Picture the scene: it’s the early 70s and two respected television screenwriters have arrived for a morning meeting with some BBC executives to discuss their idea for a new drama series:
“Hello Gerry. Hello Norman. Sherry? Righty ho. Glenda, would you bring two sherries in for Mr Glaister and Mr Crisp. Thank you. Now, what have you chaps got for us?”
“Well, NJ and I think we’ve struck gold. It’s about three brothers and an inheritance. Now I know that an awful lot of stories begin with a will, but we’ve found an angle that nobody has ever explored before.”
“I’m intrigued gentlemen. What is it?”
“It’s going to be set in the world of road haulage.”
Welcome to The Brothers – a series that I have become gradually addicted to over the last few months:
The brothers are, from left to right, Brian, Edward and David Hammond and during the programme’s seven series run, they can usually be seen either drinking or arguing:
Edward Hammond is the eldest brother and left school at 14 to help his father build up the family’s road haulage business, while Brian and David have enjoyed the benefits of an extended education. Inexplicably, they don’t share Ted’s interest in lorries and weight restrictions.
The series begins with the death of their father, Robert Hammond, and the reading of a will that everyone assumes will be a mere formality. But when the Hammond family arrive at the solicitor’s office, they are surprised to find that Robert’s secretary has also been invited.
What is Jennifer Kingsley doing there? Perhaps the old boy has left her a few quid.
The whole drama is defined by the 10-minute scene in which the will is read and the Hammond family learn that:
1. Jennifer Kingsley was Robert’s mistress for 20 years
2. They had a ‘love child’ together who is now 17
3. This child will inherit a large chunk of the family fortune when Robert’s wife dies
4. Edward Hammond will not have sole control of Hammond Transport
5. He will have a quarter share. The remaining 75% will go to his brothers and Jennifer
Nobody is happy. Jennifer Kingsley’s secret has been exposed and she is now a pariah. Brian and David are going to have to work in a business they have no interest in and Edward, who has helped to build the company, has been effectively snubbed by his father.
Robert’s wife Mary isn’t particularly amused either.
The strength of the drama is the way it depicts the struggles of the three Hammond brothers and Jennifer Kingsley to overcome this unpromising start and pool their talents to build an even more successful business.
It’s not easy persuading Edward to work with his brothers. Neither Brian or David know the first thing about their father’s business, as shouty Edward likes to remind them:
“Damn it! I was helping Dad to do the Southampton run when you two were in short trousers. You were more interested in lollies than lorries!” (this isn’t an actual line, but it could have been).
Edward Hammond does a lot of shouting.
For me, perhaps the ultimate attraction of The Brothers is the period detail, evoking a world I grew up in, but was too young to participate in. I love the fashions, the interior design and the blasé attitude towards drinking and smoking.
In The Brothers, everyone drinks. If it’s 11.00 in the morning, it’s time for a sherry (there’s always a decanter in the boardroom cupboard). If it’s lunchtime, it’s time for a beer. Just home from work? Let’s have a bottle before we drive out to that new Greek restaurant (followed by another bottle with the meal and a nightcap back home).
Of course, the Hammonds are very cautious about drink-driving and usually stop just after the third double whisky. Can’t be too careful.
Given today’s climate, in which even the faintest whiff of a chocolate liquer can make a nervous employer instigate disciplinary action, the casual attitude towards alcohol seems extraordinary.
And everyone smokes, everywhere. Ted has big Cuban cigars, while the others work their way through 20 B&H during the course of the day. They would have probably thought that ‘passive smoking’ had something to do with enjoying a pipe.
In addition to smoking and drinking, The Brothers also has plenty of that other staple vice of 1970s drama: adultery.
Femme fatale Anne Hammond, the wife of accountant Brian, constantly berates her placid husband for being more interested in the company’s figures than hers, reminding him that “I’m a woman, Brian”. Sadly, Brian doesn’t heed the warning signs, even when he sees her snuggling up to a creep called Nicholas Fox:
The constant drinking, smoking and flirting seems absurd. Was anyone really like this? Well, anyone who has met my mother-in-law and her friends knows the answer to that. When my wife watched Anne cancel a visit to her children at boarding school so that she could spend quality time with her lover, she praised the series for its social realism.
However, the social realism isn’t just limited to the sexual mores of post-swinging London. The Brothers also documents the industrial strife and class antagonism that blighted many workplaces in the 1970s and if you feel a warm glow of nostalgia when you hear the phrases work to rule, picket line and union conveynor, this is the programme for you.
