Category Archives: Film, TV, and Theatre

Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek (1966)

In the last blog, I wrote about Thomas More’s Utopia and the more gen­er­al area of utopi­an fic­tion and it occurs to me that this week’s top­ic, Gene Roddenberry’s sem­i­nal TV series Star Trek, itself falls square­ly into the genre of utopi­an fic­tion, albeit a far future one in which human­i­ty, hav­ing con­quered the stars, has also con­quered those quaint old divi­sions that char­ac­terised 1960s Amer­i­ca. The Enterprise’s crew of star sailors includes a Russ­ian, a Japan­ese and a black woman and no-one bats an eye­lid because it’s the 23rd cen­tu­ry and the Cold War, Hiroshi­ma, and racial seg­re­ga­tion are all mark­ers of a dis­tant past.

Star Trek first debuted in the US on 8th Sep­tem­ber 1966 but here in the UK it wasn’t until 12th July 1969 (just eight days before the Apol­lo 11 mis­sion to the moon) that this soon-to-be-huge pop-cul­ture phe­nom­e­non began air­ing on BBC One. It must have been a few years lat­er when it came upon my radar because I have no mem­o­ry of a black-and-white ver­sion and it wasn’t until about 1974 that we got a colour tel­ly. But boy, how they cap­i­talised on that new colour medi­um: bright gold, blue and red tunics abound­ed aboard the USS Enter­prise, whilst the numer­ous plan­ets they beamed down to, and aliens they encoun­tered, were also cap­tured in glo­ri­ous tech­ni­colour.

The con­cepts were mind-blow­ing­ly imag­i­na­tive, the sound effects reas­sur­ing­ly futur­is­tic (the back­ground com­put­er chat­ter on the bridge, the sound of a com­mu­ni­ca­tor flip­ping open, the swoosh of the auto­mat­ic doors, the fir­ing pf phasers, the mech­a­nisms of the trans­porter in full beam), and the sets were…well, lim­it­ed by the peri­od shall we say, but full marks for imag­i­na­tion.

The Enter­prise, as every­one knows, was a space explo­ration star­ship on a mis­sion to “explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civil­i­sa­tions; to bold­ly go where no man has gone before”. Led by the Cap­tain James T Kirk, First Offi­cer Spock and Chief Med­ical Offi­cer Leonard “Bones” McCoy, the crew also includ­ed lieu­tenants Sulu and Uhu­ra, ensign Chekov and of course, on the engi­neer­ing deck and respon­si­ble for all things engi­neer­ing (includ­ing beam­ing, shields, di-lithi­um crys­tals, and giv­ing her as much as he dare), was Mont­gomery “Scot­ty” Scott.

It spawned an immense­ly suc­cess­ful fran­chise, of course, with some­thing like eleven spin-off TV series and numer­ous fea­ture films, but it’s the orig­i­nal series that will always be the true Star Trek to me. Their week­ly mis­sions had me rapt from the moment Kirk kicked off each episode with an excerpt from his Captain’s Log, and below, for the sake of nos­tal­gia, are the open­ing and clos­ing cred­its of this icon­ic TV series.

Kirk and Spock

The Two Ronnies’ Mastermind Sketch (1980)

Like More­cambe and Wise before them, the com­e­dy part­ner­ship of Ron­nie Bark­er and Ron­nie Cor­bett as the Two Ron­nies was one made in heav­en. Two strik­ing­ly affa­ble guys with nat­u­ral­ly fun­ny bones, remark­able chem­istry, and an obvi­ous mutu­al deep friend­ship, the Two Ron­nies’ lega­cy has hap­pi­ly been besmirched by nei­ther time nor scan­dal. Their TV show was a huge­ly pop­u­lar fea­ture of Sat­ur­day night enter­tain­ment from 1971 to 1987 and every­one grow­ing up dur­ing this peri­od will remem­ber their shows with great fond­ness, and per­haps con­jure a men­tal pic­ture of the Ron­nies as news­read­ers, read­ing spoof news items and end­ing each show with:

Cor­bett: That’s all we’ve got time for, so it’s “Good­night” from me.

Bark­er: And it’s “Good­night” from him.

Both: Good­night!

