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TV Drama

AUGUSTUS: What a gift you Greeks have. Incidentally, the battle, you know: it wasn’t like that. No, not at all. But you described it poetically, I understand that. It was poetic licence. I’m used to that.

I, Claudius, Episode 1, “A Touch of Murder”

Watching I, Claudius for the first time recently was a surprising experience.

It wasn’t surprising because it was great. Of course it was great. Of course it was one of the greatest television shows ever made. I’d been told that for years, I just had to get round to watching it. No, the surprise was in how damn funny it was, an aspect of the show I had somehow managed to avoid being informed about. Which I guess is fairly ignorant regardless; even iPlayer describes it as an “acclaimed blackly comic historical drama series”.

LIVIA: These games are being degraded by the increasing use of professional tricks to stay alive, and I won’t have it. So put on a good show, and there will be plenty of money for the living and a decent burial for the dead.

Brilliant though the show is, initial reviews of the series were predictably mixed. And one review in particular has become somewhat notorious. I first became aware of it from Wikipedia:

“The initial reception of the show in the UK was negative, with The Guardian commenting sarcastically in its first review that ‘there should be a society for the prevention of cruelty to actors.'”

This isn’t just an unsourced piece of Wikipedia nonsense; the citation seems reasonable enough. It comes from a November 2012 article in The New York Times, “Imperial Rome Writ Large and Perverse”:

“But looking back wryly weeks ago on the original production, [director] Mr. Wise recalled that it did not seem destined for greatness. In Britain, The Guardian review of “I Claudius,” he said, began, ‘There should be a society for the prevention of cruelty to actors.'”

That article thankfully gives the source for all of its quotes from Herbert Wise: “a documentary that accompanies the 35th-anniversary I, Claudius DVD set”. It isn’t too difficult to work out exactly which documentary: it’s I, Claudius: A Television Epic, which was made for the 2002 DVD release of the series.

Certainly The New York Times is quoting Wise more-or-less correctly; here’s what he says in that documentary verbatim:

HERBERT WISE: I remember The Guardian critic – whose name I remember but I won’t quote it now – starting his criticism by saying: “There ought to be a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Actors.”

This single quote is responsible for all the repeated anecdotes surrounding our supposed Guardian review. The New York Times article itself is syndicated everywhere for a start, but it’s spread well beyond that. For instance, in April 2022, The New European ran a piece called “The show that started a TV toga party”:1

“The show was a modest ratings hit for BBC2 (averaging an audience of around 2.5 million an episode), but reviews were initially dismissive, with The Guardian snottily proclaiming: “There should be a society for the prevention of cruelty to actors.” But I, Claudius was soon re-evaluated and won greater popularity with repeat transmissions, as well as three Baftas.”

The line has also started to make into books; Arthur J. Pomeroy’s A Companion to Ancient Greece and Rome on Screen (Wiley, 2017) directly quotes Wise:

“Herbert Wise remembered the Guardian critic “starting his criticism by saying ‘There ought to be a society for the prevention of cruelty to actors'” (I, Claudius: A Television Epic, 2002).”

And coming right up to date, in August 2023 the Socialist Worker published the article “Roman history made into classic TV viewing”:

“Initially critics tore it apart. “It was so badly received in its first two weeks,” recalled Sian Phillips, who played Livia, “because it was so different.” The Guardian – which now says it is a masterpiece – ­loftily proclaimed, ‘There should be a society for the prevention of cruelty to actors.'”

Here’s the problem: The Guardian said nothing of the damn sort.

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  1. Though the URL seems to indicate it was originally called “How I, Claudius Kickstarted Game of Thrones”. The original headline is better. 

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The Mystery of Zectron 2000

Children's TV / TV Comedy

Sometimes my knowledge of a popular science fiction sitcom can reach mildly irritating proportions. When this happens, I do feel the urge to share it with you, and spread the irritation around equally,

Take the following episode of Press Gang Series 4, “Love and War”, broadcast on the 28th January 1992. We are particularly interested in the voice of Colin’s ludicrous electronic briefcase.

Now, the actor for the briefcase isn’t listed in the end credits. Which is peculiar – sure, it’s only a voice, and an electronically altered one at that, but it’s very clearly a comedy performance. But not to worry. Because I recognised that voice.

Here’s a clip from Red Dwarf, “Emohawk: Polymorph II”, broadcast nearly two years later, on the 28th October 1993. The gang are being tracked by a Space Corps External Enforcement Vehicle, whose voice should sound rather familiar:

Luckily, the voice is actually credited in Red Dwarf. It’s Hugh Quarshie, probably best known as Ric Griffin for nearly two decades of Holby City, as well as appearing in The Phantom Menace, and a million and one other things.