But the ultimate mark of realism is the telephone. When a character makes a call, they use the full seven numbers and we wait with them, as the dial slowly churns back to the beginning. Marvellous.
I am now working my way to the end of the fourth series and although I find the period aspects amusing, I’m also impressed by the quality of the writing and acting. Beneath the soap opera-like veneer of a family melodrama, The Brothers has some remarkably insightful moments that make it as compelling today as it was over four decades ago.
Anyone who wants to understand something about British society in the early 70s should watch The Brothers. It’s all there: the industrial strife, concerns about joining the EU (or ‘Common Market’ as it was then known), the attitudes towards drinking and smoking and the changing gender relationships. And unlike some of the more worthy efforts from the BBC drama department, it’s fun.
The series isn’t without its quirks. The actor playing Edward Hammond inexplicably changes between the first and second series – I wonder if the BBC used to regard roles like theatrical parts that could be played by any actor, rather than being intrinsically linked to a particular person. I also noticed that in the second series, there was virtually no location filming. And I’d really like to know why their odd but fascinating secretary suddenly disappears, halfway through the second season, never to be seen again.
There are three more series left. Apparently, the BBC suddenly decided to stop making it, with no warning to the cast. The story was left hanging in the air.
I’d like to think there’s a pub somewhere, with three old men sipping whiskies, moaning about how health and safety has ruined the world of road haulage:
“And as for the young, they don’t know how to drink. Too busy on their phones. I’m just popping out for a smoke. Anyone coming?”
The Brothers is available on DVD:
The fag end of winter seems to go on forever, so I’ve been consoling myself by making plans for the summer holidays. My older son says that he wants to go to America, but I’m not a fan of long-haul flights these days, so I will try to entice him with something closer to home.
I hear that Pontins is still going:
This is an aerial view of Pontins in Southport. It looks as if there should be a sign at the entrance saying Arbeit Macht Frei and I’m not encouraged by a report in the Liverpool Echo about a “mass brawl” and allegations of “drug use, health and safety concerns and death tragedy”.
I can imagine that a weekend there would be entertaining, but not in a good way.
My ideal holiday would require a time machine, as I would love to travel around Britain and Europe in the days when motor cars were a luxury and retail chains were something that hung in doorways during the summer months, to keep the flies out.
I’ve been partly inspired by a batch of photos that I found recently – all taken during the 1920s and 30s. Here are some of my favourites:
These people wouldn’t have a punch-up in Pontins. They are enjoying their bucolic idyll without compromising any sartorial standards and for them, tattoos were things that one visited.
Of course, there are occasions when one should hang up one’s jacket and prepare to pull up one’s sleeves, very slightly.
I particularly like this photo, taken at a child’s level, which gives us a tantalising glimpse of the shop window, with what looks like cakes or pies.
Also, notice that the dogs aren’t trying to eat her, as this is the pre-Rotweiler era.
I remember my parents letting me take a float like this out to sea when I was 10. I couldn’t swim, but that didn’t seem to bother them. My father would often complain about ‘health and safety nonsense’ which was ironic, as he worked for the Health and Safety Executive.
A friend saw this photo and said that the woman is a ‘Double Barker’. I am waiting for an explanation.
This would almost be a good photo, if someone hadn’t committed the common error of chopping off the subject’s feet and placing them dead centre. However, it’s still worth posting for the pleasure of seeing someone enjoying the outdoors in an immaculate, three-piece suit.
This photo is of a great grandmother and is dated 1924. She looks like a ghost from the Victorian age, rather than someone who has spent 24 years in the new century.
There’s no name or date on the back of this photo, but with her tie and utilitarian hairstyle, she may have taken her holidays at Radclyffe Hall. She looks like someone who would be a fun travelling companion, although I might have to hide the whisky bottle.
Another appealing facet of this era is the preference for high-waisted trousers, which enabled gentlemen to churn butter without exposing anything unsightly as they bent down to turn the handle.
I will rejoice when these trousers reappear in the shops.
This formidable-looking group of women remind me of my great-aunts, who were born in the 1890s and refused to make any concessions to postwar fashions. Some of them even eschewed the 1920s, preferring the long skirts and brooches of their youth.
This photo is typical of the time, where the holiday was often an occasion to dress up rather than down.
It’s rare to find an old photo where the subjects aren’t standing still. This appears to be an impromptu shot and the gentlemens’ faces betray their slight discomfort.