The Ron­nies had met each oth­er back in 1963 and first appeared on tele­vi­sion togeth­er in 1966 in The Frost Report with David Frost and John Cleese. How­ev­er, their big break occurred as a result of an eleven-minute tech­ni­cal hitch at a BAFTA awards cer­e­mo­ny at the Lon­don Pal­la­di­um in 1970, in which they filled in, unpre­pared and unscript­ed, with such aplomb that two audi­ence mem­bers, Bill Cot­ton and Sir Paul Fox (the Head of Light Enter­tain­ment and the Con­troller of BBC1 respec­tive­ly), offered them a show on the BBC!

The Two Ron­nies show was filled with sketch­es, either stand­alone or fea­tur­ing recur­ring char­ac­ters, and often involv­ing clever word-play (their Four Can­dles sketch being a case in point). Many of the jokes revolved around Corbett’s lack of height, with the self-dep­re­ca­to­ry Ron­nie C deliv­er­ing many of them him­self:

Bark­er: This next part does suit Ron­nie C. right down to the ground.

Cor­bett: Mind you, that’s not far is it?”

The Ron­nies also had their own solo sec­tion: Ron­nie B usu­al­ly appear­ing as the head of some ridicu­lous­ly-named organ­i­sa­tion, and Ron­nie C deliv­er­ing a dis­cur­sive mono­logue to cam­era from his famous arm­chair. Each series also had an ongo­ing com­ic ser­i­al fea­tur­ing pri­vate detec­tives Charley Far­ley and Pig­gy Mal­one (remem­ber The Phan­tom Rasp­ber­ry Blow­er of Old Lon­don Town?), giv­ing ample scope to guests such as Diana Dors and Kate O’Mara to ham it up.

My favourite sketch though is this clas­sic from 1980, the hilar­i­ous Mas­ter­mind sketch, which you can enjoy below and then per­haps go on to read the tran­script of the revised, expand­ed (and in some places even cor­rect­ed) ver­sion which was per­formed as part of their 1983 Lon­don Pal­la­di­um res­i­den­cy.

Tran­script:

MAGNUS: And so to our final con­tender. Your name, please?

SMITHERS: Good evening.

MAGNUS: Thank you. In the first heat your cho­sen sub­ject was Answer­ing Ques­tions Before They Were Asked. This time you have cho­sen to Answer the Ques­tion Before Last each time. Is that cor­rect?

SMITHERS: Char­lie Smithers.

MAGNUS: And your time starts now. What is palaeon­tol­ogy?

SMITHERS: Yes, absolute­ly cor­rect.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What is the name of the direc­to­ry that lists mem­bers of the peer­age?

SMITHERS: A study of old fos­sils.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. Who are David Owen and Sir Geof­frey Howe?

SMITHERS: Burke’s.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What’s the dif­fer­ence between a don­key and an ass?

SMITHERS: One’s a Social Demo­c­rat, the oth­er’s a mem­ber of the Cab­i­net.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. Com­plete the quo­ta­tion, “To be or not to be…”

SMITHERS: They’re both the same.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What is Bernard Man­ning famous for?

SMITHERS: That is the ques­tion.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. Who is the present Arch­bish­op of Can­ter­bury?

SMITHERS: He’s a fat man who tells blue jokes.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What do peo­ple kneel on in church?

SMITHERS: The Most Rev­erend Robert Run­cie.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What do taran­tu­las prey on?

SMITHERS: Has­socks.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What would you use a rip­cord to pull open?

SMITHERS: Large flies.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What did Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe always claim to wear in bed?

SMITHERS: A para­chute.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What was the next new TV sta­tion to go on the air after Chan­nel Four?

SMITHERS: Chanel Num­ber Five.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What do we nor­mal­ly asso­ciate with Bed­lam?

SMITHERS: Break­fast tele­vi­sion.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What are jock­straps?

SMITHERS: Nut­cas­es.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What would a jock­ey use a stir­rup for?

SMITHERS: An ath­let­ic sup­port.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. Arthur Scargill is well known for what?

SMITHERS: He puts his foot in it.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. Who was the famous clown who made mil­lions laugh with his fun­ny hair?

SMITHERS: The leader of the minework­ers’ union.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What would a dec­o­ra­tor use meth­yl­ene chlo­rides to make?

SMITHERS: Coco.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What did Hen­ri Toulouse-Lautrec do?

SMITHERS: Paint strip­pers.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. What is Dean Mar­tin famous for?

SMITHERS: Is he an artist?

