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. . . Previous plays reviewed here
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Previous reviews of TV plays on this page-
March 1953: The Lake (BBC), Captain Brassbound's Conversion (BBC)
September 1955: Mid Level (ATV)
April 1957:
The Late Edwina Black (BBC)
May 1957: A Woman of Property (BBC)
December 1958:
In the Shadow of the Axe (A-R),
The Big Knife (A-R),
A Sense of Justice (Granada),
January 1959:
The Stone Ship (BBC),
Ten Little Niggers (A-R),
The Skin Game (BBC),
A Guardsman's Cup of Tea (A-R),
The Killing of the King (A-R)
February 1959:
No Fixed Abode (Granada),
Rock-a-Bye Barnie (A-R)
March 1959:
Sunday Out of Season (ATV),
No Deadly Medicine (BBC),
The Skin of Our Teeth (Granada)
April 1959:
The Woodcarver (BBC), The Secret Agent (ATV), Odd Man In (ATV), Family On Trial (A-R), A Bit of Happiness (Granada)
May 1959:
A Phoenix Too Frequent (ATV), The Fortrose Incident (BBC), Dark Possession (BBC), Bellweather Nine (A-R), A Touch of the Sun (ATV)
June 1959: The Haven (ATV), All You Young Lovers (BBC), The Wild Bird (ATV), A Kind
of Freedom (A-R)
August 1959: A Small Revolution (BBC), Shadow of a Pale Horse (Granada), The Midnight Family,
One a Penny, Two a Penny, The Hungry God (last 4 all A-R)
September 1959: Isambard Kingdom Brunel (TWW), Our Best for Harry (A-R)
October 1959: The Blood Fight (Granada)
November 1959: Our Miss Hammond (ATV), The Manor of Northstead (A-R)
December 1959: Sweet Poison (Anglia)
March 1960: Journey's End (BBC), The Birthday Party (A-R), The Trap (Anglia), Master of Arts (ABC/ Southern)
April 1960: The Empty Chair (Southern)
May 1960: The Elder Statesman (BBC), Hay Fever (ATV)
June 1960: An Arabian Night (A-R)
December 1960: The Two Wise Virgins of Hove (Anglia)
March 1962: Dare to be a Daniel (Southern TV)
April 1963: The Affair (BBC)
November 1963:
Death of a Gladiator (Scottish TV)
December 1964: It's Sad About Eddie (ATV)
January 1965: Women Beware Women (Granada)
May 1965: The Madras House (Granada)
February 1967: Days in the Trees (BBC)
ABC Armchair Theatre productions reviewed here previously:
The Pier October 6th 1957,
The Criminals 28th December 1958,
The Sentry 4th January 1959,
The Break 11th January 1959,
Love and Money 25th January 1959,
Hot Summer Night February 1st 1959,
Ernie Barger is 50 February 8th 1959,
The Fabulous Moneymaker 1st March 1959,
The Trouble with Benny 12th April 1959, Parole 19th April 1959,
Hand in Glove 3rd May 1959,
Till Death Us Do Part 10th May 1959,
Girl on the Beach May 24th 1959,
Wedding Day 31st May 1959,
The Model Marriage 21st June 1959,
A double bill: 1) Black Laughter 2) Double Exit 23rd August 1959,
Worm in the Bud 27th September 1959,
Light from a Star 4th October 1959,
Night Panic 7th February 1960,
Come In Razor Red 14th February 1960,
China Doll 6th March 1960,
A Phone Call for Matthew Quade 1st May 1960,
Nest of Four 15th May 1960,
On the Spot 29th May 1960,
The Big Wheel 12th June 1960,
Flag Fall 26th June 1960,
Flight from Treason 10th July 1960,
False Witness 7th August 1960,
Machinal 14th August 1960,
Cul de Sac 28th August 1960,
Thunder on the Snowy 9th October 1960,
The Pretty English Girls 16th February 1964,
Man without a Mortgage 19th March 1966,
The Happy Sacking 11th March 1967.
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An actor was once quoted as remarking- "the way ABC talks about their Armchair Theatre, you'd think they were creating another Hamlet. How is it then their plays are so bad?"
Yes, this was a popular judgement at the time, and I must admit I always avoided the series, especially when it went through what critics regarded as its golden era (1958-1962) under the direction of the brilliant Sydney Newman, whose name became almost synonymous with the jibe Kitchen Sink.
Nevertheless, it has to be admitted Newman built up a talented team of writers who understood the demands of the new medium of television, and who were not merely writing theatrical or film scripts. Amongst these were Harold Pinter and Alun Owen. But more than this, Newman discovered directors who could mould a tv screen in a new way, amongst these were William Kotcheff and Philip Saville.
When Leonard White took over the reins in 1962, he made the series more accessible whilst managing to retain the unique feel to many individual plays, and the 'glorious disasters' under Newman's reign were eliminated. Perhaps however also, the brilliance of the Newman era had also departed.
Question- Name the 1965 play that was supposed to be about God planning to destroy the world with nuclear weapons.
Answer
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"Live from Manchester," written by Jimmy Sangster. Directed by Wilfrid Eades:
I Can Destroy the Sun (12 October 1958) -
These are the cryptic words sent in a letter to a government official. "Mark it unbalanced anonymous," declares civil servant Henry Walpole (John Barron).
But others have received similar warnings, and not just in Britain, for Petrov of the Russian lot, and Boardman (Robert Ayres) of the USA have been equally perturbed by such communications. And this occurs immediately after talks between the superpowers "have just broken down" over agreement on limiting the H bomb.
Travers of MI5 (Leslie Sands) has received a more detailed letter, convincing him "this is no hoax." Dr Peter Lunn (Maurice Denham) of the Tipston Observatory confirms the writer is no crackpot, for Lunn himself has already witnessed the recent destruction of a minor star, Phobos. The ultimatum is- get agreement on the H bomb within 4 days or else.... Travers gets an ultimatum too: "find that man!" A hard task for he has "nothing to go on at all."
To keep up the pressure, the crank announces he is going to destroy another small stellar body, Atheos. This will surely concentrate the minds of those conducting the talks! Yet the question has to be asked: what would happen if the sun were to be destroyed? Lunn paints a "very serious" scenario- temperature loss, oxygen "non-existent," leading to asphyxia, crust of the earth splitting, earth flung into outer space. Pretty final, in fact.
Spurred by such a peril, Travers feels justified in giving the US and Soviet delegates a lecture on their immorality. It sums up the aim of the play. They must wake up to their responsibilities and stop merely talking and talking. But herein lies the weakness of this play, for it itself is too wordy, the improbable threats of the crank are never given any real visual impact. But perhaps the words are enough: "in 15 to 20 years time our atmosphere... will be so filthy with radiation that our grandchildren will be born into a world of deformity, mutation."
Thus international peace is secured.
But the madman has not been traced. His invention could itself destabilise the world. He and it must be found.
Travers questions "the person who can see what no other human can see," Dr Lunn. In his observatory he'd worked up this whole scheme. We hear about it in this overlong coda. "I wrote those letters..." All prompted by his own desperate concern for the future of the planet. "Already," he warns Travers presciently, "our weather pattern has begun to change..." ah- you've heard that since, haven't you?
This is a typical Jimmy Sangster script - was it left over from his Hammer days?
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Scent of Fear
Script: Ted Willis: Director: John Moxey.
Comments from 1959 by critic Guy Taylor-
"Armchair Theatre returned for its autumn season with a new opening
(stll not good enough) and a new play - it was not Willis at his best.
The first act was excellent, with plenty of tension and first
class acting. After the first interval, however, the play suddenly
faltered and came to pieces in the third act.
This was mainly due to the fact that there were too many revelations
all at once. George Haslam's set was so real I almost felt air sick."
Most of the action is set on board British World Airways special flight
to London, leaving from an Iron Curtain country with 5 VIPs on board, six if a wanted man can get on board.
Karl (Neil McCallum) is seeking political asylum, and the air hostess Joan (Dorothy Tutin)
takes a liking to him and stows him on board.
Complications! Two extra passengers, Col Kralik, Commissioner of Police (Anthony Quayle) and his wife.
He sets Joan on edge. "I wish you a pleasant trip," she bids passengers automatically, but nervously.
Kralik in the manner of communist police chats to Joan, though to her it's an interrogation. "You're impulsive,"
he tells her, as he claims to be an expert in discerning if people are telling the truth.
The tension isn't really sustained however, as the faintly irritating Kralik keeps on probing, speculating and
supporting his communist ethic.
But this play is all about Joan who's more flustered the longer the trip lasts, still flying over communist soil.
Even the crew have noticed it, for normally "if we came down in the drink, she'd make hot coffee
and dish it out with the lifejackets."
"Why are you afraid?" the colonel comes out with it at last. "Fear has its own aroma," he tells her, adding
that too familar line about answering the questions. Then a surprise! One passenger, Sten, reveals he's from the
secret police and starts to question Kralik. "This is a British plane," protests Joan to no avail, as Sten
institutes a search for the escaped man.
Orders for the plane to turn back and land on communist soil. But another shock. Kralik rebels. It seems
he's been planning to defect. He castigates the secret police for their gestapo-like techniques. Yes, Kralik is a
proper communist, fed up with the current regime. "I apologise in the name of my country for this man," he says of Sten.
It's Willis' comment on communism. But he also gives the British attitude to communism: "maybe it's because
we're all so ruddy indifferent that this sort of thing happens."
This is a strong finish, for now the plane is able to fly serenely on its way to freedom.
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Doctor Kabil (6 December 1959)-
directed by Charles Jarrott.
With a script by Gil Winfield, who was more at home writing for the Danziger Brothers, if you find this exciting then it's time to reconsider Winfield's scripts for Saber of London, though this ending is hardly in the same jolly style.
In the title role is Peter Illing, who is on screen for most of the play and gives a strong performance in a rather melodramatic story.
Dr Gerard Kabil is an eminent dedicated surgeon, whose wife is a vociferous supporter of the Algerian rebel cause.
