed to find only two had survived. Then, in 1990, Dick Fiddy, my friend and colleague at the BFI, told me he had heard rumours that there were some copies of the show in Sweden. So, at that year’s gatheringSVT_logo of the International Federation of Television Archives I approached Sten and Lasse from SVT and asked them if they had any knowledge of this. “Oh, yes”, they replied, “we have them. We bring them out every Christmas for a laugh”. They promised to send me copies and confirmed that they had five shows, but when they arrived they turned out to be compilations of sketches from both series, edited together for international distribution, rather than original programmes. The Four Yorkshiremen sketch, however, was there and we showed it at the National Film Theatre. Shortly after that, Dick, Veronica Taylor and myself foundedmbw the BFI’s Missing, Believed Wiped campaign to search for lost British TV shows and At Last the 1948 Show has been one of the great successes. Copies of the shows have come back from private collectors, from overseas (ABC Australia) and from the archive of David Frost (who was Executive Producer). There are now only three of the 13 shows which are incomplete, and the search goes on for those.

1948 showAnd the existence of the telerecordings allows a long-overdue re-evaluation of the show itself, which until now has been seen mainly as just a pre-cursor to Monty Python’s Flying Circus, but deserves recognition as a true classic in its own right. Python was more formally innovative and had the greater impact, but the 1948 Show is more consistently funny across its 13 editions. John Cleese, Tim Brooke-Taylor and Aimi MacDonald have all enthusiastically joined in the screenings of the recovered shows and Cleese notes in his autobiography, So, Anyway (Random House, 2014) that he was delighted and surprised at just how good the material was when he got to see it again. The 1948 Show also beat Python to the use of a well-known phrase now indelibly associated with the latter: the words “and now for something completely different” were first spoken by Aimi MacDonald in one of her links between the sketches.

So, please join me in raising a passable glass of Chateau de Chasselas in honour of the 50th anniversary of the Four Yorkshiremen – undoubtedly the greatest TV comedy sketch of all time. But try telling Two Ronnies or Little Britain fans that – will they believe you?

I’ll give it five


There is just too much on TV to keep up with it all, especially when it comes to long-form drama, so how and when do you decide to stop watching something you thought was going to be a regular viewing fixture for yourself? In my first blog on this site, I mentioned that I had given up on The Handmaid’s Tale after 5 episodes, despite the positive reactions I had read from critics I greatly respect. Since then, it has won multiple Emmys, so did I get it wrong? I ask that question now because I am facing the same dilemma with another highly regarded piece – David Simon’s The Deuce (HBO), which reaches its 5th episode on Sky Atlantic tonight. It’s make or break time for me.

Like Handmaid, The Deuce started really impressively and had me hooked. In both cases, a very specific world was conjured onto the screen in magnificent detail. The Deuce was actually the more impressive in this regard, as the world it was creating was a real place at a real historical time (New York in the early 1970s). And, unlike Handmaid, The Deuce quickly established strong and recognisable characters to populate this world. But then it stalled, as though it had already done enough. One of the great attractions of modern TV drama to talented writers and directors, it is often said, is the scope for creating characters with great depth and developing them over a long period of time. This is certainly true. Establishing complex characters quickly was always a rare gift in both film and TV (Jimmy McGovern can do it – so can Sally Wainwright), but the long form also gives the opportunity to withhold information about characters and surprise the audience with it at a later stage. But it does seem that, in many series, this has now become the main purpose, at the expense of plot dynamic and development – and it’s not enough to keep me watching, especially when there is so much other wonderful stuff, both past and present, clamouring for attention.

Hill Street BluesNow don’t get me wrong. I have happily followed many series primarily because of engagement with the characters. I never missed an episode of Hill Street Blues or NYPD Blue. These, though, could be relied upon to provide constantly engaging and occasionally startling narratives and, as dramas with contemporary settings, had scope for re-invention. And, although they had their high points, those series never failed to deliver, even when past their best – unlike, say, Homeland, another series I have watched throughout, despite several very rocky seasons until its more recent revival (I thought the last season, dealing with the Presidential transition, was the best since the brilliant first season – maybe even better than it).

