THE SADDEST SPECTACLE on the contemporary TV scene is the depressing deterioration of American TV. Conditioned by the fear and caution of advertisers, popular programmes are sinking ever deeper into a morass of blancmange entertainment.

With the exception of an occasional current affairs programme, the American networks operate on the principle that it is their function to provide the least offence to the greatest number.

It does not overly concern them that in so doing they are also being extremely offensive to most of the intelligent people in their country.

Nor does it bother them that by being aggressively innocuous they are actively helping to cement into their society all its iniquities and inequalities.

The result of this policy of banalities for the masses is that most discerning, sensitive and intelligent Americans view the medium with contempt. They appear on it sceptically work for it reluctantly and deride it both privately and publicly.

Pressures

One of the most heartening aspects of British TV is that, as yet, the rot that comes from catering to advertising pressures has not bitten very deep into our own programming philosophy.

And, because of a self-imposed limitation on the amount of American material transmitted — usually amounting to about 15 per cent of its total output — British TV has been forced to produce most of its own programmes which, naturally reflect our own customs, habits, values and ideals. The result has been that most people in this country infinitely prefer British programmes to almost anything that comes from America.

American series or variety shows rarely reach the top ten status — not only nationally, but even in the regions. Many weeks go by when not a single American show appears in the top twenty national favourites.

The fact that BBC and the ITV companies still go on buying American material is not because they think the public will prefer them to British shows, but because they usually cost less than producing an original programme over here.

The gap between American popular taste and our own native preferences has been sharply illustrated by the fate of the Smothers Brothers. After only nine programmes they have been dropped by the BBC from their schedules. Two more programmes remain to be shown.

‘Daring’

In America, difficult as it is for anyone over here to understand, the Smothers Brothers are not only the most popular variety show but also have a reputation for producing daring, satirical and controversial TV.

1 have assiduously watched most of their transmitted programmes and I must confess that the mystery of their appeal has consistently escaped me.

In a clean-cut way, I suppose they represent to Middle West moms an ideal of the all-American brothers. Dick, the sharper, more astute one, is amiably patient with the gangling inarticulateness of his brother Tommy, whose lovableness is demonstrated by his awkwardness with both his grammar and his guitar.

The show’s shape is traditional in the mustiest sense of that word. There are guests who are fulsomely introduced and who take part in the inevitable set sketches in which the feeblest of jokes are greeted by almost maniacal laughter from a studio audience.

The level of the jokes and audience appreciation can be gauged by the fact that in a recent skit about the French Revolution the heartiest laugh came when Marie Antoinette, on being told that the people were crying for bread, replied, “Let them eat cake!”

Although eight writers were credited with the script, I did not notice Marie Antoinette’s name among them. Perhaps de Gaulle will take it up. Since we produce a host of variety shows far funnier and wittier than this lame display of simple gush — Morecambe and Wise, Bruce Forsyth, Millicent Martin, Benny Hill, Ken Dodd — it is not surprising that British viewers have been less that enchanted with the Smothers Brothers.

But what amazes me is that in America the Smothers Brothers are hailed as prophets of adventurous and satirical TV. And it is not an idle reputation, since this year alone three advertisers have stopped sponsoring the show because they consider its jokes too blue and its political satire too controversial.

Yet nothing I have seen could, by our standards, be considered remotely objectionable. Compared to our own satire shows or to something like Till Death Us Do Part, the Smothers Brothers are milk-sodden gruel for the toothless.

Sketches

Occasionally there are mild sketches about things like safety in automobiles or treatment of the sick, but nothing more pointed than a gag ever emerges and the atmosphere is always too cosily friendly that an insult could only be interpreted as a compliment.

The sharpest comment I ever heard about anything remotely resembling a social problem was when someone was asked how people could be discouraged from staying in hospitals. “Bad food, ugly nurses and as a last resort we keep the bed pans in the Frigidaire,” was the answer

If this type of innocuous banter can drive advertisers away from sponsoring programmes — and ultimately extinguish them from the air — then American TV will have imposed upon itself a censorship which in its ultimate effects, will be as damaging to freedom in the United States as controlled TV has already damaged freedom in France, Rhodesia and the Soviet Union.

The post A look at the musty humour of the Smothers Brothers appeared first on THIS IS MY 1960s from Transdiffusion.