His loyalties are taxed when he is required to operate on the seriously wounded oil baron Corrazzi after he has been shot by a sniper. For it's this crooked millionaire's money that is keeping the government in power.
Security chiefs refuse to allow Kabil to operate when they appreciate his dilemma, but there is noone else, and, warns the doctor, "if you move him, you will kill him." Whilst a sample of Corrazzi's rare blood group is located, the investigation into Kabil's bona fides is urgently prosecuted.
Kabil's difficulty is exacerbated when he learns his daughter is the man's attacker. Jacqueline is only sorry her bullet hasn't finished off this evil millionaire- "I am going to finish what I've started," she tells her father. "He should be dead!"
So the question is- will Kabil act as a doctor and save his patient, or, as Jacqueline urges, as a true Algerian, and act unhippocratically. When she realises she is to be thwarted, she tries to break into Corrazzi's room, but her father pushes her aside and to Kabil's consternation police chase her. A gunshot. Wounded, she hides in her father's surgery whilst he prepares for the imminent operation. Local police chief (Leslie Sands) discovers her there, but she eludes him, murder in her eyes. Wending her way to the operating theatre, a policeman shoots her down.
Though Kabil knows in his heart of hearts that his daughter needs help, he continues his task of removing Corrazzi's bullet. It's no good anyway- "she's dying." With the patient finally able to hold his own, Kabil is left to reflect on his daughter's tragedy. Corrazzi's money has bought about his own child's death
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Where I Live (10 January 1960) -
Script: Clive Exton. Director: William Kotcheff
This melodrama is pure Kitchen Sink, a reminder of working class values when the woman used to do all the cooking and washing, yes and the ironing too. It's a study of family tensions revolving round the thorny problem of caring for an elderly father. The dialogue is gritty and common and true to life, except for one confrontation which Madge Ryan suddenly turns into a stagey exchange which exposes the whole for what it is- thoroughly unreal. The issue however is serious enough though Exton can offer only the problem, no answer. The drama ignites with the visit of the upwardly mobile brother of Jessy (Ruth Dunning). George (Lloyd Lamble) with his wife Vi (Madge Ryan) oddly echo George and Mildred's Esher inlaws, only this story has naturally no humour.
Before their arrival, there's a well constructed introduction to the characters: Jessy and her husband Bert (Robert Brown), whose name sums up his ordinariness. Dad (Paul Curran) is sitting in the kitchen, bored. Jessy is clearly at breaking point with his presence. George and Vi are coming!- this will relieve some of the gloom for Dad looks on George as "a little tin god," a self employed shopkeeper who has made something of his life, unlike stuck-in-a-rut Bert.
Jessy is determined to discuss dad's future with her brother and sister-in-law. It's their turn to look after Dad. After much inconsequential chatting, Jessy finally seizes the opportunity, as Dad takes his afternoon nap.
Jessy: "We wondered if you'd like to take him for a bit."
Vi: "Take him?"
Jessy spells it out. George is doubtful, Vi says it's "out of the question." Awkward silence.
Dad awakes, and over tea, Jessy forces the issue with him present. "I wouldn't mind that," decides Dad. But George's excuses about being too busy at work are understandable- in Dad's eyes.
Alone with Dad at the kitchen sink (yes, she's washing up), Jessy makes dad face up to why George won't take him. But he can't see the truth and Jessy explodes: "If you think that George is something so marvellous, I don't know why you don't go down and live with him.... your precious George wouldn't have you." She goads him into putting that question directly to George. "I can see where I am not wanted," cries Dad who informs George he's coming to live with him.
Showdown. George claims that at the moment he's just too occupied at work. As the family argue, the camera closes in on Dad, wounded.
He resolves to leave, just leave. Though Jessy has succeeded in showing George up, she realises it's been too hard on Dad. With bad grace George escorts Dad away. The parting shot is of George and Vi driving away, without a word, Dad in the back seat
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A Night Out
(24 April 1960)-
Script: Harold Pinter, directed by Philip Saville.
A pretentious study of a spinster and her smother love for her only son Albert.
The whine of mother's voice sets the tone of the play. Against all mother's wishes, Albert wants to go out to a works do. She's unreasonable, selfish, using his late father's memory to stifle Albert's existence, warning him not to lead "an unclean life." Various delaying tactics from mother as Albert, in silence, attempts to get ready to leave. She blathers on as he finally departs.
He joins up with two coarse mates, to whom we have previously been introduced in a far too long scene. Predictably, they tease him about his mother.
Act Two is old Mr Ryan's retirement party, at the home of boss Mr King (Arthur Lowe). One of Albert's mates persuades Eileen to "lead him a dance," Albert that is. He's something of a fish out of water in the social chit-chat, though "he's not bad looking when you get close." A moment of embarrassment when Eileen screams "he took a liberty." Mr Ryan's clebrations are marred as Albert walks out, but colleagues follow, ordering him to apologise. What for, asks the aggrieved Albert. The inevitable jibe is stuck into their fight "mother's boy!"
Midnight sees Albert crawling home, to mother's speculation he's been "messing about with girls." She dishes up a meal, and a lecture. Albert sits quietly taking it all in, as the camera zooms in on him. Sacrifice she is going on and on about, as he cracks.
Act Three finds Albert on the dark street. A woman picks him up, and they go to her home. Whilst he listens, yes, the usual pattern, she talks, justifying her position. When he does get in a word, he spins a line about being in films, assistant director even. Though this scene seems improbable, it makes some sense when we understand the woman is broke, in need of cash, though unlike today's fare, Pinter gives us nothing gratuitous. As she starts undressing, he cracks again under her incessant babble. "You never stop talking," he rants, rather truthfully. Incoherently he shouts out his own problems until he finds the strength to order her about, for once a master. Then he exits leaving her on the floor. Weird. Perhaps he decides it's a case of the devil you know.
As day breaks it's back to mother. Of course she's awake to greet him. "Do you know what time it is?" She complains and pleads in her whinging tones as an exhausted and silent Albert suffers, not uttering a word.
This is certainly a brilliant character study of a "retarded" misfit of a loner played by Tom Bell, and his suffocating one dimensional mother, brilliantly portrayed by Madge Ryan, which, if you admire realism, is existentialism at the sharp end. Painful even.
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Toff and Fingers (Armchair Mystery Theatre, 3 July 1960)
Script: Robert Kemp. Director: Robert Tronson.
The opening shots of a train puffing over a viaduct to romantic Scottish music, evokes the mood of an old film. To add to this flavour, some muffed lines and the odd dodgy prop.
In the title roles are Roger Livesey as Toff and Harold Goodwin as Fingers. Seeking to elude the law, they are posing as servant and master. "I've got everything it takes to make a gent," remarks a wistful Toff, "except the money." And now, after a successful snatch of £20,000, they are to hide away in the remote Auchenlochan Hotel.
The 'Colonel' makes a favourable impression on residents there, including Cooke (Robert Dorning) who is eager to talk about the crooks who have robbed Brassworth's London store of £20,000. Lord Brassworth happens to be the local laird, very unpopular with locals as he is forcing the crofters to give up their grazing rights. Gallantly, Toff contributes to their fighting fund thus winning a good name amongst the locals. Higgins, his man, alias Fingers, also creates a favourable impression, by joining in the local poaching. He gets itchy fingers when he hears from Perkins, butler at Brassworth's castle, that the gold dinner service is being shipped from London for a special occasion. But the more level headed Toff can see the risks: "I don't know how another £20,000 is going to make us better off." Anyway, having won their trust, he doesn't want to betray his new found friends.
But the guests, and the hotel owner, widow Mrs Cameron, start gossiping about the cash that's been spotted in Toff's room. Are they dropping hints when they tell him of "nouveau riche bounder" Brassworth's gold dinner service? "Society will always need a Robin Hood." But Mrs Cameron is worried enough to contact her brother at the Yard.....
Against his better judgement, the Colonel has been persuaded to open the local sale of work. The minister welcomes him whilst the Colonel shifts anxiously in his seat, as listeners are informed of the colonel's fine war record. In response, Toff answers that he's charmed by "a dreamland where a man can recapture his lost illusions."
With inquiries being made, however innocently, about his past, it's time for Toff to pack his things. But the Yard have been making inquiries too and Dt Supt Chisholm has traced them through fingerprints. "It's a fair cop," is Toff's awfully corny response, and just as he'd been considering helping himself to that gold dinner service before departing....
But the detective is human, and agrees to preserve Toff's good name amongst the locals, if only to avoid the embarrasment of their knowing their fair had been opened by a swindler. So it's an ending quite in keeping with that olde-worlde atmosphere we'd begun with. The train steams away with its prisoners: "thank you inspector, you're a gentleman too."
Though a pleasant character study of intangible perfection, this is ultimately charmless, sadly. Livesey adds moments of the lugubrious, as he almost parodies Roger Livesey.
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Lena O My Lena (25 Sept 1960)-
Script: Alun Owen. Director: William T Kotcheff.
Set in a Salford food wholesalers, here's a study of male chauvinism in the workplace, and yet another exploration of class differences. This was the sort of entry that won the series critical acclaim, but I find it plain tedious.
Ted the foreman is played by Colin Blakely with his usual brilliant Northern bluntness, though the most interesting minor character is perhaps simple minded Derek (Patrick O' Connell), whom Ted looks after like a child.
Newcomer is student Tom (Peter McEnery) who is looking for a holiday job. He wants to get away from student types, but though he is from a working class background, he's not used to the brash ways he encounters.
Object of his affection is the worldly loud-mouthed Lena (the enticing Billie Whitelaw), who works in the adjacent press tool factory. "You're funny, you make me laugh," she says of his Liverpool accent. He thinks she's "funny" too, the way she shows her working class ideals.
Lorry driver Glyn (Scott Forbes) warns Tom off for "Lena belongs to him." And Ted tries to dissuade Tom from taking her out, but Tom won't listen, taking her to a cafe populated by noisy students: "you're lads, not men," observes Lena. Then they sit alone. "I can't think of anything to say," admits Tom, but she loosens his tongue and they have a long kiss. "You're always thinking too much," she tells him when he declares his love. She doesn't love him in the same way. Here's the core of their differences, he young and innocent, she experienced and worldly wise.