MAGNUS: Yes — what kind of artist?

SMITHERS: Erm… pass.

MAGNUS: Yes, that’s near enough. What make of vehi­cle is the stan­dard Lon­don bus?

SMITHERS: A Singer.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. In 1892, Bran­don Thomas wrote a famous long-run­ning Eng­lish farce — what is it?

SMITHERS: British Ley­land.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect. Com­plete the fol­low­ing quo­ta­tion about Shirley Williams: “Her heart may be in the right place but her…”

SMITHERS: “Charley’s Aunt”.

MAGNUS: Cor­rect, and you have scored 22 and no pass­es!

The Two Ron­nies

John Boorman’s Deliverance (1972)

At my school we were encour­aged to join one or more of the many extracur­ric­u­lar clubs and soci­eties, and I recall a bewil­der­ing array of choic­es from archery to play­ing the zither (not real­ly, but it begins with Z and illus­trates the point). I chose Film Club because it didn’t involve any more effort than sit­ting in the lec­ture the­atre and watch­ing a movie, and this seemed like a fair extracur­ric­u­lar activ­i­ty to me. Some stu­dents must have been in con­trol of the actu­al film selec­tion because I can’t imag­ine any of our teach­ers sug­gest­ing 1975’s vio­lent­ly dystopi­an sci-fi flick Roller­ball (set in the then-dis­tant future of 2018) or 1972’s grit­ty and nudi­ty-con­tain­ing mob movie, Prime Cut, yet both these movies fig­ure promi­nent­ly in my Film Club mem­o­ries. Anoth­er movie that some­how made the cut was Deliv­er­ance.

Deliv­er­ance was a land­mark 1972 movie pro­duced and direct­ed by British film­mak­er John Boor­man, and chron­i­cles the sto­ry of a group of city slick­ers embark­ing on a canoe­ing adven­ture in the remote wilder­ness of north­ern Geor­gia. Burt Reynolds plays Lewis, the most sea­soned out­doors­man and leader of the group, with Jon Voight play­ing his friend Ed, and new­com­ers Ned Beat­ty and Ron­nie Cox appro­pri­ate­ly play­ing novices Bob­by and Drew. Unfor­tu­nate­ly for all con­cerned, things don’t turn out quite the way they were planned.

The film is not­ed for the music scene near the begin­ning, in which one of the vis­i­tors, Drew, plays Duel­ing Ban­jos on gui­tar with a gift­ed ban­jo-pick­ing coun­try boy, played by fif­teen-year old local Bil­ly Red­den (whose large head and almond-shaped eyes ticked the box­es for Boor­man look­ing for a char­ac­ter sug­gest­ing an “in-bred from the back woods”, with all due respect to Red­den). Red­den didn’t actu­al­ly play the ban­jo and wore a spe­cial shirt that allowed a real ban­jo play­er to hide behind him!

Duelling Ban­jos

Deliv­er­ance is also noto­ri­ous for the scene lat­er on in the movie when the adven­tur­ers are now deep in woods coun­try, and in which Bob­by and Ed encounter two shot­gun-wield­ing moun­tain men. These men turn out to be the last peo­ple you would want to meet in such a remote set­ting, and they tie Ed to a tree by his neck whilst one of them puts Bob­by through a gru­elling and humil­i­at­ing ordeal: he is com­pelled to strip down and then to “squeal like a pig” as his attack­er tor­ments him, before final­ly being raped. It’s grim view­ing, and only relieved when Reynolds’ capa­ble char­ac­ter Lewis hap­pens upon the scene and comes to the res­cue (if a lit­tle late for Bob­by) by killing the rapist with his bow and arrow and induc­ing the sec­ond hill­bil­ly to scarp­er into the woods. The rest of the film involves the pan­icked reac­tions of all con­cerned and the dra­ma of their attempts to escape back to civil­i­sa­tion (where you can safe­ly imag­ine Bob­by would be remain­ing ever after).

There is a scene in which the guys fall from their canoes whilst rid­ing a par­tic­u­lar­ly dan­ger­ous stretch of rapids. Dum­mies were used in the film­ing but hav­ing viewed the scene, Burt Reynolds request­ed to have the scene re-shot with him­self in the canoe rather than a dum­my, in the inter­ests of authen­tic­i­ty. Boor­man agreed and Reynolds pro­ceed­ed to ride the rapids, but fell out, smashed his shoul­der and head on rocks and float­ed uncon­scious down­stream, before wak­ing up with Boor­man at his bed­side. Reynolds asked “How’d it look?” and Boor­man said, “It looked like a dum­my falling over a water­fall”!