And one of those million and one other things? Erm, Press Gang. Specifically, the two parter “The Last Word” in Series 3, broadcast on the 28th May/4th June 1991. With that, the final piece of the puzzle clicks into place: Series 3 and 4 of Press Gang were produced and shot simultaneously.

So who did Quarshie play in “The Last Word”? Answer: Inspector Hibbert, an important character with a crucial moral choice at the end of the show. I won’t spoil that moral choice if you haven’t seen it, but here he is from earlier in the story:

Those two episodes are some of the most serious material the show ever did. Who knew that Quarshie’s turn as an Inspector in a two-parter mediating on gun crime, suicide, and the nature of guilt would be followed up with… a silly talking briefcase? Come to think of it, that seems to be Press Gang in a nutshell.

Still, it really is a shame he wasn’t credited in “Love and War”, but at least Hugh Quarshie got a proper credit in “The Last Word”.

The Last Word Part One credit sequence, featuring Hugh Quarshie as Inspector Hibbert

The Last Word Part Two credit sequence, featuring Hugh Quarshie as Inspector Hibbert

Huge Quarshie?

Oh well.

With thanks to Christopher Wickham. A version of this post was first published in the November issue of my monthly newsletter.

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“The Most Disgusting Thing I’ve Ever Seen”

Film

“The finished movie we see on the screen is often far different from the director’s original conception. The Cutting Room Floor is the intriguing study of the wounds, bruises, Band-Aids, and sometimes miracle remedies that can often improve a film… or destroy it.”

— Back page blurb for The Cutting Room Floor

“Trust me!”

— Rudy Russo, Used Cars

Determining cause and effect when it comes to teenage reading is a tricky thing. Did Laurent Bouzereau’s The Cutting Room Floor (Citadel Press, 1994) inspire my interest in deleted and alternate scenes in film and television? Or was I obsessed with them before picking up the book, which is why I grabbed it from the shelf in the first place?

I think there is a healthy dose of the former in this case, which makes it a very special book for me. Regardless, it’s a wonderful piece of work, and one which I find myself returning to again and again every few years. These days, with a combination of DVD extras and the right websites, much of this information is easier to access than it used to be. But back in 1994, especially for poor sods like me who hadn’t got a hope of getting a LaserDisc player, books like this were how you found out about this stuff.

There are so many tales of cut material which I first read about in that book, and stuck in my head immediately. The different edits of Basic Instinct for one; the attempted rescue of Exorcist II: The Heretic for another. But for sheer childish fun, you can’t beat the following tale about Used Cars, Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale’s satirical black comedy.1

Bob Gale: “The only thing that got cut out of Used Cars never got to preview. It was something that the studio insisted that we change in the scene when the car salesmen do a commercial at a football game wearing Groucho Marx glasses. The propman on the film had found these glasses that instead of having a fake nose had a penis for it. We thought that was one of the funniest things we’d ever seen, and we thought to ourselves, you know, these car salesmen, that’s exactly the kind of things they would do. So we shot the scene with these glasses. When we sent the dailies to Columbia Pictures, I got this call from the head of production just ripping me apart for putting these pornographic images in the movie. How could we possibly do this? Had we lost our minds? This has gone beyond the grounds of taste. I got my head handed to me on a platter about this.

Columbia was outraged about this scene. I kept telling them to wait until they saw the scene cut together. I got on an airplane [the movie was shot in Phoenix] and screened the scene for Columbia. Frank Price [the head of the studio at the time], who by the way I have absolute admiration and respect for, turned around and said, ‘It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. You have to redo this.’ And so we reshot the scene with normal Groucho glasses. However, if you have access to the videotape or the laserdisc and you single-frame through the sequence, you’ll see there is still one shot in that sequence where one of the guys is wearing a set of dick-nose glasses. In fact, an actual image of that was in one of the TV spots. It was one of the laughs that we had on the TV censors! It was only a few frames, but it was on national television.”

This tale stuck in my head, long before I ever watched Used Cars. And when did I finally get round to watching Used Cars? Erm, last month. Hey, it only took nearly two decades. There are other films listed in that book that I still haven’t got round to yet.

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  1. Although with character names like “Roy L. Fuchs”, it’s as much Carry On as anything else. 