Next day at work "Glyn'll knock his block off." That's what the men are murmuring, though Lena knows he won't be bothered by any threat from Tom. Ted tries to save Tom from himself, but Glyn tells Tom the truth: she'd only been trying to make Glyn jealous. Tom starts a fight but Lena stops them- it was, she admits, only a bit of fun for her- "go back to where you belong." And that seems to be the message of this play.
"It's never easy to learn," are Ted's concluding words. Nor is it easy to watch this self-satisfied analysis of sixties working class, which is very dated today. Perhaps it's because we don't have the same sort of culture clash that it's so hard to see that at the time this was quite avant garde stuff.
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The Cupboard (11th December 1960, Armchair Mystery Theatre)
Script: Ray Rigby. Director: David Greene.
Donald Pleasence was one of the best at playing sinister characters with dark secrets.
Here, he's Fred Watson, and the question is, where has his wife Sarah got to? She's been away from their basement flat for four weeks, and now he's flogging off his wife's jewellery for a mere £20 to Bert Spooner, because his rent is in arrears.
His landlord Mrs Sparrow, "all alone in the world" since her husband's unfortunate accident, wants to know why Watson has papered over the cupboard in his bedroom. It seems rather too obvious what he's up to, as he plies her with drink.
The second act of the play sees Watson informing a potential buyer for the property, Mrs Williams, that Mrs Sparrow has gone away to Brighton, and that he, Fred Watson, has the option to purchase the place. He also has her written authority to collect the other tenants' rents.
"I think you've done away with her," shouts Sarah's sister and she calls in Dt Sgt Roberts who soon spots the papered-over cupboard. Despite protests, he smashes the door in. "See anything?" comes Watson's ironic voice. Empty. Privately, he confides to the detective where his wife really is. In a mental home "for a rest."
So it all seems above board. At the moment.
Secretly, Watson meets Mrs Sparrow, whom he's been blackmailing over her husband's fatal 'accident.' Watson's plot is evident- Mrs Sparrow is for that cupboard!
Dt Sgt Roberts is back questioning Watson about the jewellery Spooner has been caught with. Watson breathes a sigh of relief that that is all he's there about. The policeman admires the cupboard that Watson has already papered over again.
We learn the truth about Sarah Watson, that she had run away with a garage owner, though Fred denies this obvious fact. In his sadly naive way, he seems convinced she'll soon be returning from that mental home.
An unforeseen happening knocks Watson's scheme on the head. Mrs Sparrow had apparently asked workmen to
solve the damp problem in the building, and today's the day they start work. They break down the cupboard. The game is up, as the play closes with a long close-up of Watson's resigned face
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The Big Deal (5 March 1961) -
Script: Jimmy (here as James) Sangster. Director: Julian Amyes.
I enjoyed this play - and I can't often say that of Armpit Theatre- with its well drawn characters and a plot which asks questions about business ethics via an absorbing storyline. The theme is summed up in this line- Business scruples "get in the way of business." This looks a mite like a forerunner to The Power Game with Edward Chapman ideally cast in the ruthless John Wilder role.
Chapman is actually playing Sir Pierson Cale, a "tyrant" head of a company tendering for a multi-million nuclear power project in Iran. But he realises his tender will be "too high" and he demands cost cutting of his underlings so they "shave off" at least "half a million." John Hamilton (William Franklyn) is given a special assignment to ensure Cale's firm submits the lowest bid- Britman's is the rival company best placed to undercut Cales: "get me that figure, Hamilton."
So Hamilton poses as a Mr Northwood and is given work at Britman's. "No unnecessary expenses" is the keynote of the company, and "with no deadwood" on the staff, Britman's looks set fair to win the contract. Can Hamilton get a peep at their submission, hidden in the company safe? Does he want to? For here he finds "a workman's Shangri-la," where all employees are happy to work for the good of the firm. His plan to chat up the boss's secretary (Diana Fairfax) evaporates, and instead he bares his soul to Helen. She gives him the figure, but he just can't use that information. Disgusted at his duplicity, Helen phones the figure through to Cale herself: "now you can go and order your Rolls Royce," she jibes at Hamilton.
On the carpet before Mr Britman next morning, he's surprisingly allowed to keep his job. Grateful, Hamilton promises to try and prove that Cale's now winning bid is fraudulent. But how, how can he prove Cale's figures are impossible?
Helen is persuaded to join in back at work at Cale's, but try as he might, he's not allowed a sight of the successful tender. So, taking a leaf out of the unscrupulous Cale's own book, he uses "terrorisation" to wheedle the data from the costing team leader. Unfortunately Cale catches him in flagrante, and isn't at all perturbed, because he has Hamilton where he wants him- for he's ensured Hamilton's name, as the late head of the costing team, has been put at the head of the cheap tender. "Get out," Cale orders Hamilton. But the latter has his own trump card- demanding £50,000 for silence on the deal. "Evidence of bribery," he tells Cale when he's paid off.
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The Man out There (12 March 1961) -
Script: Donal Giltinan. Director: Charles Jarrott.
Wildly improbable tale, but really tense.
A Russian manned flght into space. A lot of shaky camerawork to convince us it's for real. A failure- Troika is ordered to "eject," Russian expletives from the astronaut, a major (Patrick McGoohan).
Back at control, the General (Clifford Evans) tries to devise a rescue plan, with the rocket now floating out of radio contact, orbiting the earth. He has five hours before the rocket will crash back to earth.
In an isolated snowbound Canadian trading post we meet a man and wife with quite a different problem. Young Cora (Heather Lyons) is in urgent need of medical help. Whilst he ventures out into the blizzard, stepmother Marie (Katharine Blake) sends out repeated messages for help- "this is an emergency, please answer." It comes from an unexpected source- Troika! Two people who need help badly!
"I am a doctor," the major radios to her. That's fortunate! Diptheria is the diagnosis. There's only one thing to do- "pierce the windpipe from the outside through the neck." Such a terrifying procedure is the only way Cora can be saved. Such a frightening remote controlled operation is surely any parent's worst nightmare. What is worse, such blunt instructions are all Marie is going to get because now the major has drifted out of contact. We follow his reflections on his own dilemma. This is perhaps less absorbing than Cora's drama, however much more world shattering his crisis is.
Another orbit and radio contact is reestablished. Despite his own worries, he encourages her as she dares to attempt the incision: "do it now!" shouts the major. His own chance is dwindling now- "you're talking to a dead man" he admits.
Even less absorbing is the activity at ground control who are explaining away the disaster to the press and announcing their rescue plan.
Next orbit. "You did what had to be done," the major reassures Marie. Now she is able to help him by taking down some important readings from the rocket.
With no way out for the major, it's time for McGoohan to perform his well-oiled raving looony act. His weird singing awakens an exhausted Marie on his last orbit. It's she who can encourage him now- "you mustn't give up." At last she is in a position to appreciate his danger. She thanks him for helping Cora over the worst. But she's quite helpless as she shares his last moments.
Reentry of Troika. Control implement their bold rescue plan. A last message from the major to Marie as he succeeds in understanding what has caused the catastrophe. Then screams and silence.
With Vaughan Williams' grim Fourth Symphony as the title music, we can guess there's not going to be a fairytale end. At least some joy as Cora stirs. Maybe the play would have been better if it had been tighter with Ground Control scenes omitted, and, as surely would happen today, more close-ups of the DIY surgery, which is strangely underplayed here.
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Danger, Men Working (7 May 1961)
Script: John D Stewart, Director: Alan Cooke.
Irish navvies on a muddy, a very muddy hospital building site. Work is already behind schedule in very trying conditions. Experienced general foreman Desmond Docherty urges caution so how can work be speeded up? Workmen are already near to breaking point.
The answer comes in the shape of blustering new boss "Trumbull the Terrible" (Richard Pearson). He "reads the riot act to site manager Erskine Craig (Mark Eden) without understanding any of the technical problems. He also takes a shine to secretary Mary Riley, asking her to come away "strictly business" for the weekend. Though she's in love with Craig, she consents.
"Tough nut" Scanling (Barry Keegan) is appointed new foreman, Docherty given notice: "I need boldness, Craig." Retorts Craig "you couldn't have made a worse choice... there's going to be trouble here."
When it comes, it comes on two fronts.
Firstly Erskine Craig gets wind of Mary's weekend. She's rebuffs Trumbull's advances anyway.
Then Scanling's hard tactics give rise to a deputation from the workers, lead by Jerry (a sadly wasted Leo McKern). "He has neither rhyme nor reason," complains Jerry about Major Trumbull. Management response: Jerry is sacked. Workers get agitated about their working conditions. "You're not going to dictate to me," shouts Trumbull. Craig vainly attempts to arbitrate, but the Major's attitude is too abrasive: "we've had enough Communist tripe from you." A fight breaks out between Jerry and the thick Scanling, and it's left to Docherty to separate the feuding pair. But all those short cuts come home to roost as a muddy foundation collapses with Docherty buried in the rubble.
Now everyone pulls together in some sort of common purpose for the rescue. But nothing can save the arrogant Major Trumbull, who admitting his error takes his leave. Some kind of peace is restored.
Richard Pearson does his usual reliable role as an uppercrust, out of touch with everything except the profit motive. Plenty of authentic Irish on show though Mark Eden's accent wavers a little. The building site set, complete with slime is an impressive creation from Assheton Goreton. But the story itself never quite builds up any sympathy for the characters, it's never quite clear which side of the fence the author is sitting on
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The Ship that Couldn't Stop (2 July 1961)-
Script: Christopher Hodder- Williams. Director: Alan Cooke
It's the maiden voyage across the Atlantic of NPS Crusader, a nuclear ship that cruises at over 34 knots. Proud captain is Commodore Grant (veteran Frank Pettingell), and also on board, in the cabin next the reactor, is a physicist Michael Holland "with a death wish" (Donald Churchill) who is predicting a Titanic-sized disaster. He'd worked on the pilot project and knows all the pitfalls.