Get a flavour of the movie by watch­ing this mon­tage below.

Saturday Night Live’s More Cowbell Sketch (2000)

The Amer­i­can late-night live tele­vi­sion sketch com­e­dy show, Sat­ur­day Night Live, has been a launch­pad for many a career since its first broad­cast in 1975. Although it’s not the sta­ple here in the UK that it clear­ly is in the States, we are very aware of its cul­tur­al sig­nif­i­cance and we can mar­vel at the names that have passed through the ranks of its cast: John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gil­da Rad­ner, Chevy Chase, Bill Mur­ray, Eddie Mur­phy, Bil­ly Crys­tal, Christo­pher Guest, Dana Car­vey, Mike Myers, Chris Rock, Adam San­dler, Norm Mac­don­ald, Will Fer­rell, Sarah Sil­ver­man, Tina Fey…

The clas­sic sketch­es that the show has spawned over the years are as many and var­ied as its exten­sive cast list, and it’s fun to peruse Rolling Stone’s “50 Great­est Sat­ur­day Night Live Sketch­es of All Time”. My num­ber one is Rolling Stone’s num­ber nine but let’s not quib­ble: More Cow­bell is com­e­dy gold, how­ev­er you rank it. The sketch aired on 8th April 2000 and it’s safe to say that the stars aligned that night.

The sketch was writ­ten by reg­u­lar cast mem­ber Will Fer­rell who was inspired by an episode of VH1’s Behind the Music doc­u­ment­ing the band Blue Öys­ter Cult and their 1976 record­ing of their biggest hit, (Don’t Fear) The Reaper. Fer­rell reimag­ines the scene, with Christo­pher Walken as fic­tion­al leg­endary music pro­duc­er Bruce Dick­in­son, him­self as fic­tion­al cow­bell play­er Gene Fren­kle, and with oth­er SNL cast mem­bers (Chris Par­nell, Jim­my Fal­lon, Chris Kat­tan, Hor­a­tio Sanz) play­ing the real Blue Öys­ter Cult mem­bers. What fol­lowed was to go down in SNL his­to­ry.

Christo­pher Walken’s char­ac­ter intro­duces him­self as Bruce Dick­in­son (“Yes, the Bruce Dick­in­son”) and tells the band that they have “what appears to be a dyna­mite sound”. The band are in awe of him, and he doesn’t do too much to dis­pel the belief that he is indeed a leg­endary pro­duc­er: “Easy guys, I put my pants on just like the rest of you, one leg at a time…except, once my pants are on, I make gold records!”. Walken’s deliv­ery is sub­lime.

The first take seems to go well but the band stops play­ing due to being dis­tract­ed by Gene’s overzeal­ous cow­bell play­ing. Dick­in­son, to the sur­prise of most of the band, asks for “a lit­tle more cow­bell” and urges Gene to “real­ly explore the stu­dio space this time”. Gene’s exu­ber­ance in fol­low­ing instruc­tions only caus­es more dis­trac­tion and the band aborts anoth­er take, but Bruce dou­bles down on his insis­tence that “I got­ta have more cow­bell!” and the absur­di­ty con­tin­ues hilar­i­ous­ly.

The char­ac­ters, the tim­ing, and the dia­logue are all to a tee, and even the actors’ attempts to avoid corps­ing dur­ing the sketch add to the thrill — just watch Jim­my Fal­lon shov­ing his drum­sticks into his mouth to (vain­ly) cov­er his gig­gles! Enjoy the sketch (in 2 parts) below…

More Cow­bell

 

Oliver Postgate’s Noggin The Nog (1959)

Per­sons of a cer­tain age (and per­haps per­sons of any age, giv­en the endur­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty of his cre­ations) will remem­ber with affec­tion the voice of ani­ma­tor and pup­peteer Oliv­er Post­gate (1925–2008). He was the cre­ator, writer and nar­ra­tor of such pop­u­lar and charm­ing children’s TV pro­grammes as Bag­puss, Nog­gin the Nog, Ivor the Engine, Clangers and Pogles’ Wood. All these shows were made by Small­films, the com­pa­ny he set up in 1959 with col­lab­o­ra­tor, artist and pup­pet mak­er Peter Firmin, in a dis­used cow­shed near Peter’s home in Blean near Can­ter­bury.