One crucial aspect seems to me to be whether a series has an end in sight or whether it simply intends to continue until either its creators feel it can go no further or its audience wearies of it. If the latter, then it needs to be constantly refreshing itself – if the former, then it needs to maintain a high-level of engagement, as, for instance, Breaking Bad did. I would imagine The Handmaid’s Tale has an end in sight, as it is based on a novel which has already been made into a film for the cinema, so extending it beyond this series was one of the reasons I gave up, but maybe I will need to go back to it if it completes a satisfactory journey over a number of seasons and continues in high critical regard. The Deuce, on the other hand, looks set for a long haul without necessarily knowing where it is going. This approach strikes me as similar to the way Dickens created his novels (and I’m not – I have to confess – a massive Dickens fan). A series which has its origins in a novel (or a series of novels) does not necessarily have to keep the end of the novel in sight, though. Game of Thrones has adapted new novels in thegame of thrones series as George R.R.Martin has written them. Much the same is happening on a smaller scale with Wolf Hall (and we already KNOW how that will end!). Most interestingly, The Leftovers adapted Tom Perrotta’s complete novel in its first season, with the novelist as co-screenwriter, and continued and completed the story this way in seasons 2 and 3, but without any further novels appearing.

So, how can you tell what will be worth following and what to give up on? Well, you can’t for certain, and that’s the point and part of the fun – not knowing if it will be good or bad, as well as not knowing if the ending, if there is to be one, will be happy or sad or something in-between. The question you ask yourself is: “Is this a place I want to stay in?”. In the days before the introduction of the story arc, this was easier, though the engagement factor with individual episodes was an important consideration. I have made plenty of errors, particularly with The Sopranos, though the scope which now exists for revisiting and redeeming those mistakes makes them easier to make, and I’m really looking forward to redeeming that particular error. On the other hand, I think I got it right when I gave up on Boardwalk Empire, though that took me into the second season before I realised how essentially hollow it was.

So far, I have been talking mostly about American series, but is this a mainly American thing? It certainly used to be, but the model has been creeping into British TV for some considerable time now. The British drama model used to rely more on what are now called mini-series (i.e. single series dramas with a contained plot) rather than returning ones. But you always knew which were intended to be which. Nowadays, the influence of the American model means that what would previously have been a single series drama may well return, if either the writer hopes to extend it or the broadcaster wants more of something that has been a big hit. The use of the singular “writer” is key here, because the British TV tradition of the writer working alone on a series is still the usual pattern (though there are exceptions), but it is not best suited to the American model. As a result, I think there have been more failures than successes.

broadchurchExhibit A is Broadchurch, which I would remember as one of ITV’s great recent dramas if it had ended where it should have, after what became the first season. But a series which is both a major commercial and critical success is something TV cannot resist trying to replicate, and I was so disappointed by the way the second season stretched credibility in order to perpetuate itself, that I gave up on it. I made it all the way through the second season of The Fall (BBC2), which I thought was excellent until the final seconds of the final episode but the lack of a conclusive ending and the subsequent attempt to stretch it further so alienated me that I resolved to avoid the third season. Did anybody watch it? Was it any good? There have been some successes, though: Happy Valley came back just as strong for its second season and Peaky Blinders found the missing ingredient that Boardwalk Empire lacked.

So, it’s back to David Simon. The Wire achieved greatness by making each season distinctive – like each one was a mini-series of its own. Treme was good (and had terrific music performances) but ultimately became somewhat aimless. Show Me a Hero was a wonderful mini-series, which managed to make housing policy in Yonkers in the eighties gripping over 6 episodes. Which way will The Deuce go?