Passengers are given a tour of the ship by technical expert Tony Roman (Scott Forbes), who reassures everyone, all except Holland that is, who has some pressing questions. "It's like a king sized boiled egg," observes one American, Richard Bollanger (Michael Balfour). But it's his wife Emily's childish desire to press the buttons in the allegedly dead back-up controls that causes the trouble.
The speed of the ship is unaccountably increasing now, a neutron surge seems to be the reason, and stop the reactor seems the only sensible solution. Commodore Grant orders the shutdown but too late, "she's gone unstable." Radiation levels rising. 40 knots!
A warning to other ships in the area to steer clear is given. "There's no way of getting the people off,"- worse than Titanic. No way the engines will stop working.
There is one way but it's dangerous- change the angle of the reflector in the reactor. Holland might be able to accomplish this task, though after delicate remote manoeuvres,"it's not possible." All Holland can do is expose himself to a lethal dose of radiation and move the reflector by hand. He has saved the ship but at cost to himself: "just the way he planned it."
All the technical jargon has the effect of making the incomprehensible very tense and although the merits or otherwise of nuclear power are never discussed, the play makes a definite statement about its dangers
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The Omega Mystery (10 September 1961)-
Script: James Mitchell. Director: Guy Verney
This story at least proves that not all Sydney Newman's offerings were dull and drab.
Butler (John Gregson) and Robinson (Donald Churchill) are counter intelligence investigators, who are on their way to a nuclear power station where an experiment has gone badly wrong. They discuss their case whilst the industrious Robinson repairs their broken down car. We learn about all the workers at the lab, but I found this scene too complicated to digest properly. But once there, at a place that reminds Butler of his old prep school, there's a better introduction to the main characters, all of whom, of course, appear to have motives to wreck the place. They'd been working on what they call The Omega Process, which if successful will see the dawn of an era of cheap electricity. Unfortunately the process might have other uses, such as making h-bombs.
In charge of the plant is Kendrick (Frank Gatliff), who believes it must have been an accident.
He's supported in this view by a mathematician, Diamond, who's sure that anyway, the experiment can never work.
Dr Jones (Stanley Meadows) is the inventor of the process, though he's very much opposed to its use as a weapon of war. He is pally with journalist Isabelle, who has been lent the doctor's pass to the lab.
Finally there's Dr Chattalai, whose lab monkey Vashti was the only victim of the recent debacle.
The play is basically a picture of the two sleuths questioning their suspects, trading off comments and personalities. Gregson and Churchill make an entertaining pair, Gregson dour, slightly cynical, matter-of-fact, whilst Churchill provides a balance with some light quips. "You don't leave us much dignity," Dr Jones tells them, as they probe deeper. It's quite an absorbing variation on the usual mystery, with interesting characters, though perhaps too predictable, especially the stock drunken Irishman Diamond.
To get his proof, Butler arranges for the experiment to be reconstructed. Tension builds as Butler sets himself up for the saboteur to attempt to eliminate him. Alone in the lab, Isabelle joins him, but they are both locked in, the air conditioning switched off. "The obvious solution to a very nasty problem I set the fellow." But the question still is- who?
Butler is prepared for the situation, and some deftness extricates them from the lab. Now the experiment proceeds: "suppose the Masked Avenger strikes again?" jokes Butler.
Yes, there's the same disaster, but this time Butler and Robinson are able to demonstrate who is causing the problems. I wouldn't pretend anyone could have guaranteed to have guessed the culprit, but then that's true of almost any detective story. For that's what this is, in essence. "Who'd have ever thought of xxxxx ?"
There's an overlong coda, by way of explanation
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The Trouble with Our Ivy (19 November 1961)
Script: David Perry. Director: Charles Jarrott
You don't know whether to laugh or cry in this wayout variation of Laurel and Hardy's silent classic Big Business, carrying the warring neighbours motif to the ultimate.
"The biggest surprise Surbiton ever had" is planned by the Chards (John Barrie, Gretchen Franklin) on their estranged neighbours the Tremblows (Laurence Hardy, Dandy Nichols). This is suburbia at its exaggerated worst!
"All the neighbours think we're mad," comments Nell Tremblow, though in typical middle class-speak, this only means they prefer to spend their holidays at home. But it's partly true because the couple are fanatical prize rose growers. They exchange plenty of barbed gossip about the Chards who are "a bit peculiar too." More than a bit, for the neighbours haven't exchanged any words for the past three years, ever since Ivy Chard had committed suicide. The Chards blame the Tremblows for it too.
Jack Chard has been harbouring his revenge, and this evening he's begun his plan. To try and learn what he's up to, Nell Tremblow even pops rounds, to break the sacred silence.
The truth comes out- Amazonian Creeper! Says Nell: "that's a funny sort of thing to want to plant." The penny hasn't quite dropped, so she sends her husband to dig deeper. The contrast between the prim Harold Tremblow and the Chards, eaten up with hate, is excellently portrayed. But the "quick growing" tropical ivy even bestirs Harold out of his monotone existence, specially when he realises the creeper is actually growing six inches every five minutes! "Aren't we letting our imaginations run away with us?" he queries. Yes, that sums up this story very well!
A 999 call brings a fireman with his chopper to the Chards, but they soft sawder him til by now it's "galloping" all over the Tremblow's rose garden: "It's unnatural!" Jack jibes at them "say goodbye to your daughter Rose."
Now an eerie silence, "deathly quiet." "It's coming through the letter box."
"I'm dreaming all this," cries the fireman who is now alerted to the danger, but too late. For its stalks are growing into trunks! "It doesn't seem like Surbiton any more!"
How do you end such an inflated fantasy? The couples confront each other in a frenzy, blows exchanged. I think the Creeper was the winner, or maybe the writer who pocketed his fee. It's nearly quite fun, if you suspend your critical faculties
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Afternoon of a Nymph (30 September 1962)
Script: Robert Muller. Director: Philip Saville.
Shakespearean quotes commence this pretentious showbiz parable. "Being normal means being a failure," sums up very well the world that isn't depicted.
Awoken at noon by her suburban mother, actress Elaine (Janet Munro) falls into a reverie as she reflects on last night's dizzy partry. She's an ambitious girl whose agent (Patrick Holt) believes she's destined for great things- "you're going to be very big soon, Elaine."
She's been promised a meeting with great director Francis T Green, the man who makes his artists cry "only after he's slept with them." But is that the only way for Elaine to get on?
Off to work, where director David Simpson (Ian Hendry) directs her Juliet in the famous balcony scene. But it proves to be only a "murderous" version, a mere commercial for chocs! At least David is refreshingly honest about his work- "you call this directing....! Is pineapple marzipan fudge the height of your ambition?" he asks Elaine. For he helps her understand herself, perhaps, as they exchange genuine lines from the Bard, plus a kiss. "Forget all these dry-clean suburban emotions," David advises her. The question is, is he only like all the others too?
"Stand up to these phonies," he boldly warns her, when they meet again at Lord Tony's party. But the "scumbag" David has brought a tart with him, suggesting that indeed he is the same as the rest. Noting Elaine's disappointment, her publicist tries to encourage her- "you've got bigger fish to fry here," he promises. This part is taken by Peter Butterworth who has
perhaps the best supporting role, which he plays with fire, a shallow character really only out for number one.
Certainly Elaine starts to believe her own rubbishy publicity, as she outlines to reporters her exotic past- "are they taking your lies with good grace, the gentlemen of the press?" asks David. Now the best and key scene as Elaine sprawls on a balcony and David opens her eyes to the sharks and pimps and pedlars. Hers is "the pose of the professional party virgin," though maybe her ambition to be a "real actress" will help her break from this ghastly circle.
Now the big moment as she's introduced to Francis Green. With more Shakespeare droning in the background she wavers over what to do. She decides, but she doesn't look too happy. Nor was I, trying to watch this introverted examination of the hollowness of the underlings of show business.
"Nothing about you is real," David tells her. And he was right. "You don't understand do you?" he adds. Well yes, but maybe no. You can admire the cleverness of the script, the matching of Debussy's music to the mood of Elaine, but enjoy it?- no it's not meant to be enjoyed. To parody the script, being normal, I failed to enjoy or even admire Afternoon of a Nymph.
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The Snag (4 August 1963)-
Writer: Donald Giltinan, Director: Jonathan Alwyn.
A light hearted saga of sixties property development.
One "old dear" stands in the path of progress, to be precise- a new civic centre to be constructed by Goggins. "Calculating cad," Ed Crayshaw, and his charm, is to be turned on Madame Emma, to persuade her to sell her quaint old shop. But behind Emma is the forceful "elephantine dowager" Lady Wittering who stands against "the encroaching desert of vulgarity."
As the pair seem so "bloody minded," Ed turns his attentions on Emma's assistant, her niece Agatha; this to the dismay of Jill Goggins, who rather fancies Ed herself.
Her dad provides Derek Francis with a typically brash role, that of a Northern industrialist, the type of part he plays so beautifully. Judith Furse, as Lady Wittering has a fine forceful role of "a boa constructor," whilst Patsy Rowlands as Agatha wins the comedy acting honours with her spot-on timing. Barrie Ingham as the likeable rogue Ed, has a fun part, but he is not the ideal actor for getting laughs.
So, is it time "to cut loose" for Agatha when her aunt falls ill, and she has to take over the reins of the shop?
For his failure to persuade the old lady, Ed is sacked. He tries smooth talking Jill, but is he just spinning a line to get a toehold back in the firm? She sees through him and sets out with her dad to get her own back: "once more unto the breach, dear dad." Goggins makes his own approach to the ailing Emma. His sympathy is insufficient to bring about any agreement, but they part with mutual understanding.
Ed makes new advances on Agatha in the best comedy scene. She is rightly dubious of his kind words, and no wonder, for Jill has told her the very words he will try on her. But when a proposal is drawn from the reluctant bachelor, the lonely Agatha suddenly becomes the dominant one, and insists he honours his commitment.
