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Drama

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Look – I’m sorry to bang on about this – and I really don’t want to bore the gentle reader more than is absolutely unavoidable – but I really must just put in one final word for Tom Stoppard and the BBC’s adaptation of Ford Maddox Ford’s ‘Parade’s End’, which finished on BBC2 on Friday evening.

Achingly beautifully written, acted, directed and shot this (hopefully!) award-winning drama represents all that has ever been best in what really has become a very sorry creative sphere – that of modern television production. Those who know me even marginally will be only too aware of how little I find to admire these days in the televisual and filmic arts. Kickass Canada Girl claims – with some justification – that I have spoiled the cinema going experience for her. It is no fun at all to sit through a film at my side as I sigh, grunt and squirm irritably when faced with clunky dialogue, unbelievable characters and unnecessary yardage of exposition. The trouble is that she herself has now become much more critical and less able to sit through such mediocre offerings. Sorry about that!

The greatest failure to my mind on the part of TV and film producers – and one which is almost certainly a result of there being too many ‘executives’ now involved in the process who mistakenly think they know how to make drama – is that of not trusting the intelligence of the viewing audience. Let’s put that another way – of patronising the viewing audience. There is nothing more eloquent in drama than that fragmentary understated occurrence or reaction that generates in the viewer a small shock of recognition and understanding. This – surely – is how art can have such a great and direct impact on those eager to learn from it. These days in film and on TV it seems that there is a belief that only if signposted in huge letters on enormous billboards will the viewing audience actually get the point. My worry is that this in itself is breeding a new generation who indeed will not be able to ‘read’ creative works without such assistance.

By way of illustration of what can be achieved let me give just the tiniest example from ‘Parade’s End’ – and that not from any of the main plot threads but of just a single small incidental detail – beautifully handled.

In the trenches of the first world war Ford Maddox Ford’s passe protagonist, Tietjens (played exquisitely by Benedict Cumberbatch), finds himself unexpectedly and unwantedly in charge of his battalion. One of the more unexpected duties he is called on to perform is to give permission for a private – whom we have heard unknowingly for some minutes in the background practicing his bugling – to play the following night before the top brass at an event behind the lines.

A while later – during a German artillery barrage – Tietjens is given the news that a shell has burst in the entrance to a slit trench, and that there has been a single fatality. Tietjens hurries to inspect the scene and sees – half buried in the mud thrown up by the blast – the bugle case that we have seen previously. There is no dialogue – no lingering shot – merely the briefest reaction in Cumberbatch’s eyes.

Then – after some further narrative development – both we and Tietjens hear again the distant refrain of the bugler at practice. Again – no dialogue – no labouring the point – simply the realisation as revealed on Cumberbatch’s face.

This sort of thing requires (under)writing and acting of the highest order, but stirs in the viewers breast an empathy and understanding that no amount of dialogue or elaborate visual symbolism could have effected.

Enough! You have missed ‘Parade’s End’ in its first run (congrats to those who did not!) but it will doubtless be repeated.

…and there is always the boxed set – which would doubtless make a wonderful Christmas present!

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The feeling is that of the lost soul who – when dying of thirst on the remorseless sunbaked sands of an unforgiving desert and on spotting on the heat-hazed horizon a life-saving oasis – discovers that – contrary to his initial fears – it is not after all a mirage, but is indeed the fountain of life…

You may think this somewhat too effusive given that the object of my preroration is a mere television programme, but I can assure you that it accurately reflects the emotions experienced by this viewer on discovering – in the wasteland of the UK’s 21st century televisual output – an intelligent, complex, splendidly crafted, subtly directed TV drama – acted with exactitude and beautifully shot.

I refer – of course – to the first episode of ‘Parade’s End’ which was shown last Friday on the BBC. Adapted from Ford Maddox Ford’s quartet of post-Great War novels by the estimable Tom Stoppard this splendid offering starred – amongst other luminaries – the excellent Benedict Cumberbatch. Stoppard is a personal hero and I have been lucky enough to have met him twice – at first night parties for ‘Indian Ink’ and ‘The Invention of Love’. This was not only a lot more prosaic than it sounds but was also proof of the dictum that one should never meet one’s heroes. At each meeting I was reduced to babbling incoherence, telling him only on one occasion – as I recall – that his play was “quite brilliant”. He gave me a pitying look…

I could wax lyrical for a further 1500 words on the subject of ‘Parade’s End’, but the critics have already done so far more eloquently than I ever could. Here is Euan Ferguson in the Observer. All I will do is to urge those of you living in the UK who missed it on Friday to seek out the remaining four episodes – and for those of you in Canada and elsewhere to lobby your local TV stations to purchase said work and to screen it forthwith.