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Freeze-Frame Gonna Drive You Insane, Part Four

TV Comedy

Part OnePart TwoPart ThreePart Four • Part Five

It feels like ages since we last checked in with The Young Ones. A brief recap, then. Back in 1984, the BBC had just transmitted the show’s second and final series… but not without some problems. In particular, the final flash frame intended for inclusion in “Summer Holiday” was cut entirely, much to the displeasure of the team. But surely the show was now home and dry?

Well, what do you think?

A hint of what was to come can be found in the following from Hansard. It isn’t normal for questions to be asked of Ministers about a sitcom.1 And yet on the 27th June 1984, just eight days after Series 2 of The Young Ones had finished airing, that is exactly what happened. Conservative MP for Cardiff West, Stefan Terlezki, was our ersatz Norris McWhirter.

“Mr. Terlezki asked the Secretary of State for the Home Department what safeguards there are against subliminal messages appearing on the British Broadcasting Corporation; and if he is satisfied that these are adequate.”

Douglas Hurd, then a Minister of State for the Home Office, gave the following reply:

“I am satisfied that clause 13(6) of the BBC’s Licence and Agreement of 2 April 1981, which requires the corporation not to include subliminal messages in its programmes, provides an adequate safeguard. It is for the BBC’s board of governors to ensure that the provision is observed. I understand that the corporation considers that some brief, unrelated inserts included in a recent BBC comedy series might have been regarded as in breach of the spirit of the provision, and steps were taken to prevent a recurrence.”

Which brings up an interesting question: were subliminal images really banned on the BBC at the time? The above suggests that they were. And yet Paul Jackson, on the 2007 DVD documentary The Making of The Young Ones, seemed to disagree:

“And although it wasn’t illegal at the BBC because the commercial issue didn’t arise, it was raised, and it went up to Bill Cotton… and the edict came down you’ve gotta take it out.

Meanwhile, the Nottingham Evening Post, on the 16th June 1984, reported the following:

“A BBC spokeswoman said the BBC’s Charter does cover subliminal techniques, from the political and advertising point of view, but that these pictures could not be deemed harmful.

“This is a joke flash-frame technique which is harmless”, she said.”

There’s only one way to find out the truth. We need to get hold of a copy of the BBC’s Licence and Agreement. Not this damn thing, dated December 2016, but the document quoted by Hurd from April 1981.

I have a copy. Clause 13(6) states the following:

“The Corporation shall at all times refrain from sending any broadcast matter which includes any technical device which, by using images of very brief duration or by any other means, exploits the possibility of conveying a message to, or otherwise influencing the minds of, members of an audience without their being aware, or fully aware, of what has been done.”

Which sounds suspiciously familiar. Let’s compare this to Section 4(3) of the Broadcasting Act 1981, which IBA-licensed stations were supposed to abide by:

“It shall be the duty of the Authority to satisfy themselves that the programmes broadcast by the Authority do not include, whether in an advertisement or otherwise, any technical device which, by using images of very brief duration or by any other means, exploits the possibility of conveying a message to, or otherwise influencing the minds of, members of an audience without their being aware, or fully aware, of what has been done.”

The similarity in language is obvious. At the very least, the intent for the BBC was exactly the same as for the IBA: to strongly discourage the use of flash frames. Whether it would have stood up in a court of law is a different question, and one which was never answered in practice.

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  1. Or indeed a variety show, but let’s not start all that again. 

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Alan Partridge’s Sporting Season

TV Comedy

STEVE COOGAN: I remember these clips that I comment to… Armando just came in with a load of sports clips and just put them on and said “Just say some stuff to these”. There was no script, just see what’s happening, just say stuff. So it was all made up as we went along.

Steve Coogan on… his most iconic TV moments, British GQ

Earlier this year, I asked the question: when did Alan Partridge first appear on television? The answer was a VERY CLEVER ONE because I AM BRILLIANT.

It was also an answer which is a little beside the point. The first real TV Partridge sketch was in the first episode of The Day Today, on the 19th January 1994. Yes, it’s highlights of Alan’s Sporting Season.

But have you ever wondered exactly where each piece of sports footage from the above sketch came from? The answer, of course, is: “No John, only you and you alone have ever done that”. But for those of you who are interested, please enjoy the following.

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Resurrection.

Meta

As someone who deeply believes in keeping the archives of everything you do online, I find it forever upsetting that I deleted all my 2000s-era blog posts from the internet. My penchant back then for “starting again, but this time I’ll get it right” lead to the deletion of a whole load of my stuff. It’s so totally the opposite of anything I’d do now.

Recently, this has been playing on my mind even more than usual. And then I remembered something. A few years ago, back in 2017, I resurrected an old Red Dwarf group blog from the dead. Maybe I should do the same for all my old blog archives. I’m sure somewhere, on some old hard drive, I’ve got a copy, haven’t I? And even if I haven’t, surely the Wayback Machine has kept most of it?