The final scene is after Emma's death. "In indecent haste" Ed has married Agatha, since she will inherit the shop. He offers a deal to Goggins. But Goggins' meeting with Emma had borne fruit after all, she has left him shop quite legally, so it's Ed with mud on his face.
The characters are well drawn, but the comedy is always a little too obvious and you are never really sure on whose side your sympathies are meant to lie.
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Long Past Glory (17 November 1963) -
Script: Len Deighton. Director: Charles Jarrott.
Gritty drama more akin to the Sydney Newman era, but at least this proves that under Leonard White, Armchair Theatre had its dour moments.
"What a ghastly place this is." A mysterious damp subterranean hideout where rats, real ones too, crawl as two tramps Charles (Maurice Denham) and Harry (John le Mesurier) eke out a surprisingly peaceful coexistence together.
"This is hell, when someone dies here, they go to heaven."
The arrival at their "Acacia Avenue" of Roy makes Charlie and Harry reappraise their relationship and situation. "I don't know how you have the stamina to endure it." True, Harry dreams of "getting away" to Eastbourne, but he never leaves. "I'll go in the morning," he tells Charlie.
The play is a study of the depressing triangle of three men at rock bottom- the garrulous Charlie, his weaker pal Harry, both old school tie types, and the young working class newcomer. Their talk of "wogs" and "Indians" polarises attitudes: "you wouldn't be against them so much," observes the shrewd Roy, "if you knew any."
All this time, the viewer wonders what they are doing here in this God-forsaken wilderness, especially the two upper class gents. "I'm in the Slough of Despond," groans Harry, a feeling with which we can heartily concur. The author uses class differences to expose their natural weaknesses in what seems to be a parable about England: "the painful death rattle of the heart of the Empire." Things come to a head with inevitable violence: "he'd have killed you."
So why do they stay there? A neat coda gives some poignancy, if you haven't splashed into oblivion yourself by then. It has been brilliantly prepared but is nevertheless a surprise. Perhaps it makes the play worth sitting through, so I won't spoilt all and reveal the ending
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The Swindler (19 December 1963)
Script: John Hall, Director: Jonathan Alwyn.
A station buffet, but this isn't Brief Encounter for sitting there is Grace (Petra Davies) waiting for friend Alec Waterman (Ronald Lewis) who has "left the ball and chain" and needs to make a fresh start. His best friend Dick, a teacher (Denis Quilley) has arranged for him to work at old pal Ed's construction company. Though Alec doesn't trust Ed Laurie, he's persuaded to give it a try.
He's employed as a timekeeper, and soon becomes popular with the workforce. Now he has everyone's trust, he proposes a moneymaking scheme to start a school, "charge a guinea an hour" in premises like the Ritz. Impressed by Alec's "education," employees chip in. But this was exactly the type of enterprise that had previously got Alec into hot water, when he had opened a business school that got into financial difficulties. When they learn of the scheme, Dick and Grace worry he's making the same mistakes all over again, and decide to talk to him about it.
Alec's popularity increases more when he organises a staff Christmas party. Dick is worried when he hears Ed describing Alec as "a lousy pay clerk." All his figures need checking. But is this view really clouded by Ed's knowledge of Alec's past? However Ed is nearly won round when the men present him with a £50 set of golf clubs, but then doubts are renewed when Ed realises it could have been bought for £40. Ed clearly believes Alec has pocketed some of the men's contributions.
Alec has now stopped working at Laurie's and his replacement finds Alec's books are a mess, "a strangely gifted man... a great awful villain."
Dick however still has faith in his friend who is now laying money out on his venture. Dick stands by Alec even when the men, spurred on by Ed's revelations of Alec's swindling, ask for their money back.
The jazzy theme tune had suggested this is a comedy, though Ronald Lewis never comes anything near being the charming gentleman swindler. The writer tries a bit of everything, and ends up with nothing, as the pros and cons of Alec's character are discussed in a very unconvincing exchange of views. It's all about safe worlds and jungles- so this is Armchair Theatre after all!
Alec faces up to his investors who also argue over Alec's bona fides- "I don't think you've been straight with us," is the prevailing view. For his part Alec reproaches them with "you morons," and returns all their cash. "I'm no con man," he argues, and whatever else, he had great faith in his own plans.
Moral- reputation of an ex-prisoner is hard to shed. We leave Alec alone at the buffet with a fiver Grace has insisted on lending him.
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Sharp at Four (12 January 1964)-
Script: Donald Churchill. Director: Guy Verney
Here's a prolonged study in the dreaded experience of tense waiting, before the result of a job interview is known. Trouble is, Donald Churchill's slight script is just far too easy to predict, even if it is rather well performed.
Personnel Manager CW Boatwright (Derek Godfrey) is interviewing for a new shorthand typist for Mr Sutcliffe, director of the company.
It's the fourteenth interview for Mrs Jean Hobley (Rosemary Leach), "and I haven't clicked yet."
She has only one stipulation- each day she must leave "sharp at four" to collect her young son from school.
The interview never gets going as a result. Sutcliffe is looking for something much more feminine, but lonely Mr Boatwright sees in Mrs Hobley a kindred spirit. "If you don't hear from us by five o'clock today," she's told, she will have got the post.
She returns to her flat and awaits that call which will, she's sure, be another rejection. Here's the heart of the play, such as it is, as she starts scouring the jobs vacant section of the paper. "Come on, ring me up," she calls out of her window at the invisible interviewers.
They are continuing their task. Next is Miss Whitehurst. Sutcliffe likes her impressive skills, though Boatwright's mind seems elsewhere. Interviews over, he begins manipulating events to render Miss Whitehurst unavailable. "Put in another ad," Sutcliffe casually suggests. But Boatwright has other ideas.
Less than half an hour to 5pm and Jean's hopes are rising. Her ex-husband phones, wanting to patch things up, but she's having none of it. As five o'clock approaches she's ever more optimistic.
Meantime, Boatwright is moving his efficient and loyal secretary, Miss Fletcher, in the direction of Sutcliffe. As she has a crush on her boss, it's a tough job: "I wouldn't think of leaving you," she affirms to the disappointed Boatwright. Flattery fails, so he plays his trump card. But she's impervious: "I definitely won't leave you, sir." Thankfully Sutcliffe comes to his rescue, with the brainwave why can't he have the reliable Miss Fletcher?
She is now phoning Jean, at just before five o'clock. Jean at first refuses to pick up the nagging instrument. Finally she does, to learn it's bad news. Inevitable depression.
Back at the office, Miss Fletcher is presented with the fait accompli- she's got to work for Sutcliffe. She's talked round by the lure of friendship from Mr Boatwright on a continued basis- "executives do not associate with office personnel out of working hours." Usually, that is.
So now the way is clear for Boatwright to pick up the phone and offer the surprised Mrs Hobley "another position, a job where you would leave at four." Smiles at her end of the line.
My query is, why do we never see her son, as it's so imperative for him to be collected Sharp at Four? Nevertheless, it's all well done, not quite a comedy, nor yet a soap opera.
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Last Word on Julie (26 January 1964) -
Script: Lynne Reid Banks. Director: Jonathan Alwyn
A portrait of "pain in the neck" Julie Lister, whom we see through the eyes of her friends and acquaintances.
This oppressive story starts with that old trick of watching a headless person, in this instance walking to a letterbox to post four letters. Then she returns to her flat and pops her head in the gas oven.
Julie's first letter is her unofficial will. Her solicitor opens the missive from "our most troublesome female client." It's a sort of "deathbed confession."
Letter no.2 is to her "adored" mother Mary (Joan Miller), who is under the thumb of her sister Jenny (Jessica Dunning), a spikey lady who hadn't had time to talk when Julie phoned last night.
Third letter is addressed to friend Helen whose husband Adam looks on Julie as a "female fiend." The contents set Helen in a panic.
Ex-boyfriend Jimmy (John Bonney) is the recipient of Julie's last letter. It arrives at an inopportune moment, for he's just about to leave on an important assignment abroad. But he chucks it in, to go to Julie's.
So, after this twenty minute introduction, the characters assemble at her flat: "she's not there."
A week on, and still no word. The main focus is on mother Mary, who is convinced her child is dead. She blames Jimmy, as Julie had fallen out with him. Jimmy is going to pieces. He talks with Mary and it appears Julie had lied to both of them. Helen is in a bad way too, having lost her unborn baby through the stress, for Julie's letter had contained allegations about Adam's relationship with Julie.
Two months have passed now, and steps are being taken to declare Julie legally dead. Reflection has led to a hardening of attitudes. Mum still believes the best of her late child, Jimmy is now jobless.
After 45 minutes, we do meet Julie (Sue Lloyd), with her latest boyfriend, an older, richer man (Bill Owen). She is just the seductive, selfish creature we knew she would be. Even Raymond realises "you've got tiny streaks of unkindness," though he hasn't grasped the depths as yet. Raymond is free to marry Julie, as his wife has killed herself- he's quite "indifferent" to her fate, just as Julie is to her past life.
A monologue from Julie is supposed to explain all. Her head in the oven was a bit of a cheat. If the characters are convincing, which they are, and if this is 'realism', then give me fantasy. "Here's looking at you my sweet," utters Bill Owen in the ultimate in corny lines, as a close-up on Julie transforms into a still photo.
In fact, the play is a series of snapshots which fail to make a satisfying or even credible whole. For the writer shows us the pictures, without ever making sense of them, or bringing the conflicts to a resolution. As "slut" Julie concludes, "it must be their fault too."
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The Blackmailing of Mr S (26 July 1964) -
Script:Michael Gilbert. Director: Robert Tronson.
John le Mesurier seems ideally cast as a gentle solicitor Mr Sparrow, who runs an efficient office, mainly thanks to his right hand man Varley (Peter Butterworth). The smooth running is also due to the behind the scenes efforts of ex army sergeant George (Peter Vaughan).
Less serenity however, when secretary Miss Angie Dundas (Jo Rowbottom) tackles Mr S on the subject of his dubious tax returns. She demands a pay rise! George is also in on the blackmail, and wants an even bigger rise.