Syndicated to newspapers on 9 March 1968

The most immutable, unchangeable, orthodox, settled, transfixed and stubborn form of TV is in the field of light entertainment.

Symbolic of the rooted thinking in the world of variety TV was that revolving stage in the Palladium Show which want on turning with its load of waving chorus girls until even Lew Grade must have grown dizzy at the sight of it.

Such modest deviations in technique that have emerged over the decodes inevitably result in a rash of imitations that never know when to stop.

Perry Como achieved fame in America because of a relaxed throw-away style of delivery and presentation. Since then entertainers in roll-neck sweaters have been relaxing so much their backbones are in danger of becoming vestigial remnants.

The stool

Another modest innovation in the Perry Como Show was the high stool. The result is that the stool has now become the inevitable prop for signalling a friendly informal atmosphere.

When entertainers or singers want to chat cosily to each other or to the audience, they draw up a stool. No one ever sits in a chair and even standing up has become slightly suspect.

It is by such mini advances — hardly the width of the merest G-string — that TV musical shows inch themselves into the future. Compared to the changes that take place in TV drama, comedy shows, current affairs programmes and documentaries, the variety programme is the reluctant dinosaur of the small screen.

Even the annual report of the Independent Television Authority — a document notoriously reticent about casting the slightest shadow of disapproval on anything seen on Channel 9 — has used the words “stale” and “disappointing” about the commercial companies’ output of light entertainment and called for “positive corrective measures.”

But the rot seems to have seeped into the BBC as well. There it may have started with the Val Doonican Show.

Mr. Doonican, a friendly Irishman with a soothing, singing voice, managed to sweep this brand of relaxed amiability into the top ratings.

The show was remarkable only for the intensity of its cosiness. Surrounded by a group of perpetually grinning singers, the highlights of the programme were the choral singing of very old, very familiar, very childish folk songs.

The rest were the usual guests, the usual badinage, the usual toothy greetings. No effort was made to provide anything imaginative in the way of choreography, decor, script or style. Indeed an ideal programme to sleep by.

Since this was apparently what the public wanted, the BBC has repeated the formula in The Rolf Harris Show. Here, if possible, wholesomeness is an even more aggressive quality than it was in the Val Doonican show.

Mr. Harris, bearded and twinkling, has all the by-gosh, gee-whiz charm of a cousin from Australia. He is always overwhelmed by the magnificence of his guests (“They are really international stars … Come on, a tremendous burst of applause for our next guest.”)

His patter is artificially folksy. “I was thinking recently about giraffes,” he tells us, as an excuse for an infantile song about his wish to be able to talk to the animals.

His jokes are simply cringe-making. “Where’s your iambic pentameter?” “I thought you were going to bring it,” is a more-brilliant-than-usual exchange.

Or something like the closing lines of his last show: “My little girl — she’s only four — came back from school with a scruffy little rag doll worth £12 10s … (pause) … Well, it was worth £12 10s. because she swapped her bicycle for it.”

The centre-piece of the programme is Mr. Harris demonstrating his ability to paint with a huge brush on a broad, grey canvas.

Picasso

As he pom-poms, boo-hoops to himself in a humming undertone, the audience settles back as if they were watching nothing less than Picasso at work. What emerges are rather mediocre greeting card scenes whose only distinction is the audacity it takes to demonstrate so tiny a gift so brazenly.

The other staple ingredient of The Rolf Harris Show is a leaping, cavorting group of young men and girts whose idea of a dance routine is to chase each other around the studio or bend forward in a row grinning archly at the camera.

Indeed, the whole show smacks of well-intentioned amateurism. Since Mr. Harris cannot sing, dance, draw or tell jokes very well, it is only natural that he should be surrounded by an atmosphere revelling in its own mediocrity. It is all bland and harmless in much the same way as having a bath in semolina pudding.

A step-up in imagination — but not much — is Once More With Felix on BBC-2. Miss Julie Felix, her aquiline face framed in a cascade of black hair, has presumably been given this show because she is sincere with a guitar.

More often than not her repertoire consists of protest songs that for me seem to have exactly the same melody.

Her pretty face takes on an aura of social significance as she rhythmically tries to break our hearts about the Mexican deportees who are chased “like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves” and die in the following sequence: in the hills, in the mountains and in the plains.