Finally, if you’re not happy with the 1920s or 30s, this portal will take you to a different time zone. This man’s about to travel to the year 2016, where people will probably live on the moon and war will be a thing of the past.
Sadly, I have no time portal, so I will have to make do with the present. Perhaps, now that my wife and I have discovered some mysterious Irish ancestry in our DNA profiles, it’s time for a trip to the Emerald Isle.
It’s easy to view the period from the 1950s to the mid 1970s as a golden age of book illustration and graphic design. Think of all those wonderful Penguin covers, or children’s classics like The Very Hungry Caterpillar and The Tiger Who Came To Tea. It’s an embarrassment of riches.
But it was also an age that saw some truly awful examples of cover art – far worse than anything today.
Here are a few of the shockers I found last week:
This is a relatively minor offender. Some people might even like it as an example of early 1960s design, but I’m not a fan. First, I think it’s a mistake to have three different typefaces. Second, I don’t understand why the tree is far more abstract than the rest of the picture. Third, the boy looks as if he’s suffering from a rather debilitating case of jaundice.
Here’s another gem from the ‘Early Bird’ series:
This looks as if it’s been produced in a particularly backward Warsaw Pact country during the 1950s. Perhaps it was. I can only imagine how disappointing it must have been as a present.
Peter and the Picture Thief might be a cracking story, but the cover is as exciting as a school trip to a brass rubbing centre.
This follows a similar, penny-piching approach by only employing three colours. As an illustration, it’s more accomplished, but the once again, the overall effect of the cover has that grim, Eastern Bloc feel about it, as if colour was somehow too decadent and bourgeois.
This cover has the virtue of being in full colour, but features three children vomitting and writhing in agony while a giant rabbit looks on, passively. As a child, I would have preferred this cover to the other three, although I wasn’t keen on animal stories.
Moving on to books for adults:
I suppose it’s unreasonable to expect too much from a publisher called Budget Books, but this is a particularly cheap and nasty cover. Even the title length appears to have been subject to budgetry constraints. And what sort of a name is Rice Cordell?
This is the tenth novel in Vardis Fisher’s ‘Testament of Man’ series and the cover features a man in a loincloth running away from a brazen hussy. At least, that’s what it looks like. It’s better than many covers of the time, but the illustration is a bit slapdash.
This almost works, but the addition of a giant woman’s head looks rather odd. I can see that the artist is trying to convey David’s struggle to come to terms with his sexuality, but a more subtle illustration and a decent blurb on the back would have sufficed.
This cover features a strange blend of colour and monochrome people, for no discernible reason. At first, I thought the woman was standing in front of a screen showing a black and white film, but no, they’re all in the same room. It’s very odd.
Hank Janson is also a strange case. A celebrated author of American pulp fiction, he was actually a work of fiction himself, created by an unassuming Englishman called Stephen Daniel Frances.
Several people wrote as Hank Janson and the titles include the following gems:
- Baby, Don’t Squeal
- A Nympho Named Silvia
- Skirts Bring Me Sorrow
- Jazz Jungle
- Hotsy, You’ll Be Chilled
- Wild Girl
- Vagabond Vamp
- Beauty and the Beat
- Visit From a Broad
- This Dame Dies Soon
Finally, my favourite:
I have no idea what the groom is keeping in his pyjama pocket, but he has the countenance of a man walking to the scaffold. Perhaps he’s learned that the bride’s breasts are the product of gender reassignment surgery and that she used to be called Kenneth. She certainly has a knowing expression.
That concludes this selection. I’m sure there will be more to come.
A few weeks before my mother died, she asked me if I could find out whether her oldest sister had been conceived out of wedlock. If the sister was illegitimate, it would explain why her parents had been unnaturally reticent about their past. It might also account for their rather Calvinist sense of morality, atoning for past sins.
My mother must have known about it for years, but suddenly had a greater sense of urgency, as if she realised that her time was drawing to an end. Later that day, I went online and discovered how easy it was to track people down, even when their surname was Smith.
Within less than an hour, I was able to confirm that my maternal grandparents had indeed given in to the heat of the moment (actually, it must have been quite a long moment, as those whalebone corsets are a devil to get off). They tried to cover their tracks with a snap wedding, but my great-aunt ruined it all by arriving a month early. It caused a scandal within the family.
I rang my mother and told her that it was all true. I think she was secretly delighted that her family life echoed the plot of one of her beloved romance novels.