Perspectives on The Vietnam War

BurnsA new series by Ken Burns is always a major event and The Vietnam War (currently playing on Mondays on BBC4) is certainly the most significant thing he (together with his collaborator, Lynn Novick) has produced for quite some time. Any documentary series on that war was always going to attract criticism from various quarters, and, though the critical response has been overwhelmingly positive, the series does have its detractors. The tag-line “there is no single truth in war” indicates Burns and Novick’s approach, but will no doubt be regarded as a get-out clause by those with their own agendas on the subject. For me, it is one of the best things he has done and my sole regret is that the BBC is only giving us half of it – the so-called “international version”, with each episode reduced to 55 minutes – just as they did all those years back with The Civil War. The good news is that the full version will be available on DVD at the end of the month, though at a hefty price (I sense a stitch-up here).

The angle I want to consider in this blog is the use, or more specifically, the presentation, of archive footage in Burns’ work and other documentaries. Unsurprising, really – I spent my professional career involved in archival preservation, the supply of material for re-use and the critical consideration of new documentaries using archival material. And I say specifically “presentation”, because I’m not talking here about the correct identification of footage and its appropriateness to illustrate the points being made, but rather the technical and aesthetic aspects of how it is used, above all the aspect ratio in which it is shown. It’s something of a hobby-horse of mine and, even at this distance, I can still hear the groans of my fellow Peabody Board members every time I brought it up!

Now, I don’t want this blog to become like an academic-style paper. I’ve already done that a couple of years ago in a piece called Archive Footage in New Programmes: Presentational Issues and Perspectives, for the e-journal on European Television History called View, and you can still read it at if you care to, though I will re-cycle a few of the points I raised in that piece.

When the shape of the TV screen changed from 4:3 to 16:9 around the turn of the millennium and historical documentaries began to be made in widescreen formats, the inclusion of material from television archives, as well as actuality film and feature films shot in the academy ratio caused a problem because it did not fit the new screen shape. There were three possibilities: 1 – cropping the image to fit the screen; 2 – stretching the image to fit the screen; or 3 – showing the image in its original ratio, either with part of the screen left black or some sort of framing device. As an archivist, concerned with preserving and re-showing materials as they were originally intended to be seen, I have always preferred option 3 and have regarded option 2 as anathema.

Ken Burns has tended to employ option 1 and has done it so well that I am completely won over to his approach. Having established the so-called “Ken Burns effect” by scanning across beautiful monochrome photographs, he can hardly be taken to task for doing something similar with moving image materials. Too often, “cropping” is done with little regard for composition, resulting in ugly images where the tops of people’s heads are cut off, for example, but Burns has always ensured that the integrity of each image is retained. This takes time and is expensive. In a production where archive is not a major part of the budget, corners will be cut, but with Burns archive is the point and he treats it accordingly. And the results can be stunning – nowhere more so than in The Roosevelts: An Intimate History (PBS, 2014), which contained a wealth of beautifully presented stills and 35mm footage.

But it was not just Burns which won me over to the use of cropped footage – it was time. cold warThe first major widescreen historical documentary series, Jeremy Issacs’ Cold War (Turner/BBC, 1998) came as something of a shock. It wasn’t just that parts of the 4:3 images were being lost – it was that their very nature seemed to be changed. According to the shorthand of the medium, widescreen images were associated with the cinema, so factual material was being made to look fictional, it seemed to me. This had already been done in the cinema itself, in films like The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Philip Kaufman, 1988), but not in documentary. Indeed, it was the rapid growth of the “cinematic” documentary (designed for cinema release or festival showcasing in the first instance, but ultimately intended for TV or home video), which normalised the practice and made it ubiquitous.