Stamina

It’s never easy to whip oneself up into a proper mood of indignation about such folksy injustice when the guests on the programme tend to be lighthearted puppeteers or raconteurs seemingly indifferent to “trying for the sun” or “not having a name when you reach the aeroplane.”

There is a spasmodic attempt to use bits of film to illustrate some of the songs — almost always showing Miss Felix either running or walking along beeches or hot southern streets — but aside from establishing Miss Felix’s stamina, they add little to the general quality of the entertainment.

Piccadilly Palace, on Channel 9, starred Millicent Martin and Bruce Forsyth and if it offered up nothing new, it at least looked as if more effort and money had gone into it than the Rolf Harris and Julie Felix shows put together.

Gloss

The script had some good situation sketches and some of Millicent Martin’s dancing numbers were very effective. It was basically the same tired stuff, but a gloss of professionalism made it more palatable.

On the Continent, this type of light entertainment has acquired a brightness and vivacity and flair that no one over here seems capable of matching.

Film is imaginatively used to extend the barriers of the studio. Dance numbers are organised to please the eye and take advantage of all the electronic aids that are now available to directors.

Although British TV leads the world in most fields, it has consistently trudged along in the rear as far as musical variety is concerned. It may well be that the British public is content with nothing better than soporific comforters to while away the hours until the grave, but that is no reason why TV executives should be content to give them nothing better.

The post Take a high stool, then add a roll neck – and you’ve got a show! appeared first on THIS IS MY 1960s from Transdiffusion.

THE BBC is undoubtedly the most prolific comedy factory in the world. It churns out with awesome regularity everything from a seaside-pier giggle to a sophisticated, way-out leer.

Compared with it, commercial TV is about as funny as a crematorium. For some reason, Channel Nine has never taken humour very seriously.

ITV has relied for its laughs largely on imported American shows like The Beverly Hillbillies or The Lucy Show. It has cultivated comedians like Morecambe and Wise, Arthur Haynes, Alfred Marks and Bruce Forsyth, but this is a tiny achievement when one realises what the BBC has done for British humour.

On any representative week there is likely to be at least three times as much home-produced comedy on the BBC as on the alternative channel.

Benny Hill, Eric Sykes, Charlie Drake, Sheila Hancock, Thora Hird, Lance Percival, Roy Kinnear, Eleanor Bron, Dudley Moore, Harry Worth, Harry Corbett, Wilfred Brambell, Roy Hudd, Tony Hancock, Frankie Howerd, Hugh Griffiths, Millicent Martin, Terry Scott, Hugh Lloyd, Ted Ray – are only a fraction of the names who owe their TV reputations and best opportunities to the BBC.

Art form

And at the BBC, comic script writing has been recognised as the minor art-form that it is and with Frank Muir now in the higher echelons of the Light Entertainment side of the Corporation, this respect and nurturing of comic writers is likely to be even more enthusiastic.

All that having been said, it seems incredible to me that the BBC should have wantonly abandoned their reputation for reasonable judgment in the comedy field by putting on a show like And So To Ted to replace one of the slots left vacant by Not So Much.

It would be charitable to think that this throw-back to the dreariest kind of radio humour of the early thirties had been deliberately slotted as an act of malevolent revenge on all those viewers who had been clamouring for the removal of Not So Much.

Unfortunately, it looks far more like a grovelling surrender to the lowest taste denominator and a sickening reminder of how easy it is for any adult advance in TV programming to be shunted into a limbo of vestigial relics.

Except for an amiable face and an ability to reel off old jokes without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, Ted Rogers is my concept of a non-comedian.

Anxiety

His nervous grin and zig-zagging eyes convey anxiety. His timing is halting. His mastery of mimicry is minimal. And he displays a profound inability to distinguish a funny line from an abysmal one.

The script writers – Dick Vosburgh, Ken Hoare and Mike Sharland – seem to have gone on an exhumation hunt to find gags for their first two shows. If they dig up any more fossilised jokes they might be had up for grave-robbing.

“Here is the news in brief,” smirks an announcer wearing no trousers. For a topical joke there is “Which was the funniest of the Marx Brothers – Harpo, Groucho, Chico or Profumo?”

Since it has now run for two weeks in succession there is the item dealing with the Professor (funny, presumably, because he has a guttural accent) providing questions to answers.

“Now, Professor, what question follows the answer V-Neck”? What do me and my girl friend do when we are out together?” [sic on quotemarks -Ed] (berserk laughter from laugh machine). “Everest”? “What do I do when I feel tired?” (maniacal hysterics from laugh machine).