"Call their bluff," is Sparrow's first response, after consulting Varley. He persuades Varley to listen in to the next confrontation, then to give the crooks a taste of their own medicine. However the plan backfires when Varley turns out to be the brains behind the scheme- he wants a golden handshake of £5,000. But how can Mr Sparrow find such a large amount of money? Swindle the clients, proposes Varley. It seems poor Mr S has been doing this already anyway, perhaps thanks to his laid-back approach to his work.
Mulling over his problem, Mr S is befriended on the train home by fellow traveller Angus Kendrick (Robert James). At Mr S's home, Angus admires a Faberge collection. Is it coincidence that Kendrick is the cousin of Miss Tripp, a client Mr S is now swindling?
You feel almost sorry for Sparrow: "have any of you thought this thing out to the end?" he inquires of his blackmailers. Or perhaps he was asking the author whose play ambles on, without developing satisfactorily, or providing any new insights into the blackmailing motif.
Yet Mr S gets his own back by persuading the crooks to keep their money in the firm's strong boxes. They might suspect a catch, but what is it?
Tis down at the bank, where Mr S is packing away his precious Faberge collection. But before he can do a bunk to Rio, Kendrick locks him in the vault. He knows his cousin has been swindled. "I wasn't really stealing at all" is Mr S's rather hollow excuse, rather like this story, which despite some charming touches from le Mes, is a rather feeble apology for a crime caper. Perhaps the unexpected ultimate casting against type of John le Mesurier was the most inspired part
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The Trial of Dr Fancy
(made August 1962, but not screened until 13 September 1964)-
Script: Clive Exton, Director: William Kotcheff. This was made in the Sydney Newman era. - Quite difficult to successfully construct a television hour around one set, even a courtroom. Especially when one gradually gets the feeling that the author is laughing at us.
Set in 1966 for some reason.
The accused: Dr James Fancy.
The charge: Causing the death of Ernest Spratt, aged 33.
Plea: Not Guilty.
The prosecution (Barry Jones) relates how Dr Fancy had amputated both Spratt's legs, even though, it is alleged, there was nothing wrong with them. Dr Harmon (Ronald Hines), afflicted with an unfortunate stutter, confirms there was nothing physically wrong with the patient.
"That's showbiz," was Dr Fancy's alleged comment when the operation on Spratt failed. In the hands of the defence (an impressive Nigel Stock), the nervous Dr Harmon is but putty- a cruel exchange with the stuttering witness.
Police surgeon Dr Pilbeam, adds to the confusion stating he had not been able to examine Spratt's legs, as Bert the boilerman claimed "he had burnt all the legs."
From Spratt's mother (Dandy Nicholls), we hear that ever since he had gone to buy a new pair of trousers from Penders Department Store, her son had expressed this strange desire to have his legs amputated.
The defence case is that Spratt's operation had been for his "general wellbeing." Ever since 1955 Fancy has been successfully amputating legs, one of the first Charles Lincoln (Norman Bird) testifies he had once been 6ft 3ins (one inch less than the deceased), and had suffered from being so tall. Now, thanks to Dr Fancy, he's living a normal happy life.
Then it's the turn of a psychologist (John Paul) to outline the Cyclops Complex, the desire to become smaller and more childlike again. The treatment is to "remove the physical basis of the condition." The prosecution however argue that the fee for the operation is the doctor's principal consideration.
John Pender (Peter Sallis with almost a Welsh accent) has made it his life's work to help "little people" by opening his Little Man's Shop. Business boomed and he opened several branches, one in Africa even, catering for pigmies.
Says the judge (Kynaston Reeves - a perfect role) in summing up - "indeed the whole of the prosecution case has a touch of fantasy." Or did he mean the whole play?? You can see the end a-coming a mile off....
The jury's verdict proves Exton is poking fun at the British legal system, though much less acceptable is his attempted humour, if that's what it is, at the expense of stutterers
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The Man who came to Die (18 April 1965)-
Script: Reginald Marsh, Director: Jonathan Alwyn.
A cold house greets a weekend couple, Michael Richardson (Ronald Leigh-Hunt) and Jo (Toby Robins) who have been celebrating their seventh anniversary. It's all very lovey-dovey: "I don't need alcohol to make me amorous." They anticipate a happy time together, alone.
But then there's a shock- Jo finds Ted Fellowes in the spare bedroom, fast asleep. They argue over whether to awaken him, but there's really no need, for Ted is dead. Neighbour Dr Clarkson (Peter Copley) is phoned, and as it's past 1am it's not surprising he's rather grumpy: "he's killed himself," is the abrupt diagnosis, as he quickly departs.
Inspector Wadcot (the author of this play, Reginald Marsh), in a businesslike way, gets Mike and Jo to recount events. Remarks Mike afterwards: the police have "an uncanny way of making you feel quilty, whether you've done anything or not."
Facts about Ted have been emerging. He was Mike's business partner, and Mike isn't sorry he's dead. He had been overselling insurance policies to locals, including Dr Clarkson.
Bad news- the gun Ted shot himself with belongs to Mike. Mike does a bunk.
Now the scene shifts to an invalid, William Ashcroft, and his sister Mrs Trevington who cares for him. They discuss the death furtively. "I've met you before," observes Wadcot, when they call at Mike and Jo's later.
The play perks up when Mrs Marriott the cleaner (Gretchen Franklin) arrives next morning. "Just having a look at the scene of the crime, inspector, no harm in that," she tells Wadcot. From her, he obtains all the local gossip.
Mark is caught at Waterloo Station. He's brought back to his home and shows the policeman proof of Ted's swindling that he's recovered from their office. Dr Clarkson had been paying premiums of £25 a month. From Mrs Marriott, it seems he had been 'seeing' Mrs Trevington, but this liaison had ceased when her 'brother' had moved in to the village. Questioned, the doctor admits being blackmailed by Fellowes over the affair. Fellowes was also blackmailing Ashcroft. In a curious change of scene to a trial, we hear Clarkson's account of the killing.
Otherwise this is a very straightforward and uninteresting murder mystery, with no message, not at all typical of Armchair Theatre.
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Man and Mirror -
(Armchair Mystery Theatre, 13 June 1965)
Script: Robert Muller
Are the characters believable? - Not for me.
Are they sympathetic? - Hardly.
Is the denouement credible? - Daft is a simpler, better description.
GP Geoffrey Manners (Maurice Denham) lives with his brother Edward (Richard Pasco) and mother Isabel (Sybil Thorndike) in a dark mansion. Mama believes "someone is trying to kill me," but is she imagining it?
Edward is a frustrated composer, who spends more time bemoaning his bored existence than in any desultory composition.
Geoffrey attends to his patients, studying the latest Freudian theories, and suffering from recurring headaches. His one love is his chameleon. Apparently its colour changes are significant, not only in biological terms, you see. Let's face it, they're all batty. Or is it the author, for daring to inflict such depression on us?
Clock ticks louder, chameleon changes colour, as Edward, Jekyll and Hyde-like seeks a lady's pleasure.
Fretting with good cause is Isabel, for someone is certainly trying to frighten her. Her murky past, or more correctly, her late husband's murky liaison is the root of her angst. She contacts the police about her fears. They have just received another, anonymous, communication, accusing one of the brothers of something unspecified but obviously some nasty deed.
She then discusses with the doctor Edward's schizoid character. It's all caused by his repressed past, in this repressive house, ruled by a dominant matriarch.
Edward wears a wild look in his eye as the crisis looms. "You do understand?" Geoffrey asks Edward. Apparently he does. He's the only one though. He has to rid himself of one nature, in order to become "one whole man."
'Tis all part of the doctor's plan to get Edward to act. Will he? He can't do what a man has got to do, so Geoffrey does himself. He's the potty one, as if you cared. But he's stopped in his foul act.
This is the sort of play that Armchair Theatre was celebrated for. It was the sort of play that may have won the critics, but certainly lost the viewers. And for me, the viewer is hardly ever wrong, not me anyway
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Neighbours (15 January 1966)-
Script: Arkady Leokum. Director: Paul Almond.
The setting is a swish modern American property in commuterland, in the best district. The Robinsons, Chuck and Mary, are preparing to receive potential buyers for the house. "They happen to be negroes" so this "simple business transaction" could influence neighbours' opinions, indeed predicts Chuck "it will get a little rough."
After this scene setting, enter Bill and Vicky Kingsbury. You have to put aside the improbable plot of this couple spending so much effort entertaining these possible buyers. The meeting starts with idle and rather dull opening chat, sellers doing most of the running. The ice is only broken when Bill is entertained by Chuck's absurd advertising gimmick, his latest creation in his advertising job. Oh yes, Vicky does get to be shown round the house. We learn she used to be a nightclub singer, but now is bringing up their two kids.
"For Pete's sake, we're gettin' all involved now," though I found it hard to get into this museum piece studying racist attitudes. Yet the real clash proves to be one of ideals: "you're tellin' me I got to act a certain way." In fact it's all to do with a rather contemporary issue, as Bill and Vicky are only moving into this area for the school. "I don't think I understand," declares Mary, of Vicky's way of life. The line sums up the play just too well.
Though a sale has been agreed somewhere along the way, Chuck seems to want to impose his suburban ideals, but Bill isn't having any: "I don't want to hear all that!" Community is not part of his vocabulary.
So how it's going to pan out?- that's the only interest in this play. Chuck dances with Vicky as Bill dances with Mary. What will the neighbours say?! I never met a couple of sellers like these, and though I know house buying is a fraught process, 'twas never like this in my experience. There's no reality at all in the dialogue. Moments of truth as Bill's lack of education is exposed, but also the fact he's a successful self-made man.
A kind of climax is reached when Bill proposes to tear up the contract unless Chuck begs him not to. Deal off. Yes, house selling is tough. But then it all changes as self-made man is revealed to be a famous composer- Mary is his greatest fan!