After looking up various birth, death and marriage certificates on a family history website, I started being bombarded with adverts for ancestry DNA tests. At first I ignored them, as it seemed a rather frivolous way of spending £100. Then a special offer arrived and like my grandparents, I succumbed to temptation.
I’d always been a little sceptical about the value of ancestry DNA tests, but the technology has improved and I thought it would be fun to see if the results bore any relation to the person I believed I was.
All I knew about my family was that we were all English on both sides, right down to the last third cousin, twice removed. But the phrase ‘pure English’ is, of course, an oxymoron. The latest research suggests that it means very different things, depending on what part of the country you’re in.
The traditional narratives may have claimed that the English were Germanic invaders, who had pushed the native Britons to the western fringes of Britain. However, recent findings point to a more complex picture of continuity and assimilation. The Anglo-Saxons, it seems, added to the gene pool, but hadn’t radically changed it.
I expected to be largely descended from the forgotten prehistoric peoples who came here after the ice age, with some Anglo-Saxon and a little Viking. I secretly hoped for something a little more exotic – perhaps even some Neanderthal – but was resigned to being Mr Average.
The results came as something of a surprise:
It was a shock to discover that I was only 21% British (and where did the 11% Irish come from?). However, the biggest bombshell was learning that I was two-thirds continental European. In addition, I was also more Western European than the average Western European. How did that happen?
I dug deeper and learned that my European ancestors were largely from Holland and northern Germany, with a soupçon of Scandinavian and Mediterranean. It would seem that the English were the 5th century’s equivalent of EU migrants.
Further back, I am also descended from a 5,000 years old gentleman in Stuttgart, whose bones were found in a cave. I went through Stuttgart once on a sleeper train, but didn’t have any strange dreams about killing wolves.
As for the smigdeon of Irish, apparenly it could be Scottish, but I think I’ll be like those blonde-haired, blue-eyed people who identify as Native American and invent a new Hibernian identity for myself. Come St Patrick’s Day, I’ll be cracking open the Guinness and singing Danny Boy with the rest of them.
Ancestry DNA tests are just a bit of fun, but there is a serious aspect to it too. I can imagine how the Nazis would have eagerly embraced this technology as a tool to measure racial purity, only to discover, to their horror, that we are all descended from immigrants.
We are ‘the other’. Mr Trump take note.
In the meantime, I shall be deporting myself back to Europe as soon as a vacancy arises for a hunter-gatherer. If you’re aware of any caves going free in the Stuttgart area, please let me know.
Yesterday, I cleared away our Christmas decorations and found a card from a relative that simply read “The postmistress has started putting sausages through my letterbox. I’m a worried man!”
It reminded me of the scraps of paper I use to find in books, ranging from enigmatic messages that sounded like Cold War code:
To ones like this rather strange find:
These remnants of lost lives are tantalising, particularly the photograph albums that have no names, dates or locations in them, showing us so much and telling us so little.
My latest find is an album of tiny, negative-sized prints that look as if they were taken in the 1910s and 1920s:
We begin with what looks like a lower middle class family, a century ago. The man may be smiling under his moustache, but it’s hard to tell. The clothing is respectable, but the two children in the front have bare feet!
Perhaps it’s a holiday snap.
My lamentable ignorance about military uniforms and cap badges always lets me down. I assumed that this was taken during the First World War, although their relaxed, informal pose suggests a slightly later time.
The person in the background looks a little like Robbie Williams.
I’ve found hundreds of old photos over the last five years, but never one of a sleeping child before. It’s a very touching image, although the wallpaper reminds me of Oscar Wilde’s last words.
Another photo of somebody asleep and I’m aware that my reaction to it is very different. With the boy, I see sleep as a healthy, nurturing part of growth. When I look at this photo, I’m reminded that in Greek mythology, sleep and death were twin brothers.
Sorry if that sounds rather morbid. I think all these celebrity deaths are getting to me.
Perhaps the cause of the gentleman’s siesta was some over-zealous sandcastle building. I know how easy it is to get carried away, particularly when the tide’s coming in.
I love this photograph, with its meeting of two very different eras. The woman was probably born in the 1840s or 50s, around the same time that Dickens and Thackeray were at the height of their careers. Unlike the generations of women below hers, who adapted to the more utilitarian fashions of World War One, she remains resolutely Victorian.
In contrast, this woman is thoroughly modern. The photo is on the same page as the Victorian matriarch, so I assume that they were vaguely contemporaneous.
Is this the same woman, but taken before the war? It’s very difficult to tell.