They were a great team: Post­gate came up with the con­cepts, wrote the scripts and did the stop motion film­ing whilst Firmin did the art­work and built the mod­els. As Post­gate voiced so many of the pro­duc­tions, his dis­tinc­tive voice became famil­iar to gen­er­a­tions of chil­dren. Small­films was able to pro­duce two min­utes of TV-ready film per day, which was many times more than a con­ven­tion­al stop motion ani­ma­tion stu­dio of the time, with Post­gate mov­ing the (orig­i­nal­ly card­board) char­ac­ters him­self, and work­ing his 16mm cam­era frame-by-frame with a home-made click­er.

They began in 1959 with Ivor the Engine, a series for ITV about a Welsh steam loco­mo­tive who want­ed to sing in a choir, and fol­lowed it up, also in 1959, with Nog­gin the Nog, their first pro­duc­tion for the BBC. These two pro­grammes estab­lished Small­films as a safe pair of hands to pro­duce chil­dren’s enter­tain­ment and they went on to pro­duce mate­r­i­al for the BBC right up to the 1980s. Every­one will have their favourite (in a 1999 BBC poll Bag­puss was vot­ed the most pop­u­lar chil­dren’s TV pro­gramme of all time) and for me it was Nog­gin the Nog.

The sto­ries were based around the cen­tral char­ac­ter of Nog­gin, the good-natured son of Knut, King of the Nogs, and his queen Grun­hil­da. When King Knut dies, Nog­gin meets and mar­ries Princess Nooka of the Nooks, and becomes the new king, at the expense of arch-vil­lain Nog­bad the Bad, who is for­ev­er try­ing to claim Noggin’s throne for him­self. Oth­er char­ac­ters includ­ed lazy Cap­tain of the Roy­al Guard Thornog­son, eccen­tric inven­tor Olaf the Lofty, and Grac­u­lus, a big green bird. The names and themes are very Scan­di­na­vian and saga-tinged and Post­gate must have been very famil­iar with the Nordic folk­loric tales of old such as the Ice­landic Eddas, but of course it’s children’s TV so it’s all just won­der­ful­ly made-up fun.

The pair brought in com­pos­er Ver­non Elliott to cre­ate atmos­pher­ic musi­cal sketch­es for the pro­grammes and he did so with great effect using the bas­soon, harp, glock­en­spiel and, in the case of the Clangers’ dis­tinc­tive voic­es, the swa­nee whis­tle. Speak­ing of Clangers, Firmin once said that the show’s sur­re­al­ism had led to accu­sa­tions that Post­gate was tak­ing hal­lu­cino­genic drugs: “Peo­ple used to say, ‘Ooh, what’s Oliv­er on, with all of these weird ideas?’ And we used to say, ‘He’s on cups of tea and bis­cuits’ ”. So very British!

Enjoy this nos­tal­gic selec­tion of open­ing seg­ments from Nog­gin the Nog, Clangers, and that “sag­gy, old cloth cat, bag­gy, and a bit loose at the seams”, Bag­puss

Oliv­er Post­gate and Peter Firmin

Will Ferrell in Elf (2003)

Any­one seen Elf again recent­ly? I have, and although I came late to the par­ty, some years after its 2003 release, it’s a Christ­mas sta­ple in our house. It’s just a joy to watch, with great per­for­mances from Will Fer­rell as Bud­dy the human-who-thinks-he’s‑an-elf, and a strong sup­port­ing cast includ­ing James Caan and Zooey Deschanel (great comedic actress lat­er to star in Amer­i­can sit­com New Girl). It’s just a charm­ing, sil­ly fam­i­ly film but a sub­lime­ly-made charm­ing, sil­ly fam­i­ly film. The direc­tor was Jon Favreau, who is known for films as diverse as rom­com, musi­cal dra­ma, adven­ture and sci-fi, and includ­ing sev­er­al of the Mar­vel Stu­dios movies.