Mary apologises. Just shows celebrity status covers a multitude of sins. But nothing can hide the flimsy structure of Neighbours. Perhaps Dick Gregory as Bill nearly holds the story together, yet he would have had to have been a saint to succeed
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Don't Utter a Note (9 April 1966)
Script: Anton Delmar. Director: Patrick Dromgoole.
In this light comedy, two sisters Florence and Nellie inherit their brother Charles' arto deco home. "As living examples of Christian charity," they see the opportunity to extend their charitable works, not only to family, newlyweds Nicholas and Sally, but also to Basher Bates (Sid James) as they continue their attempt to "lead him into the paths of righteousness." Some hope with Sid!
Their joie de vivre is rather curtailed when it's shown some of Charles' cash he's left hidden round the place is forged. A printing press in the secret cellar gives them the idea of helping the vicar out by printing the parish magazine. For once Christians are not shown only as eccentric extremists, though the two good sisters are evidently tempted. And from little acorns.... A few extra pounds for their good works wouldn't come amiss. "I think it would be unwise to say anything of this to Basher!" But they need his 'expertise,' and after giving his trademark chuckle, Sid is persuaded to set the presses a-rolling. With some enthusiasm too.
Sgt Howlett (Peter Bowles) briefly threatens to upset this paradise when Florence gives him a ten shilling donation, but fortunately Nicholas retrieves it.
The anonymous charitable gifts snowball, with numerous grateful recipients. Would they "have kittens if they really knew where the cash came from?" And Basher has now his eyes set on a £1,200 sloop, South Sea Lady.
With the help of the Adult Delinquents Association the forged notes are distributed across the country as the operation reaches fantasy proportions- they even plan to pay everyone's income tax!
It is inevitable some of the Delinquents are not that reliable. Arnold, inebriated, "louses it up." Here comes Sgt Howlett, after Arnold has talked freely. Thankfully this policeman isn't too bright and only wants the sisters to take Arnold under their wing, and he leaves them with the fine line "may I say that I think you two ladies are doing a grand job." Ironically it's Florence, unusually slightly the worse for drink, whose tongue is loosed. But who believes such a nice old lady?
Ending this piece of absurdity was always going to be difficult, but the author keeps to the spirit of his play. "We've got to get out of the country," advises a worried Basher, and that sloop is the perfect solution. A quick bunk with forged francs and lire, and they have a new start....
This is a lively bit of fun that moves along so briskly you don't have time to worry about its improbability. With Sybil Thorndike and Athene Seyler occasionally sparking it off as the eccentric sisters, who needs the red tape of the Lottery Fund?
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Dead Silence (10 September 1966)-
Script: Monte Doyle. Director: John Moxey.
No dialogue in the openng five minutes, which doesn't really succeed in intriguing us. Who is the Peeping Tom? Who is he spying on, from his small room? As it turns out to be not directly relevant to the denouement, it's a puzzle. Eventually, we realise he's a caretaker and he's taking a bouquet now to Miss Shaw. After five and a half minutes' economy of silence, the dialogue begins. It's to establish she's all alone in this luxury block of flats.
Now more dialogue saving, or is it more padding? This time someone is banging on a drum in the background, most irritatingly, as another bouquet arrives, but this time a scream, and a shot.
Ten minutes in, we move to a police station, the infallible Chief Inspector Newton who "lives by the book" (Patrick Allen), and his loyal assistant Bob Bedford (Glyn Edwards) are introduced in much the same detailed way. But this technique is too slow for an hour-long play, and any interest in the murder is evaporating after six more minutes painting the picture of a dinosaur amongst detectives, one of the old school, as he himself readily admits. Patrick Allen plays him with that familiar brand of rugged grit.
His investigation of Carol Shaw's death is conducted with autocratic precision. But as the drums start their din, he discerns something that makes his attitude change. It's this discovery that's at the heart of the play. His underlings debate whether the 100% clear-up rate of this "sadist" will remain intact, as he is up to something. Surely he's not tampering with the evidence? His erratic behaviour hasn't gone unnoticed by Bedford and his other more antagonistic colleagues. Why is he not playing it straight, as he always does? He has cleared the area around the flat in order to pursue his "odd" inquiries: "what the hell is he up to?"
Newton interrogates the caretaker, who lies. "I don't think you're telling the truth," notes the sagacious Mrs Masters, who knew Miss Shaw as the nurse who had cared for her late husband in his dying months. "Any men friends?" persists the abrupt Newton.
Pathetic dope addict Len (Ronald Lacey) is summoned to meet Newton at Miss Shaw's flat- why there, not the station? Len admits she supplied his dope.
Next is Mrs Masters that he questions in the flat. Or is it she interrogating him? "What are you hiding inspector?" We learn Carol Shaw had obtained her supply of drugs from Mr Masters, causing him immense suffering. That's why she killed the girl. Drum roll as she produces a gun. A shot.
Newton is on the carpet next morning to account for Mrs Masters' suicide and his own erratic performance. Why had he deviated from the book? At last he explains to Bedford just why. An excellent twist to end. And there's time for one last rumble of those drums.
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A Magnum for Schneider (4 Feb 1967)-
Script: James Mitchell. Director: Bill Bain
Perhaps I'd better start by admitting I am not really a fan of Callan. Maybe the evocative music is the best thing in this seedy drama.
Callan (Edward Woodward) is a disillusioned man- "I used to like my trade." His conscience has rendered him too "soft" to be a licensed killer, but now he's being given a chance to prove himself by killing Schneider.
Yet still Callan wants to know too much about this German, he wants to know the reason he has to kill the man. On his first encounter with Schneider he finds a common interest, which seems genuine, in model soldiers. "I wonder what the hell he's done," ponders the broody Callan. These moments when he shares his inner thoughts are perhaps the best feature of the play.
From the repulsive Lonely, Callan purchases a gun, but complications follow when he finds Scotland Yard are already pursuing inquiries into Schneider. It seems he is suspected of gun running, and a probing of Schneider's safe confirms this for Callan. His mind is now made up. Poetic justice demands the criminal is shot with one of his own smuggled weapons- a Magnum.
Though the interesting morality issues are explored mildly, and Callan's doubts over his job are quite absorbing, the story takes for ever to get to the crux, which is when Callan goes to play soldiers with his target. To cover himself, Callan has left a confession of murder on his tape recorder, which is promptly erased by his faceless superiors. Indeed Callan is constantly shadowed by 'them' (in the shape of Peter Bowles), and to protect this faceless man, Callan is finally forced to eliminate Schneider. But regretfully, one feels. "My God, you took your bloody time!" Too long, I felt.
He's a fine anti-hero, if you like. But no cold blooded killer. And Callan knows that, as he hands in his resignation
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Reason for Sale (4th March 1967)
Script: Derek and Donald Ford. Director: Patrick Dromgoole.
The opening shows off the impressive set of the lavish home of an enigmatic Hungarian widow, Ylena (Nadja Regin). She and her stepdaughter Anna are showing their home
to prospective buyers. One is Ben Lewis (William Lucas) of the Paisley Group, who manage private country houses.
The characters are well drawn and quickly, Anna being the most odd, seeming to hint that there is more to the sale than meets the eye.
As Lewis is leaving, Ylena invites him to stay to dinner. But this is only the first of the downward steps that leads a promising story into an abyss of unlikelihood.
The odd Anna believes Lewis is from the police and she tells him her father Ferenc had been killed. A writer he had been, who had fled Hungary in the 1956 uprising. Ben Lewis starts to wonder if Ylena hasn't manufactured events so he can stay the night.
After some serious words with her, Ben retires for the night to find Anna in his bed. Now we start to border on the improbable as the two talk more of the alleged murder. She points him to the extensive cellar. In the dark, he creeps down there, and what does he find?
A recently bricked up wall. But then, does he see the dead Ferenc alive?? Ylena is there next minute and explains he might
have seen her husband's portrait, which has mysteriously been taken from above the fireplace. It was Anna playing tricks, explains Ylena, for the girl is mad.
Ben asks to see Ferenc's death certificate as he kisses Ylena. Reality is evaporating as the cameras come closer and closer to focus in on their kiss.
Such intimacy gets him to admit that he's come unofficially to investigate Ferenc's death. They now struggle as he tries to force her to admit she killed him.
Anna then teases him as the action becomes more frenzied and incomprehensible. "You're mad," Ben tells them, or is it me?
For Ben had been blackmailing, as yet another revelation is bombarded on us. This must absolutely have lost most viewers, well it did me at least.
But before you can reel from that, Ferenc appears, alive and well. The two men face up. "Talk sense," screams Ben, as if anyone could now. It seems Ben is to decide his own
punishment and he is goaded into shooting Ferenc, though the gun explodes in his own face. "It was his trial," utters the resurrected man seemingly by way of explanation, and if you swallow that, you are a true Armchair Theatre devotee.
Reason for Sale this was titled. Can't have been many buyers
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Compensation Alice (1st July 1967)
Script: Jack Rosenthal. Director: Patrick Dromgoole.
"Isn't that gorgeous?" asks Alice (Sheila Hancock) of a 20 guinea hat in a fashionable boutique.
But "it's for mods and rockers," not for one Alice of the Women's Guild. "It's a bit young for madam,"
explains the shop assistant, "perhaps in your flapper days...!"
For she's fighting anno domini: "you're not 16, love." Back in her suburban home with Wilfrid (Robert Lang)
she despairs of her marriage: "I've done nothing exciting for twenty years." Her husband is much more content as he does his office work in bed:
"Wilfrid, why don't you talk to me any more?" Their stalemate is in stark contrast to their Swiss au pair Lisa, who's enjoying
a lovely time with her young man.
"I suppose I couldn't go to Switzerland and be an au pair girl," muses Alice to Lisa.
She decides it's time for a "giggle" as she pretends to look pregnant. The boutique assistant accuses Alice of stealing, but realising the mistake offers
£5 by way of compensation. That sets Alice off. In a cafe some more "excitement" as she introduces broken glass into her ice cream. Her staid friend Beryl
insists on complaining, and another £5 in compensation is the result.