So I took a look. After all, there must be some good stuff there, even if it isn’t all gold. It really would be nice to practice what I preach, and revive all my old posts for good. That has to be a worthwhile thing to do.

thursday march 31, 2005

My willy smells of Scampi Nik-Naks

:-(

Posted @ 08:19 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

You know what, never mind.

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Creatures of Flesh and Blood

Film

I’d like to quote to you one of my favourite pieces of criticism about animation. Scrub that, it’s one of my favourite pieces of criticism full stop. It’s from Michael Barrier’s Hollywood Cartoons: American Animation in Its Golden Age (Oxford University Press, 1999), and is about Disney’s first feature length animation, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937).

The important thing you need to know about the following is what Barrier means by rotoscoping in this context. For a fair chunk of Snow White, live action versions of each scene were filmed; these were then used as reference for the animation, either as loose inspiration, or in the later stages of production, rather more directly. Rotoscoping is this latter technique: literally tracing over the live action footage of the actors, in order to create the animation.

As Barrier describes, this caused noticeable problems in the final film. But he describes it using an absolutely beautiful piece of writing. The kind of writing that inspires any critic to try and become better at their craft.

Snow White‘s failings do not count for much when weighed against its great central successes, and the film’s most obvious failing – the weak, rotoscope-derived animation of Snow White and the Prince in the opening and closing scenes – actually gives it a dimension that Disney himself surely did not intend. It is in those scenes that the film is most wholly “fairy tale,” artificial and removed from reality; the all-but-weightless animation in the opening scenes is of a piece with the operetta-like musical treatment. Snow White seems more substantial when the animals lead her through the woods and into the dwarfs’ cottage, and then as she cleans the cottage—the music here is a work song. By the time she meets the dwarfs, she is at last a solid figure. She is most real in the evening musicale, as she dances with the dwarfs; her graceful movements, although they originated with Marjorie Belcher, are wholly the character’s.

Disney decided as early as the fall of 1934 to fence off the final sequence from the rest of the film by using a highly artificial device, three title cards that represent the changing seasons. It is in that sequence that Snow White melts again into a reverie. When the Prince appears at her glass coffin, operetta returns with him—he is singing “One Song,” his serenade at the beginning of the film. The dwarfs are mere spectators as the Prince kisses Snow White and lifts her to carry her away. He pauses long enough for her to kiss the dwarfs; she addresses only Grumpy and Dopey by name. The boy and girl are like two wraiths, bidding farewell to creatures of flesh and blood. Only what comes in between the fairy-tale sequences seems altogether real: the homely particulars of housekeeping and cooking and amusing one another, and the girl’s death most of all. It is as if the dwarfs dreamed this lovely girl’s life before she joined them, ever so briefly, and now that she is dead, they dream of her resurrection.

That the film should admit of such an interpretation is owing not just to the weakness of the rotoscoping, but to the tremendous vitality of the best dwarf animation. Because that animation is so emotionally revealing, it is the dwarfs, and not the characters who look more nearly human, who are the most like us. And like us, they long for a world where kindness can vanquish cruelty, and love conquer death.”

Barrier isn’t exaggerating about the odd nature of the rotoscoped scenes which bookend Snow White; even a cursory watch reveals they have a markedly different nature to the central part of the film. But it’s his interpretation about why those scenes still work anyway which I find the most fascinating.

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I Hate Doing Research, Part Six

Meta / TV Comedy

One of the most frustrating things about writing my series on flash-frames in The Young Ones and Spitting Image has been how absurdly difficult the research has been. There really is a ludicrous amount of misinformation out there. I already wrote a little about this at the start of the year, but I have more examples. Oh, so many more examples.

Take Peter Seddon’s Law’s Strangest Cases (Portico, 2016), which is one of the very few books to discuss the Norris McWhirter Spitting Image flash. To the point where it has been used as a main source in reporting elsewhere online. Quite understandably – this is a proper, published book, it really shouldn’t be getting major things wrong.

Sadly, we immediately run into problems:

“It all started with the television broadcast of a 1984 episode of Spitting Image, the series whose lampoonery through the medium of cruelly parodic puppetry has caused many a celebrity to fume.

The good news for Norris was that he wasn’t on it. Or was he? For thereby hangs the tale.”

I mean, he certainly wasn’t in a 1984 episode of Spitting Image. That was the famed “scriptwriters are incredibly good in bed” flash, not the Norris McWhirter head-on-topless-body flash, which happened in 1985.