Cat photos are also fairly rare among the albums I’ve found. There are plenty of dogs pictures; probably because they’re more biddable and remain still while the shutter is open. Dogs also let you put sunglasses and hats on them.
This is another unusual picture of a Victorian journeyman – a man who has found himself living in a very different, mechanised world. I don’t know what he’s holding in his right hand; it almost looks as if he’s popped out for a carton of milk.
The album ends with a touch of 20s glamour. I think this is the woman we saw three photographs earlier, in the beautiful dress.
I’m always interested in albums from this period because of the huge rupture that took place in people’s fashions and social mores after the upheaval of war. It feels as if we’re on the verge of another upheaval – hopefully minus a war – and who knows, in ten years’ time, we may all be wearing sparkly catsuits and tricorn hats.
One can only hope.
I’ve just returned from a couple of days with my mother-in-law, Jill. The first day was fine, as my wife’s alcoholic aunt was coming for lunch and we decided to hide the booze until after she’d gone. This had the added bonus of ensuring that Jill remained sober until the evening.
On the second day I had to pick Jill up from lunch at her cousin’s home – an absurdly large Tudor house with a quarter-mile-long drive – and she was a little the worse for wear: “Hugh bought the most glorious champagne and then we moved on to a very unusual Aliot Chene Bleu…”
I was then given a detailed account of the grape involved, what region of France it came from and why the 2010 was a good year. I knew that the rest of the day was going to be a challenge, but also felt glad that Jill was more like her old self again.
Until recently, Jill went everywhere with her partner Robert – the man she left my wife’s father for. Sadly, Robert died last year after a short illness and although she has made the best of things, I knew that it must be hard for Jill. Robert was an extraordinary man.
Jill and Robert were something of a golden couple within London’s theatreland. Jill was a former opera singer who’d found a new career in a design business, while Robert was a director at one of the leading entertainment companies in Britain. Both possessed a charm that gained them a wide circle of friends.
Everybody knew Jill and Robert. If there was a premiere or launch party, their names were usually on the guest list and when The Phantom of the Opera had a year-long waiting list for tickets, Jill was always able to secure a booking for the next day with a single call.
Many years ago, shortly after we first met, my wife invited me to meet her family, who lived in rural Essex: “We just have to go into London, then we can get a lift. Mum and Robert live in town during the week, but drive up to her cottage on Fridays.”
A few days later, we made our way to Islington, where Robert was waiting for us in a gleaming Jaguar. “Is this another new car?” my wife asked. Robert grinned, “Well, the old one needed washing.” We climbed in and were hit by the pungent smell of new leather.
Jill was full of plans for weekend, most of which seemed to involve “drinks with Mummy and Daddy”, while Robert effortlessly dodged through the London traffic. I felt as if I had fallen into a strange but rather exciting alternate reality, compared to my family in Teddington.
Before long, we had left London behind and the Jaguar rushed past farms and villages, barely visible in the dark of the countryside. After an hour, the car slowed to a halt and my wife announced that we’d arrived.
We all got out except for Robert, who wound the window down and said something to Jill. Then he drove off, leaving the three of us standing in the dark at the beginning of a long, gravel pathway.
I asked Jill where Robert had gone. “Oh, he spends the weekends with his wife. It’s all rather complicated.”
It was many years before I heard the full story about Robert. The short version is that as a young man, Robert rashly got engaged to a local girl, the daughter of his parents’ friends. Both families had actively encouraged the union and Robert didn’t feel that he could let them down. They married and had several children, but any mutual attraction there was quickly waned.
In the meantime, Robert’s career went from strength to strength, taking him all over the world. He took on a flat in London and began to live a completely separate life, returning home at weekends to play the dutiful son and family man.
After a string of affairs, Robert met Jill and they decided to move in together. Robert told Jill that his marriage had died many years earlier, but he and his wife maintained the façade of a happy couple for the sake of their family, particularly his mother. “It would kill her if we got divorced.”
Robert promised Jill that as soon as his mother died, he would marry her. As the mother was in her early 80s, Jill felt that she wouldn’t have long to wait.
Occasionally, it all became too much for Jill and she announced that she was going to issue an ultimatum to Robert: either get a divorce or it’s over. Then we would hear that Robert had taken her to The Ivy or bought a very expensive necklace and suddenly, everything was fine again; for a while.
In the end, Robert and Jill lived as man and wife for 40 years without ever getting married. Robert’s mother celebrated her 100th birthday, while Jill quietly despaired. When the mother finally died, at 102, Robert quickly found another reason to procrastinate and continued to maintain his absurd double life.