The first script for Elf was writ­ten way back in 1993 by Amer­i­can screen­writer David Beren­baum, with Jim Car­rey in mind to play Bud­dy. How­ev­er, as the project took years to get off the ground, Car­rey went on instead to pro­duce that oth­er fes­tive favourite in 2000’s How The Grinch Stole Christ­mas, and Will Far­rell joined the project instead. If you haven’t seen it, it’s about a human baby, inad­ver­tent­ly brought back to the North Pole in Santa’s sack, who is brought up as an elf, and who lat­er tracks down his bio­log­i­cal father in New York. As an “inno­cent abroad”, there is none so inno­cent as this.

While you might assume that a lot of com­put­er trick­ery was employed to make Will Fer­rell look big­ger than his fel­low actors in the North Pole, Jon Favreau favoured cam­era tech­niques and trick­ery to cre­ate the illu­sion. He used the con­cept of “forced per­spec­tive”, along with the build­ing of two sets, one small­er than the oth­er, with one raised clos­er and small­er and one big­ger and fur­ther away. With the two sets mea­sured and lined up, the direc­tor could have one per­son on one set appear to be much larg­er than a per­son on the oth­er set. The only CGI in the film was some snow­ing.

The scene with Peter Din­klage is riotous­ly fun­ny, and is best viewed with­out food or drink in your mouth. The scene is set in the board­room of the children’s book pub­lish­ing house that Buddy’s father works for, under pres­sure to come up with the next best-sell­er. Din­klage plays a paid exter­nal children’s book wun­derkind come to bail out the com­pa­ny with his great ideas. Dinklage’s char­ac­ter, like Din­klage him­self, has dwarfism and the jux­ta­po­si­tion of inno­cence and offence that ensues, when Bud­dy enters the room and thinks he is see­ing an actu­al elf, is bril­liant. For the view­ing audi­ence it is a case of see­ing both sides…and it’s very, very fun­ny, so Mer­ry Christ­mas!

Will Fer­rell as Bud­dy the Elf

 

Patrick McGoohan as The Prisoner (1967)

Although I was too young at the time to watch the orig­i­nal 1967 air­ing of this British TV series, I guess it must have been re-run in the eight­ies or per­haps my friend Alec had it on video and shared it with me? What­ev­er, at some point in the eight­ies I dis­cov­ered The Pris­on­er and, hooked from episode one, I became, with Alec, a big fan. Here was a TV series that was not only enter­tain­ing but actu­al­ly made you think. Noth­ing was ever what it seemed, no-one had a real name, you nev­er knew who the good guys were and who the bad; it had a unique, sur­re­al vibe, and it incor­po­rat­ed ele­ments of sci­ence fic­tion, alle­go­ry, spy fic­tion and psy­cho­log­i­cal dra­ma.

The show was cre­at­ed while Patrick McGoohan and George Mark­stein were work­ing on spy dra­ma Dan­ger Man (fun fact: Ian Flem­ing worked in the devel­op­ment stage of Dan­ger Man, and its pro­tag­o­nist, played by McGoohan, announces him­self as “Drake…John Drake”). The exact details of who cre­at­ed which aspects of The Pris­on­er are dis­put­ed though major­i­ty opin­ion cred­its McGoohan as the sole cre­ator of the series, and it’s cer­tain­ly true that it was McGoohan who pitched the idea ver­bal­ly to sta­tion boss Lew Grade. One can only imag­ine the inner work­ings of Grade’s mind as the con­cept and plot were laid down for him; how­ev­er, he went with it and the project was born.

So, what was that plot? An unnamed British intel­li­gence agent is abduct­ed and wakes up in a mys­te­ri­ous coastal loca­tion known to its res­i­dents as the Vil­lage. His cap­tors des­ig­nate him as Num­ber Six and try to find out why he abrupt­ly resigned from his job, some­thing he stead­fast­ly refus­es to divulge. His chief antag­o­nist is styled Num­ber Two (and no, we nev­er sat­is­fac­to­ri­ly learn who is Num­ber One), the iden­ti­ty of whom changes with near­ly every episode, allow­ing a ros­ter of well-known six­ties’ actors, like Leo McK­ern, Anton Rodgers and Peter Wyn­garde, to play their part.