But let’s not get grumpy about an incorrect date. That’s arsehole territory. The bulk of the reporting must surely be correct.

“The Times subsequently reported that Mr McWhirter, aged 59, had taken out an action for libel against the Independent Broadcasting Authority at Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court. McWhirter was adamant that he had seen ‘a grotesque and ridiculing image of my face superimposed on the top of a body of a naked woman’. It really doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Norris McWhirter didn’t take any action for libel whatsoever. His case was solely concerned with subliminal messaging; libel was never part of his accusations.

Now true, the book does then go on to say the following:

“He asserted that the broadcasting of the image was a criminal offence under the Broadcasting Act 1981, but not because of ‘what’ it was – it was how long it lasted that was the real bone of contention.

‘And how long did it last?’ asked the judge with due concern. Norris McWhirter’s reply was brief but not nearly as brief as the offending image: ‘A quarter of a second,’ was his stunning reply.

McWhirter’s contention was that the image had been broadcast subliminally, using the sort of technique that unscrupulous advertisers or political regimes are said to employ to implant subconscious images and messages into the addled brains of the world’s couch potatoes.”

So the book does understand at least part of the case. But if you’re going to entirely misreport it as a libel action, you’ve pretty much fallen at the first hurdle.

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Freeze-Frame Gonna Drive You Insane, Part Three

TV Comedy

Part OnePart TwoPart Three • Part FourPart Five

Content warning: very mild nudity.

When we last left Spitting Image, the team had just got themselves into a spot of bother. On the 10th June 1984, the show broadcast the following message, for one single frame:

White text on black background, this is the actual text of the flash frame which was quoted earlier in the article

Our old friend Tooth and Claw reveals the immediate fallout:

“It was not many hours before a viewer with a freeze-frame facility brought it to the attention of the IBA. Stephen Murphy, the IBA programme officer who had been so indulgent with Spitting Image in the early days, called up John Lloyd with a new tone of voice: ‘My dear boy, you’ve broken the law. Haven’t you read the Broadcasting Act?’ Lloyd confessed that he hadn’t but said he had read the offending text over to Central’s duty lawyer who had cleared it and had, in any case, thought the prohibition related specifically to advertising. Murphy, apparently unimpressed, hung up with: ‘You’ll be hearing from me at some future date.'”

When we discussed Labour’s Party Political Broadcast from 1970 and Ross McWhirter, we spent a lot of time with the ITA and the Television Act 1964. By the time we get to Spitting Image, the ITA has become the IBA, and the Television Act 1964 has been replaced with the Broadcasting Act 1981.1

The relevant section of the new Broadcasting Act is 4(3):

“It shall be the duty of the Authority to satisfy themselves that the programmes broadcast by the Authority do not include, whether in an advertisement or otherwise, any technical device which, by using images of very brief duration or by any other means, exploits the possibility of conveying a message to, or otherwise influencing the minds of, members of an audience without their being aware, or fully aware, of what has been done.”

You will note that this is word-for-word identical to section 3(3) of the Television Act 1964. You will also note that Lloyd’s impression that “the prohibition related specifically to advertising” is most definitely wrong; subliminal material is clearly stated to be banned “whether in an advertisement or otherwise”.

Tooth and Claw continues:

“On this wording, it looked as if anyone who cared to bring a prosecution would have the IBA bang to rights. On the day after the incident, the IBA sternly reprimanded Central as the responsible company and Central told Lloyd never to do such a thing again, making it an area to which he would irresistibly return.

It was the quality of naughtiness, rather than politically-motivated satire, that was now becoming Spitting Image‘s defining characteristic.”

In fact, nobody did care to bring a prosecution for the above incident. But Tooth and Claw does state that somebody had “complained to the IBA’s director-general, John Whitney, in the strongest terms”.

Who was that somebody? None other than a certain Norris McWhirter. This fact is not only mentioned in Tooth and Claw, but also evidenced by letters in the IBA archive. Ross McWhirter was murdered by the IRA in 1975; his brother Norris had clearly taken up Ross’s crusade against subliminal messages, whether in good faith or otherwise.

But for now, there is where things ended. There were no mentions of the incident in the last episode of the series on the 17th June, though the temptation must surely have been strong.2 And after that, not even Spitting Image could cause trouble while they were off-air. Central and the IBA would get six months respite from all this nonsense, at least.

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  1. All of this was due to the launch of Independent Local Radio in 1973, which broadened the scope of the old ITA. 

  2. It didn’t stop the Cambridge Evening News warning its readers to “Beware of Flash-Frames” in their listings. 

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