Alice is soon earning more compensation, this time from a motorist who almost runs her over. She'll soon be able to afford that hat!
We find out the reason for Wilfrid's working at home. At his office he works with his friend Cecil selling insurance, or rather not selling insurance,
for they spend all their time talking and playing about.
So that evening, Wilfrid has more work to do at home. Alice is wearing her new hat. "Alice, have you unhinged?" She does look faintly absurd.
But there's no time for more, because the once-happy Lisa is crying the place down. Her boy friend isn't so keen as her on marriage. It's more than a little embarrassing this scene,
though it's supposed to be funny. Even more incredible, Lisa admires Wilfrid, masterful character. And she loves Alice's happy lifestyle. As a study of mid-life
crisis, this would have been a better play exploring Alice once she has bought her hat. Instead the play degenerates.
Alice realises her faux pas, Wilfrid offering her twenty quid for her never to wear it again.
To make it moral, all the compensation is returned. Now Alice is happy performing the household chores, happily it would seem.
One senses that the author's good idea has been all but lost. Amazing how so many writers can't finish off their good plots. Even someone of the reputation of Mr Rosenthal.
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Edward the Confessor (1969)
Script: Leigh Vance, Director: Henry Kaplan.
Edward Gobey (Ian Holm) is a habitual visitor to the police station, confessing to numerous lurid murders. The usual police
response is "run away, there's a good fellow."
Widow Mrs Blaxill (Beryl Reid) is his landlady and they enjoy a cosy friendship, which is now spoiled by the appearance of Gobey's old school acquaintance
Gland (Alfred Burke), a seedy driving instructor. He's one of those strong characters who has Gobey under his thumb.
So which of the three is the play, a crime drama, a comedy, or a love triangle?
I thought it was a comedy, for that was Beryl Reid's forte. To support this view, there's also a snippet of Edward Gobey at his work of conducting a door-to-door
questionnaire, and the questions are of an intimate nature. It's supposed to make you laugh.
But no, perhaps it's a love affair, because Gland is now moving in to the lodgings and is quickly making advances to Mrs Blaxill in the kitchen, then in the bedroom.
However you always feel this play might be a crime story, with Edward putting his confessions to good, if rather corny use, by eliminating his rival. But he ponders the deed too long, and only stiffens his resolve
after hearing sounds of their lovemaking. Back to comedy, as although he toys with gun and axe, his protest appears limited to cooking his own breakfast. However he does announce he
is going away for the night...
Finally the deed is prepared, and in the dark that evening he creeps back, and the axe falls.
Time now of course for another confession. As usual he explains how he did it. "I shot him!" He's not believed.
To absolve himself from any accusation of being too obvious, the author now embarks on a series of surprise, occasionally clever, revelations.
"Indestructible old" Gland is still at the lodgings! Gobey had got the wrong victim! Gland goads his rival but the play now turns into an overlong study of the
tragic figure Gobey, as the pair talk for what seemed like eternity to get behind the rationale of it all. Yes this play fell
between three, no four stools.
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Main TV Menu
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ITV Plays
My reviews of some other plays
(apart from Armchair Theatre) shown on ITV
Women In Love (1958)
The Big Pride (1961)
The Lover (1963)
Blithe Spirit (1964)
The Death of Bessie Smith (1965)
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Maybe Sydney Newman with Armchair Theatre stole the limelight as regards ITV serious drama productions, but there were some
other fine producers/directors, for example George More O'Ferrall at A-R and Anglia, and Joan Kemp-Welch.
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Women In Love
A two hour collection of six international playlets to mark Associated Rediffusion's third anniversary, shown on Wednesday 24th September 1958.
Here's one viewer's barbed comment (TV Times no 155), "such tepid, milk-and-water women wouldn't have raised the eyebrows
of our strictest Sunday School teachers."
The stories were linked by George Saunders, who describes himself rather charmingly as the "masculine dreamer."
Here are reviews of the stories we have seen-
Story 1, After So Long. This is about Henry's longwinded encounter with "a jewel of a girl" called Topazzia (Scilla Gabel).
It starts as a happy reunion, but "there's something you didn't tell me-" she now has children. Not that as Henry, Terence Morgan's
character's reaction rings at all true. (Script: Bridget Boland. Director: Julian Amyes)
Story 4, Song Without Words, includes location shooting in Stockholm. On a boat tour, tourist Robert (John Fraser) attempts to beat the language barrier
and pick up a Swedish blonde called Karin (Ann-Marie Gyllenspetz). It's all done in the style of a latter day silent film, a gallant but failed attempt to show
a love story with little verbal communication. (Script: Michael Meyer. Director: Peter Graham Scott who was also in charge of overall production)
The final Story, 6 The Stowaway, is set on a boat off the south of France where eligible bachelor David (Daniel Massey)
is sleeping in the Honeymooners' Cabin: "such a pity" but there's no woman on board to share it. But as it happens,
there is a stowaway hiding in his cabin, Felice (Yvonne Monlaur), and a romance that teeters on farce develops, and then dies,
in a nicely constructed finish. Also appearing were Henry Kendall as Ashley, Andre Maranne as the steward
and Guy Deghy as Mr Morand. (Script: Charles Terrot. Director: Ronald Marriott)
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The Big Pride
(ATV Drama 61, #6, May 28th 1961)
A calypso singer introduces "Sutlej and Dowling, a man burning with a big pride."
Three black convicts "decked out in misery."
Their leader, Sutlej (William Marshall) is an intellectual with a chip, brought on by years of humiliation at his unjust lot: "when you are a slave, you can only breed slaves."
Smallboy Dowling (Johnny Sekka) is still the apple of his mother's eye, even though "I've finished with prayin'."
The third of the trio is Van Kruze, a less well drawn character, only useful to further the plot.
This day, they are to break out. They tie up their guard. Van Kruze, unknown to the other two, throttles him. It seems to be a simple task escaping.
Van Kruze wants to go it alone and is soon caught. Dowling needs to keep with the experienced Sutlej, who has a scheme. The pair enter the head office
of boss man on the island, Randall. For his half brother has provided Sutlej with the lowdown on "first black tycoon" Randall's illegal activities.
"How much?" asks Randall. "I'm after much more than money," replies Sutlej, for it's freedom and a leg up in society that he craves.
"Impossible," Randall tells him, but he has to concede. The convicts are thus put up in a posh hotel, the very building where Dowling's mother slaves in the kitchen.
"All this is like a dream," smiles Smallboy, but their smugness is wiped away when they hear the guard has been killed. "Sit tight, wait till de shooting die down."
This good advice however turns out to be impossible when Sutlej learns his girlfriend Dolly is to marry a white: "I don't want my child growing up as any white man's boy."
He has to meet Dolly, but this is one complication of the plot too many. The racial issues are relevant to the 1960's, but they cannot be explored fully in this 55 minute play.
The best character is Dowling's mother (Nadia Cattouse) who can see the futility of her son's actions. "Oh Absalom," she screams rather absurdly, but this futility isn't conveyed to the viewer.
As Sutlej and Dowling trudge through a swamp to elude the police dogs, it seems hopeless.
Sutlej takes his bottle of poison, though Dowling tries to dissuade his hero from doing so. Too late. Sutlej grovels in the mud, and with his dying breath attempts to nerve Dowling to face his grim future
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The Lover
(A-R, March 1963)
Script: Harold Pinter
TV Times blurb:
"This is not a story about the eternal triangle, but one might call it an eternal quadrangle." I see
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Blithe Spirit
Granada, TV Playhouse 9:52, 1964
starring Griffith Jones, Helen Cherry and Hattie Jacques
A pompous introduction from the author himself nearly lost this viewer before we ever get going,
as I am by no means a Noel Coward fan.
However I did start to warm to this condensed 72 minute version which moves at a cracking pace
under the direction of Joan Kemp-Welch.
Hattie Jacques is of course eccentric as Madame Arcati,
but also amazingly balletic whilst Griffith Jones is simply marvellous darlings
in the master's role. I had to keep reminding myself that I was watching Griffith Jones,
who does the role so much better than Rex Harrison.
Only Joanna Dunham as Elvira is a trifle disappointing, acting rather woodenly,
even if she does make a sensuous ghost.
For those brought up on the film version, this is a pleasant surprise. Quite stagey,
but so well edited from the original play that it really is an improvement! I wonder what NC made of it all?
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The Death of Bessie Smith
(Granada, TV Playhouse 10:43,
June 28th 1965)
It's 1937 in Memphis. "Goddam nigger records" give father (Robert Ayres) a headache. Playing them is his daughter, a frothy nurse (Patricia English) who works in a "secondrate" white hospital with the fewest patients you ever did see, a model for NHS practice surely. Forgotten legend Bessie Smith ("is she still singing?") is admitted after a car smash. This is two thirds of the way through the play, the first act of which is used to define the deadbeat staff who are to 'treat' her. The final act has yet more inconsequential talk whilst the "nigger" has to wait. Personally, I can't take this static type of play, an actor's play perhaps, but shouldn't the author Edward Albee be sued under the Trades Descriptions Act for saying he's putting an incidental historical context to a play which is really examining Southern racist attitudes? A true historical analysis would rather have started with the excellent final scene when black driver (Earl Cameron) confronts our white nurse. "I never heard of such a thing."
Donald Sutherland as the distracted intern gives it all a veneer of credibility, but only a veneer.
Note: Pat English's part was originally to have been played by Gene Anderson who said of the role:
"it's a horrible part- I play the nurse who refuses coloured Bessie entry to a white hospital- and a great challenge."
Sadly Gene died suddenly before the programme was recorded.
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Treasure Island (1959) -
Without the perennial Robert Newton, this UK production is no parody but a faithful if dark account of Robert Louis Stevenson's tale of smugglers' treachery. Hugh Griffith is a rather run-of-the-mill LJ, Richard O'Sullivan's Jim Hawkins simply merges into the scenery, whilst only George Rose as a camp Ben Gunn seems to think that he's in panto.
Also starring Michael Gough, Max Adrian and Boris Karloff
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BBC Plays