Most of the res­i­dents are pris­on­ers them­selves, while oth­ers are embed­ded as spies or guards. The Vil­lage is sur­round­ed by moun­tains on three sides and the sea on the oth­er, and any would-be escapees who make it out to sea are tracked by CCTV and recap­tured by Rover, a huge mobile translu­cent white bal­loon-thing. Every­one uses num­bers for iden­ti­fi­ca­tion, and most of the vil­lagers wear a stan­dard out­fit con­sist­ing of coloured blaz­ers, mul­ti­coloured capes, striped sweaters, and a vari­ety of head­wear such as straw boaters. They are gen­er­al­ly very polite, though that tends to make you very sus­pi­cious of them.

Catch­phras­es abound, and I remem­ber Alec and I glee­ful­ly repeat­ing them ad infini­tum: “I’m not a num­ber, I’m a free man!”, “Be see­ing you” and the glo­ri­ous­ly lib­er­tar­i­an “I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or num­bered!”. The lat­ter phrase I had embla­zoned on a t‑shirt bought from the gift shop at Port­meiri­on in North Wales, where The Pris­on­er was filmed and which I vis­it­ed on pil­grim­age in 1987.

Let’s enjoy the open­ing cred­its, enhanced by the excel­lent sound­track from Ron Grain­er.

Num­ber Six

 

Key and Peele’s Substitute Teacher sketches (2012)

I came across the com­e­dy duo Key & Peele just pri­or to Jor­dan Peele’s direc­to­r­i­al career blow­ing up with the release of his films Get Out (2017), Us (2019) and, just last month, Nope. I have seen the first two of those movies, and they are intrigu­ing, slick psy­cho­log­i­cal hor­ror films, but it’s his com­e­dy with part­ner Kee­gan-Michael Key that inter­ests us here. The two first worked togeth­er on Amer­i­can sketch com­e­dy series Mad TV but broke out with their own series on Com­e­dy Cen­tral.

Key and Peele are black Amer­i­cans and their sketch­es often focus on eth­nic stereo­types and social awk­ward­ness in race rela­tions but they are very fun­ny with it, and no more so than in their two Sub­sti­tute Teacher sketch­es. In these, Key plays Mr Gar­vey, an angry and intim­i­dat­ing sub­sti­tute teacher and vet­er­an of inner-city school­ing, who has come to teach a class of white, mild-man­nered sub­ur­ban stu­dents.

Since Mr Gar­vey is pre­sum­ably used to teach­ing kids with first names hav­ing every spelling and pro­nun­ci­a­tion under the sun, he strug­gles with the reg­u­lar spellings and pro­nun­ci­a­tions of these white kids’ names: when tak­ing the class roll he pro­nounces Jacque­line as “Jay-kwellin”, Blake as “Balarkay”, Denise as “Dee-nice” and Aaron as “A‑A-Ron”. Any attempt­ed cor­rec­tion is seen as an affront and there’s no way he’s going to take it, so he forces them to acknowl­edge them­selves by his incor­rect pro­nun­ci­a­tions and threat­ens to send them to Prin­ci­pal O’Shaughnessy’s office (whose name he pro­nounces “O‑Shag-hen­nessy”).

The con­cept of Sub­sti­tute Teacher is very clever and Key absolute­ly nails his char­ac­ter. With excel­lent con­tri­bu­tions from the sup­port­ing cast of stu­dents whose names are so amus­ing­ly man­gled, it’s very, very fun­ny. “You done messed up, A‑A-Ron!”

Sub­sti­tute Teacher, Mr Gar­vey

Zack Snyder’s 300 (2006)

Frank Miller is an Amer­i­can artist and writer of com­ic books and graph­ic nov­els such as The Dark Knight Returns, Sin City, and the inspi­ra­tion for today’s blog, 300. I have not pre­vi­ous­ly delved into the genre of the graph­ic nov­el, and actu­al­ly I’m not today either because it’s the 2006 film of the same name by Zack Sny­der, inspired by Miller’s sto­ry, that I am writ­ing about. Nev­er­the­less, the film is very much led by the graph­ic nov­el vibe and owes its styl­is­tic ren­der­ing to Miller’s work.