The second programme was an advance on the first simply because someone had throttled the laugh machine. Now there was a studio audience that seemed to contain one or two hyenas ready with an apoplectic response to the slightest tickle.

The nearest the programme got to sex was when a gardener said: “I got so confused I put Sweet William in the same bed as Iris,” and it took almost four minutes to re-enact that tired chestnut of the man who is awakened by his butler to take a sleeping pill.

Row

Surely in view of the row that followed Not So Much‘s disappearance, one would have thought that both Huw Wheldon and Michael Peacock, as top BBC administrators, would have been acutely sensitive about the type of show they were replacing it with.

It does not say much for their sense of public relations – or, indeed, their feeling about what is or is not proper late-night viewing – that …And So To Ted is now with us.

What a relief, by contrast, to watch a real funny man at work.

The Benny Hill Show had some inspired clowning on its return a fortnight ago. The item about the fastest film director in the world was a hilarious hodgepodge of every technical mistake ever committed on the screen. And a family having breakfast in the rhythms dominated by the radio music was amusing stuff.

I thought the second show last Saturday less inventive and the skit about the weakling who takes body-building lessons to become the toughest man on the beach went on much too long and was decidedly forced.

But in his saga about how Little Bo Peep might have been treated by Z-Cars, Tonight and Bonanza, Benny Hill’s face, with its look of a naughty melon, showed once again its delicious and formidable gift for mimicry. I suspect that a second mind to help him with his script-writing might get rid of some of the more obvious errors in judgment.

The post Hail the B.B.C. – It’s the most prolific comedy factory in the world appeared first on THIS IS MY 1960s from Transdiffusion.

The bells on the beach donkeys are magically quiet; a comparative hush settles over the Golden Mile. Ssh, listen carefully — you can actually hear the sea lapping on the sand.

A lull time. When you can hear yourself think. And Bruce Forsyth, who on Sunday returns with music, gags, guests and that wide, half-melon grin in a new series of The Bruce Forsyth Show sits thoughtfully before the multiple mirrors of his Opera House dressing-room and considers the question of getting old.

I didn’t broach the subject. Bruce is one of those irrepressibly lively types who makes any conversation interesting — young at heart. And he seems in particularly splendid form today; the golf round went well this morning; the family are ensconced in his rented bungalow at St Anne’s.

The beer is chilled, the dressing room is cool. All is at peace. So why should the subject of agelessness — always one of the great virtues of show business personalities — crop up?

“Because I have decided that I’d like to stay just as I am for ever,” he says, solemn as a judge. “I’m at a lovely age — the perfect age for any man.”

He is 39. Twenty-five years in show business. He has known heartbreak and fame; his three little girls are pushing on towards 11-plus. “Yes, 39. The perfect age — when time ought to stand still. And you know what? Everyone says: ‘Aren’t you going grey?’

“It doesn’t notice much on television. But here in Blackpool I hear it all the time. But David” — Bruce hates diminutives in names — “it doesn’t worry me in the slightest.

“I’m not one of those types who sit in front of mirrors going mad over every wrinkle, every grey hair. I’ve got an old face. I’ve only got to screw up my eyes and I can play 70-year-olds. That’s nature.

“I think grey hair rather suits me. And it will come over beautifully on colour television. Makes me look mature.

“That’s how I feel. Able to cope with life. I’m better balanced now than at any time I can recall. And much more relaxed than I was, say, 10 years ago.

He pulls long legs up under him on the couch, takes a sip of bitter lemon and sucks a barley sugar, for “Blackpool throat,” a mysterious ailment that seems to attack most singers in this summer heart of British show business. And he looks immensely relaxed, assured, contented. What’s the reason?

“I’ve so much more under my belt now, so much more behind me. I’ve done a West End show (“Little Me”) and a Hollywood film with Julie Andrews (“Star”) and the last television series went down well.

“Just working with television professionals — writers, fellow artists and production people — is my idea of the ultimate. I don’t have to knock myself out any more. I don’t have to prove myself.

“Once the thought that I might be out of work for a fortnight horrified me. Now I don’t have to care. I can take it in my stride. I’m well set, and that’s bound to lead to a more relaxed attitude.”