Following Friday’s episode there was a ‘making of’ documentary which featured a number of astute commentaries on the piece, including that of Cumberbatch himself. Without being too rude I think it safe to say that not all actors are as erudite on the subject of works in which they have appeared. Cumberbatch came over sufficiently well that I will forgo my usual somewhat childish remarks about his Alma Mater.

Well – they are rivals!

 

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You may have noticed that I have a fondness for language – for its depth and richness and for the infinite variety of its textures and meanings. I love how flexible and elastic it can be and the endless tapestries that can be woven from it. I have no issue with language evolving to meet the demands of new ages, but I do despair if it becomes impoverished by reduction – particularly if such occurs simply through laziness or some form of inverse snobbery.

Clearly ‘imperceptible’ is amongst my favourite words and always makes me think of that great – if apocryphal – theatrical anecdote concerning Samuel Beckett. To cover the somewhat unlikely eventuality that there are those who have not yet heard this story I thought I would include it herein.

Beckett was famously exacting when it came to productions of his work, demanding not only that the text be delivered unadulterated but also that stage directions be followed to the letter.

In 1975 Beckett’s TV play – ‘Ghost Trio’ – was filmed for BBC television. According to the anecdote Beckett himself sat in on the filming, sitting unobtrusively in the shadows at the back of the studio.

One of the early shots in the play includes this stage direction:

Cut to close-up of whole door. Smooth grey rectangle 0.1 x 2 m. Imperceptibly ajar.’

When it came to shooting this scene the director and set designer spent some time on set, nervously discussing the exact positioning of the door and experimenting with various degrees of ‘openness’ – all the while casting anxious glances towards the back of the studio trying to guage Beckett’s reaction. Receiving no guidance from that direction they tried ever finer degrees until finally – unable to stand it any longer – the great man leapt from his seat, stormed onto the set and slammed the door shut.

The director gasped. “But it says ‘ajar’…”, he protested.

“It also”, snapped Beckett, “says ‘imperceptibly’!”.

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“Smile while you’re makin’ it. Laugh while you’re takin’ it. Even though you’re fakin’ it. Nobody’s gonna know” – Alan Price

One of the reasons that I have not previously considered writing a blog is that I feel somewhat ambivalent about the motivation so to do. Creative writing – which in my case means writing plays – seems quite different. When I finish a project and launch it into the world (however insignificant a part of the world that might be) the piece ceases to be mine and takes on a life of its own. Certainly there is something of me in it, but it is not necessary to know anything about me to engage with the work.

Blogging feels more self-centered – more about me, me, me! Why would anyone want to read my ramblings? Isn’t it somewhat pretentious to imagine that anything I might say could be of any interest or value? Or am I perhaps just being a bit too self-consciously ‘English’ about it all?

The truth is that I am a lucky person. More than that – I have also been very fortunate. Opinion seems to be divided as to whether these are one and the same thing, and indeed as to whether either is simply the outcome of chance occurence or can be influenced by our actions and behaviour. It may be the case, of course, that the nature of our fortune derives simply from the way that we react to chance events.

In an unusual twist we find new age thinking – with its Law of Attraction – almost entirely in ageement with ‘science’. Richard Wiseman, professor of psychology at the University of Hertfordshire, has carried out a 10 year study into the subject. His conclusions are fundamentally that those who believe themselves to be lucky invariably turn out to be so. Being open to opportunity and focussing on positive outcomes tends to lead to better fortune.

I don’t doubt this, but I do believe that my life experience also contains much good fortune that has been entirely outside my influence.

  • I am a boomer – one of the most blessed of generations.
  • I grew up in the sixties. Whatever re-evaluation there might have been of late concerning that golden age most of us are deeply grateful to have lived through it.
  • Despite having no idea what I wanted to do with my life I have had a fascinating career and have had the good fortune to work in some very special places and with some special people.
  • I have met many wonderful, clever and fascinating people, with some of whom I have been married, had relationships or developed friendships.
  • I have always been able to indulge my creative impulses and have met others with whom to do so.
  • I have always been in final salary pension schemes – though that was never something I looked for. I joined my current scheme a month before it closed to new members. This, naturally, is of particular import now.

…but, of course, most of all…

  • I met Kickass Canada Girl. She came eight and a half thousand miles to find me and, but for the most fortuitous of circumstances, we might never have met. As all my fortune and happiness is bound up with her I would say this was spectacularly lucky!

I suppose my fear is that, having been this fortunate, I should just shut up and keep quiet about it. This does raise the question of what is the appropriate reaction to being lucky. Should I feel guilty that there are many in the West worse off than I am? Should I feel even more quilty that many in the rest of the world are far worse off than 99% of us in the West?

Perhaps the best response is to celebrate all good fortune, my own and others, and to do my whatever I can to increase the happiness of those that I know and those that I meet, as well as – wherever possible – those that need it most.

“If I am only happy for myself, many fewer chances for happiness. If I am happy when good things happen to other people, billions more chances to be happy!” – The Dalai Lama.

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