300 is a fic­tion­al retelling of the Bat­tle of Ther­mopy­lae in 480 BC between the invad­ing Per­sian army and the Spar­tans dur­ing the Per­sian Wars. Some years ago, my fam­i­ly and I went on a dri­ving hol­i­day to Greece and along the way vis­it­ed the sites of three ancient bat­tles: Marathon, Plataea, and the mel­liflu­ous­ly named Ther­mopy­lae, the “Hot Gates”. There’s a stat­ue of the Spar­tan king Leonidas there, his fame res­onat­ing down the ages a full two and a half thou­sand years lat­er (2502, at the time of writ­ing, to be pre­cise). The con­tem­po­ra­ne­ous his­to­ri­an Herodotus wrote about Ther­mopy­lae in his His­to­ries: how the Per­sian king Xerx­es I and his army were held at the nar­row pass at Ther­mopy­lae by a mas­sive­ly out­num­bered unit of 300 Spar­tan sol­diers. It’s history’s great­est last stand.

And boy, does the film take this idea and run with it! It is of course ide­alised out of any remote con­nec­tion to real­i­ty, but this is its whole point: it is graph­ic nov­el in motion and is made specif­i­cal­ly to be a feast for the eyes. It takes some­thing that is the most bru­tal, piti­less con­cep­tion imag­in­able – that of hand-to-hand, kill-or-be-killed com­bat with cold met­al – and turns it into a bal­let, a chore­og­ra­phy of bat­tle. Ger­ard But­ler plays Leonidas and brings rous­ing lead­er­ship to its apex: the way he moti­vates his fight­ers to bat­tle is up there with Brave­heart and Hen­ry V.

With a slight word of warn­ing for those for whom mass bat­tle is not their par­tic­u­lar cup of tea, do oth­er­wise watch this bat­tle scene. It encap­su­lates the val­our, the do-or-die spir­it, the out­right strength and dis­ci­pline and fight­ing capa­bil­i­ty of these trained Spar­tan sol­diers, and it does so, as I say, with a styl­is­ti­cal­ly chore­o­graphed beau­ty that is equal­ly won­der­ful and dis­turb­ing to behold. With the pro­vi­so that I would nev­er wish myself in the midst of this scene in a mil­lion years (the blood runs cold at the thought), by God it’s thrilling to watch!

300

Leonard Rossiter as Rigsby in Rising Damp (1975)

We tend to think of sev­en­ties’ com­e­dy as hav­ing failed the test of time and some­thing per­haps best for­got­ten, due to our mod­ern-day sen­si­tiv­i­ties regard­ing out­dat­ed cul­tur­al norms such as those around gen­der roles and race rela­tions. Our minds con­jure up such stark exam­ples as Love Thy Neigh­bour and Mind Your Lan­guage, and cringe at their naivety, whilst the sight of white actors “black­ing up” in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum would cause notable dis­com­fort these days. But to dis­re­gard all sev­en­ties sit­coms on such a premise is to throw baby out with the bath­wa­ter, because in amongst the com­e­dy TV shows from that decade are some absolute gems, and the best of them in my view was Ris­ing Damp.

Ris­ing Damp was writ­ten by Eric Chap­pell on the back of his 1973 stage play The Banana Box and ran between 1974 and 1978, star­ring Leonard Rossiter, Frances de la Tour, Richard Beck­in­sale and Don War­ring­ton. Rossiter plays Rigs­by, the miser­ly land­lord of a run-down Vic­to­ri­an town­house who rents out his shab­by bed­sits to a vari­ety of ten­ants: Beck­in­sale plays Alan, a long-haired and good-natured med­ical stu­dent; Frances de la Tour plays Ruth (Miss Jones), the whim­si­cal spin­ster with whom Rigs­by is in love; and War­ring­ton plays the recent arrival Philip Smith, also a stu­dent and appar­ent­ly the son of an African chief. As a black man, Philip ini­tial­ly brings out the knee-jerk sus­pi­cions of Rigs­by; how­ev­er, the land­lord quick­ly accepts his new ten­ant and hence­forth regards him with a wary respect borne of Philip’s intel­li­gence and sophis­ti­cat­ed man­ners (some­thing not lost on Miss Jones either).

The char­ac­ters were ful­ly-formed from day one due to the fact that three of the prin­ci­pal actors had already honed their char­ac­ters in the stage play (only Beck­in­sale was new to the role). The dia­logue is bril­liant­ly con­ceived and deliv­ered by the actors with aplomb: their tim­ing is superb, and in Rigs­by, of course, we have one of the great­est com­e­dy char­ac­ters of all time. Watch him here as Alan and Philip tease him about women and the “eroge­nous zones”, that new­ly pop­u­larised term made pos­si­ble by the rise of the “per­mis­sive soci­ety”. Price­less.

Ris­ing Damp cast