A surprisingly well-ordered character, is Bruce. He plays golf only every other day. “If you play every day it gets on top of you. You start remembering yesterday’s faults and they haunt you. Give it a day’s break and you start fresh.”

His handicap is nine. Today he went round in only four over … way above my class — so we won’t linger on this particular subject!

But, inevitably, the parallel comes up. “Life is like a round of golf. If you slice one, or miss an easy putt, get it out of your mind and play on. Keep swinging.

“If you play brilliantly, well, tomorrow you might be awful. But you must accept this. You must put the last shot out of your mind and concentrate on the next one.

“Doing a television show is like that. If you do a good show, fine — but don’t rest on your laurels. If you do a bad one you’ve got to soldier on and not let it affect you.”

How does a professional like Bruce know when he is doing a good show or not? Plain intuition? Critical opinion from others?

“You know after the first sketch. If you’re getting laughs in the right place, if the thing is gelling, ticking, just plain going well. You just know.

“If it isn’t, you feel it. And you mustn’t panic. Plug away. Hope it will explode. It does happen. The pressure is greater then, of course, but I think I work better under pressure.”

Bruce Forsyth is obviously a man in love with show business. He believes in what he’s doing. And in his friends in the business — and many of them are coming up in the series: Harry Secombe, Tommy Cooper, Roy Castle, Dudley Moore, Jimmy Logan. Bruce involves himself with them in the same manner as you might chat with friends at a party.

He wants the show to be a success — but doesn’t allow it to brood on his mind. He has the priceless ability to shut things off completely; yet concentrate intently (even learning his script by tape recorder while driving to the studios!) if the occasion demands.

He’s a man who sleeps well, looks after himself. “Your body is only a machine, after all.” He prefers wholemeal bread, honey, health foods. He cuts down fried food to the minimum. He rather enjoys these lull-time, teatime chats…

But now teatime is over. Lights are starting to twinkle. People appear. The air seems to tingle. You can’t hear the sea any more.

An hour to curtain up.

Time marches on — but at least Bruce Forsyth, the man who would like time to stand still, is ready to accept it.

The post Lanning at Large… finds Forsyth the Philosopher appeared first on THIS IS MY 1960s from Transdiffusion.

Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, the British adored variety programmes. And the top variety programme was Val Parnell’s Sunday Night at the London Palladium. It was also probably one of the longest titles in British television.

The Palladium show’s presenters – Tommy Trinder, Bruce Forsyth, Norman Vaughan, Jimmy Tarbuck – became fully fledged stars for compering the programme, with its mix of showbiz acts, audience participation games, popular music and leggy dancers. The queue to guest-star on the show was long, with ATV having the pick of the world’s top talent to choose from every week.

It helped that ATV itself was showbusiness, thanks to businesses its management came from. Val Parnell, the titular head of the Palladium show, was ATV’s managing director and was also in charge of the Moss Empires music halls, theatres and variety circuit. He knew the management of everybody who was anybody. If there was any manager he didn’t know, Bernard Delfont knew them. Delfont’s brother was Lew Grade, deputy managing director (until promotion in 1962) at ATV, and a theatrical agent: he was the management of everybody who was anybody. If he didn’t manage a star, his other brother Leslie did. Even the music at ATV (and today’s Sony-ATV Music is the last gasp of the old ATV empire) was under the management of Val Parnell’s nephew Jack, who also knew everybody in the business.

An appearance on the Palladium was a guarantee of further bookings and a rise up the billing on the circuit. If a “nobody” appeared, they were likely to be signed up by The Grade Organisation and become a “somebody” in pretty quick time. Such was the size of the of this almost incestuous system – ATV, ITC, Moss Empires, Grade Organisation, Delfont Organisation, later even EMI – that the people involved had trouble keeping up.

A, possibly apocryphal, story attaches to Lew Grade. Watching an unknown act on stage, he decided that while they weren’t top-flight, they were not untalented and with the right promotion could go places. When the act ended, he rushed round to meet them. “Your act! It’s great! I’d like to represent you – your current agent is wasting you in a theatre like this!”. “Thanks! We agree,” replied the talent, “and we’re looking to change to someone better!”. “Great!”, said Grade, “I’ll sign you up now and sort your agent out with a finder’s fee. Who is he?”. The act beamed back at him: “Lew Grade!”.

The post Val Parnell’s Sunday Night at the London Palladium appeared first on THIS IS MY 1960s from Transdiffusion.