However, I have also noticed a more recent trend towards the use of original ratios, as film makers realise that the audience is sophisticated enough not to be worried about changes to the screen shape and that they can use it to indicate shifts in time without having to include that in commentary or on captions. One of my favourite Sondheimdocumentaries in terms of its use of TV archive material is James Lapine’s Six by Sondheim (HBO, 2013), in which a large number of interviews with the Broadway composer are intercut, all retaining their original ratios and framed in the shape of contemporary television sets, which conveys the impression of the subject’s consistent brilliance at different points in his career, without the need to signpost dates or provenance. Similarly, Andrew Jarecki’s The Jinx (HBO, 2015), uses TV archive material from the 1980s to the 2000s carefully framed within the high-definition 16:9 frame and often with “blurred” top and bottom edges to convey a constantly shifting time frame (including material from the brief hybrid 14:9 era, when that ratio was used as a compromise during the transition from 4:3 to 16:9).

Indeed, it has been the increasing use of specifically television archive material, as the TV era morphs from “the recent past” into “history” and the rolling 50th anniversary-fest reached the sixties, which has driven this development. This is the first time Ken Burns has made a major series where his primary source of archive material has been television archives and he has come up with some interesting approaches to its use. Much of it is grainy and shaky 16mm and some of it is video, but Burns has applied his usual care to its transfer. In the fifth episode he introduced a new concept by showing some material on a period TV set before cutting to a cropped version of the same extract. The main aim of this device was to illustrate how the war was being perceived back home, but it also allowed for a “correct” perspective on the framing of the original IMG_0395material. The use of period TV screens to showcase old footage is nothing new, but Burns makes dramatic use of it by filling the 16:9 screen to the very edges with the image of the 60s TV set, thus transforming your TV into one from the period, so that you experience the broadcast as it first happened.

So, I am encouraged by the way so many great documentaries now treat archival footage, but, unfortunately, one can still come across instances where footage is distorted to fit the screen size, particularly when haste, budget restrictions or simple indifference are factors. The worst recent example of this was a couple of weeks ago, when BBC4 transmitted Humphrey Jennings’ Listen to Britain (1942) in the context of the fascinating new films commissioned to celebrate its 75th anniversary. The extracts in Kevin Macdonald’s introduction were correctly presented but the complete film itself was stretched to fill the screen (yes, I could have changed my screen’s settings, but that’s not the point). For me, presenting this documentary masterpiece in the wrong ratio is akin to misquoting Shakespeare or playing Beethoven in the wrong key. I certainly expect better of BBC4.

A couple of final observations on The Vietnam War: the closing credits contain a disclaimer I have not seen before, which reads “Some archival materials contain scenes that may have been staged by their original creators” – of course, this is always true, but it is interesting to note that Burns and Novick felt it necessary to state it, and it would be even more interesting to know which materials they are referring to (maybe the DVD set will clarify this); and I enjoyed the ending to episode 5, which involved a fade to black, followed by the unmistakable jangling opening to The Stones’ Paint It Black, with the credit “Directed by Ken Burns, Lynn Novick” appearing precisely on the first drum beat. Homage to Full Metal Jacket? Has to be. Outstanding!

Credits where they are due


Returning to Netflix recently after not having viewed there for a while, I was delighted to discover that they have changed their policy on the presentation of end credits. Whereas, previously, the end credit sequence would be squeezed into a box so small as to render it illegible, while the rest of the screen was devoted to encouraging you to watch the next episode or something else, the default position is now to move you directly to the next episode unless you select the “watch credits” option, in which case they are presented full-screen. This is what I would expect and hope for from a subscription service and the previous policy had come as a great disappointment.

Does this really matter? Well, to me it does, yes, and not just because I have always had an interest, both professional and general, in reading the names of those involved in the production I have just seen. Just as a good opening titles sequence sets the mood for what is to follow (and I never fast-forward through it, no matter how many times I may have seen it), so a thoughtfully composed end credits sequence gives us time to reflect on what we have just seen, as well as maybe commenting on it with a well-chosen piece of music (a comparatively recent development, this, though one which can be traced back to Our Friends in the North and beyond).

At the BFI, we collected a lot of programmes for the archive by recording them as they were transmitted, including all the “ephemeral” material around them, so I was particularly concerned about the exact nature of what we had acquired. Looking back at some of these recordings for a conference we held to mark the 25th anniversary of Channel 4 in 2007, I was struck by the funereal pace of many of the end credit sequences in the 1980s. But it was Channel 4 which first essayed the interruption of end credits for promotional purposes in this country, when it used the closing of the arts strand Without Walls to promote the following week’s programme. With the deregulation of commercial television in the early 1990s, came the introduction and rapid adoption of the voice-over promotion during end credits, designed to tell you what is coming up and dissuade you from changing channels, and it was enthusiastically copied by the BBC, who didn’t mind too much if you changed channel, as long as it was to another BBC one.

Fast ShowAnd it was mostly on the BBC that some shows (it seemed to me) started to fight back against this cultural vandalism. The Fast Show interrupted its end credit sequence with its trademark brief sketches, Tony Garnett’s The Cops used police radio chatter instead of a closing theme tune (difficult to talk over) and the medium-savvy Charlie Brooker directly challenged the BBC to interrupt his closing sequence on one of his “Wipe” shows (which they did, in good humour of course). Over on Channel 4, Chris Morris left the end credits off Jam entirely, replacing them with a web address where he had posted them ( – though you won’t find them there any more, just a commercial for how to build your own website).

By and large, though, programme endings were ruined without discrimination. One that I remember particularly was Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant’s Extras. Each programme ended with a moment of humiliation for Gervais’ character, Andy Millman, followed by a reflective pause, then the slow introduction to Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman – a beautiful ending, always ruined by the continuity announcer’s voice-over. Except on one occasion in the second series: the episode featuring a guest appearance by Chris Martin of Coldplay, playing, as was the convention of the show, an exaggerated version of himself as an egotistical control-freak. Instead of Cat Stevens’ recording of “Tillerman” closing the show, we got the same song performed by Martin. So, the jokeExtra's S2 was that Chris Martin was such an egotist he even insisted on singing the closing song himself. But the joke went even further, because there was no voice over to spoil it. Was the joke that Martin even insisted on singing uninterrupted by continuity? And did Gervais need to negotiate this with the BBC for it to work? Whatever, it only works in the context of every other end credit sequence in the series being interrupted – in other words the joke only works “live”, which makes it really ephemeral!

The “fightback” was short-lived, though. The BBC’s guidelines for the supply of programmes by independent producers soon made it clear that material of editorial significance or any speech should not be included in end credit sequences, a lamentable restriction on creative freedom by a public service broadcaster, and the current guidelines also take account of the most pernicious of the promotional developments: the squeezing of end credit sequences into small boxes in the corner of the screen. Many productions now use credits in larger lettering and still frames (rather than rolling credits) in an attempt to make them seen.

Now, I know that, in terms of credit information, it is all available if I care to look. Embedded metadata on many streaming services, such as Amazon, means that you only need to pause the frame to find out who the actors are or what piece of music is playing and there is plenty of information available on-line. There have been a few recent signs of improvement on broadcast TV, too. The BBC’s channels now allow the credits to IMG_0376occupy more half the screen, while Channel 4 splits it in half and has clearly asked its suppliers to provide programmes with credits which only run on the left side of the frame, so they are designed for this form of presentation rather than lost in the squeeze. ITV and Sky still regularly squeeze the credits into a quarter of the screen, though, and, of course, they all continue to use voice over.

There are also some other ways around the problem for obsessives like me: watching BBC programmes on i-player rather than on transmission is one (in Channel 4’s case it’s best to record, as the compulsory ad breaks on All4 are interminable); and, of course, for the programmes you want to keep, getting them on DVD or Blu-ray, which will give you the “definitive” version. I still cherish the complete experience of watching a programme from the beginning to very end. It was the same when I was a regular cinema-goer. I would never leave until the final credit had rolled, even when they turned on the lights and cleaners asked me to leave because the film “was over”. Oh no, it wasn’t!

Anyway, I can’t bring myself to be too grumpy just now, because CURB IS BACK! – a cause for true rejoicing, even if the end credits are spoiled.


If you have been affected by the issues raised in this blog, get over it!