During the last years of his life, we learned that Robert’s real name was Michael, but he was known to his family as Bill. It was hard to know what was true and what wasn’t. At one point I even wondered if there was a third woman.
When I got to know him better, I would occasionally press Robert about what his wife thought he did during the week. “Doesn’t she ever wonder who the woman that answers your phone is?” Robert shrugged his shoulders and quickly changed the subject.
A few months before he died, at the age of 85, Robert turned to me and said “I’ve really fucked things up, haven’t I. I tried to keep everyone happy, but I should have realised that you can’t do that.” What could I say? I just nodded in agreement.
When Robert died, Jill learned that she had not been left any money and wouldn’t be welcome at the funeral.
In hindsight, I can see that while Robert was the guilty party, Jill was partly compliant. Although she protested, there was also something exciting about their illicit relationship and she enjoyed having the weekends to herself. Both of them lived in the moment, avoiding making any uncomfortable decisions that might threaten their standard of living.
When Robert consulted a solicitor about the financial implications of a divorce, Jill was horrified to learn that they would have to cut back on their treats. Faced with the prospect of fewer holidays in the Caribbean, Jill’s enthusiasm for marrying Robert suddenly waned.
If this is a cautionary tale, I’m not sure what the moral is (apart from the obvious one). They made bad choices and put their own needs above those of others, but they also enjoyed life to the full and would probably do it all over again if they could.
Frankly, it’s as much as I can do to manage one household, let alone two. I still marvel at the way Robert, aged 85, continued doing his absurd three-hour drive, occasionally stopping off for a whisky en route.
Perhaps that’s what kept him going.
*Names have been changed
I recently found a batch of photographs from the 1950s, all of which feature theatrical performances. There’s very little information on the backs, but I’m almost certain that they show the work of an amateur dramatics group rather than a professional one.
The clues are as follows:
- The photos were processed in the dreary London suburbs of Cheam and New Malden
- There’s quite a lot of over overacting
- The pictures look like the work of an enthusiastic amateur; many were very blurry
But I may be wrong. You decide:
This photo was printed by Cole Studios (which is still going) in New Malden – a rather drab place between Kingston-upon-Thames and Raynes Park. It now has a large Korean community, for no discernible reason (unless it reminds them of North Korea).
The set looks quite spartan, but that isn’t the case in the next picture:
This is clearly a very emotional point in the play and everyone seems to be weeping. Perhaps this is in response to an earlier scene, in which things get rather heated:
This is a little bit racy for 1950s am-dram. I don’t know what play it is, but it clearly isn’t ‘Charlie’s Aunt’. I think it was very brave of Miss Perkins in Accounts to agree to strip down to her underwear, but perhaps it was even more courageous of Brenda to wear those awful pyjamas.
In the end, everything is resolved amicably. It turns out that Miss Perkins was simply modelling for an artist and the murder weapon was a telephone directory for New Malden and Cheam. Brenda is the murdereress and she switched to the terrible pyjamas because her dress had blood on it.
It is commendable that this company were prepared to tackle gritty dramas rather than just stick to the old favourites:
Here we see a ‘kitchen sink’ drama, as evidenced by a kitchen sink and a packet of Fairy Snow. I presume that this is a challenging drama about race, as one of the cast appears to have ‘blacked-up’. I also see that the woman is wearing hair rollers to indicate that she is working class.
This is from ‘Twelfth Night’. Today we would probably say that this was part of an ‘outreach programme’ that sought to ‘create links with the local community’ or even ‘communities’. In the 1950s, they just did an open air performance and hoped that it didn’t rain.
This is from a production of ‘Call Me Madam’. I find the rictus grin of the man in the middle slightly offputting.
I have no idea what this play is, but I don’t think it’s ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’.
However, this is:
In this production, the weeping middle-aged man at the piano has been transformed into a sprightly young buck. I wonder if a stripey blazer would do the same for me?
I’m struck by how much hard work must have gone into the stage set and the costumes. I never used to notice these things until I met my wife’s family, who worked in the theatrical world. Her father was the lighting designer for the London Coliseum, but although he was highly regarded by his peers, his work was rarely mentioned in reviews.
Since then, I’ve always taken more interest in the details.
Once again, I have no idea what this is. I can only tell you that it isn’t ‘Look Back in Anger’.
And now, the show is over and it’s time to take a curtain call: