F*** Me, It's Freddie!

FMIF as Harry Field's Dad in 'Who Killed Harry Field?', a 1991 episode of 'Inspector Morse'. If you're wondering who did kill Harry Field, you'll have to watch the show, but, believe me, he definitely had it coming.  Freddie gives a great performance, by the way, but then that's Freddie's stock in trade, isn't it? He's a great hero of mine, and it feels good to be paying tribute to him again.

Mike Read, Mike Read, 275-285

Mike Read introduces 

The Village People.

Puppets

 

 

Who hates ventriloquists dummies? Everyone? Yes, that's what I thought. With this in mind, I was greatly creeped out by this episode of The Avengers from 1969, i.e. 'the Tara King year'.

I fully intended to cover this period of 'The Avengers' in some detail, but I've never really decided what I really think about it.

W Is For Wyngarde

Peter Wyngarde plays Oberon, King of the Fairies*, in a 1964 ITV production of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.  Never quite the crass, commercial machine the BBC made them out to be, ITV had a fine tradition of drama and the arts, although putting Benny Hill’s name above the title (he was playing Bottom, using his Fred Scuttle voice) and the rest of the cast underneath was, in the words of one contemporary commentator, ‘putting the arse before the court’. 

* Pack it in.

Please Stand By

A random selection of telly apologies / announcements from the golden age of broadcasting, i.e. not now. See you next Thursday.

Valerie Leon, Super Nurse

The frankly flipping gorgeous Valerie Leon plays a very accommodating nurse in the somewhat heavy handed 1967 Johnny Speight TV satire 'If There Weren't Any Blacks, You'd Have To Invent Them'. It's unbelievable what you used to be able to get on the NHS, isn't it?  

W Is For Wyngarde

 

‘Epic’ is in many ways an atypical ‘Avengers’ episode: Steed isn’t in it much, and it has a small cast, rather than the usual cavalcade of familiar faces in small roles. If pushed to illustrate the freewheeling surrealism and gently experimental feel of the best of the programme, however, I would cite this episode as a perfect example. Full of striking visuals and with its tongue firmly in its cheek, it also gives a plum role for the genius of Peter Wyngarde to take flight.

The story is fairly negligible, but, for what it’s worth, Emma is kidnapped by a film director called Z.Z vom Schnerck who wants her to star in his magnum opus ‘The Destruction Of Emma Peel’. The film also stars two drunken, washed-up actors called Stewart Kirby (Wyngarde) and Damita Syn, who are more than willing to help von Shnerck abduct and murder if it revives their long dormant careers. Emma is not initially informed that she is in the film or, indeed, that the production will climax with her actual death onscreen.

Structurally and visually, the episode sometimes seems a precursor for both ‘The Girl Who Was Death’ and the UFO episode ‘Timelash’, both excellent episodes of sometimes variable shows. The studio setting gives plenty of scope to the production, not least the opportunity to parody a number of genres and stock characters.

Wyngarde is called upon to play, amongst others, a gunslinger, a 'red indian', Alexander the Great, a gangster and a machine gun toting German in a spiked helmet (another image prefiguring ‘The Girl Who Was Death’) , all of which are an absolute hoot (a thick slice of ham is part of the characterisation, of course – this is Peter Wyngarde doing Stewart Kirby doing the parts). We get to see Wyngarde’s superb facility for getting beaten up and pulling amusing faces, as well as hearing him do a variety of accents. He even gets to play the Dane, reciting the ‘To Be Or Not To Be’ soliloquy from the play that must not be named because it’s unlucky or something.

He’s brilliant, and terribly funny. I love him very much. Do you hear me, Peter, I LOVE YOU!

Indoor League A La Mode

I love ‘The Indoor League’ so much it’s on my permanent medical record. The first, Yorkshire-centric series was an unexpected teatime success in a number of ITV regions, so series two introduced a raft of new things to appeal to a national audience, like arm wrestling, pool, southerners, black people and, ulp, women...

Fiery Fred Trueman, of course, was unphased. He's been all over the world, and as long as he's got his pipe and a pint to pretend to drink he doesn't give a jot. His outfit here is interesting, a musty coloured suit of armour topped off with a helmet of jet black hair. His trousers and shirt are taupe, but his thick cardigan is somewhere between mould and mustard. Freddie can't wait to see the ladies darts, which he describes as 'two lasses showing us what their right arms are for'...

This 'lovely little lady' (as the commentator insists on calling her) is Mrs. Loveday-King from down in Cornwall, 'Daphne du Maurier country'. Her outfit is deceptively simple, but her choice of colour, imperial purple, sets the tone for the way she will sweep her opponents before her. 

Here we see Mrs. Loveday-King's darting stance. Text book. As the commentator says 'if you think that all a woman can throw is spuds into a sink, then take a look at this'. I've highlighted the semi-hirsute man to Mrs. L-K's left not just because he is looking at her as if he's wondering what kind of a fit her flayed skin would be, but because I am entertaining the idea that, if you search closely enough, you will find pictorial and photographic evidence of this man at every major event in history, holding a pint and leering at the goings on. I might have to wait until I retire to pursue that project - or at least remember which telly programme I unconsciously nicked the idea from.

Mrs. Anne Westbrook is pretty mod in comparison to the simple elegance of her opponent, but her Vidal Sassoon hair style, big yellow collar and suedette jerkin with vague Native American stylings can't stop her slipping behind almost immediately. She's clearly nervous,but eventually starts to get some decent scores. After all: 'most of these women play with the men - and not just with their affections - they play 'em at darts!'. 

There's that bloke again. I'm pretty sure he's one of the figures at the base of a Brueghel crucifxion, I'll have to get my modern apprentice to look into it. Mrs. Westbrook soon discards the jacket, instinctively realising that something heavy and tight around the arm holes is not an ideal uniform for organised sport.

To me, this shot says everything about the tense, combative nature of darts, a sport where you are up against yourself as much as your opponent - where all you can do sometimes is watch your adversary take their turn and hope for the best - or worst. 

Mrs. Loveday-King is flanked by her rather sharp in an 'I teach at the Technical College' way husband, as well as her surprisingly hip parents (that said, they're probably in their early forties - these days, they'd be on skateboards). To Mrs. Loveday-King's right is a lady in a black sleeveless cardi and a melange of purples with a huge collar. She's part of Team Loveday-King, but looks a little old to be her daughter. Younger sister, perhaps? Anyway, that's irrelevant, and merely serves as a way of avoiding addressing the pachyderm in the Irish Centre, her fringe - part pudding bowl, part Frankenstein's monster. Mind you, her expression hints at experimental brain surgery. If so, sorry.  

The family are overcome with joy as Mrs. Loveday-King triumphs, and Mum gets to show off her bold brown and light blue paisley print dress, which reminds me a bit of Coventry FC's notorious second away kit of the late seventies. The lady on the far right seems to be a better candidate for 'the sister', and her skin tight floral all in one and thick glasses make her look like Olive from 'On The Buses' after a a crash diet and a shampoo and set. Hubby's pleased. She'll be getting some tonight. Briefly.

Finally, a grudge match between 'the world number one' Jean Smith ('in the red Paras beret' and housecoat) and Kay Bradfield, who looks like Sheila Keith and, inexplicably, has come dressed as an extra from 'The Sound Of Music'.  

Mrs. Bradfield wins with a virtuoso display of furious darts that 'even the men would be proud of'. Her victory comes after a shaky start for both of them, when the commentator stated that they were 'feeling nerves' and wondered if 'the port and lemons were taking their toll'. Sexist pig.

'Indoor League' will be back soon. In the meantime, Freddie says something incomprehensible along the lines of catching you all later. 

Oddments

Perennial heavy Pat Roach gets heavy in 'Gangsters', and I'm not just talking about his jewellery.

Gangsters: The Bottom Five

As a final 'Gangsters' note, I just wanted to revisit the bit about the ‘abysmal’ acting. I can’t think of another show that has such a poor cast. I’m not sure if there was a dearth of black and Chinese and Asian actors around at the time, but the ones they have (with the exception of Sayeed Jeffrey) are terrible, and elaborate, overwritten dialogue plus unconvincing performances / mangled diction leads to a number of strange, stilted, uncomfortable scenes that do nothing apart from highlight that it’s all a big panto. Perhaps given the show’s experimental leanings this was deliberate, but either way it makes for a slightly awkward and jarring experience.

Anyway, in reverse order, here, in my opinion, are the five worst actors.

Maurice had a long career as an actor, latterly appearing in 'Howards Way'. He was always pretty wooden, but here he has to keep it all together as the star and he starts creaking as soon as he's asked to convey anything out of the ordinary. One of his signature bad acting traits is a soundless, mirthless laugh, and he uses it a lot here and it really gets on your nerves because because it's so poorly executed and incredibly fake.   

This is writer Philip Martin. He can obviously act (he played the villain in the original play very well), but his second series impersonation of W.C Fields is funny for approximately two minutes and then just seems staggeringly self-indulgent, especially when he can't quite keep up the pretence in key scenes.

Familiar to British audiences in both Chinese and Japanese roles, Lee always seems fast asleep. When he speaks, you can neither hear nor understand him, and his face doesn't form any kind of expression, so you're fucked if you're trying to follow the plot.

Aside from the fact that we share a first name, Mr. Satvendar does very little for me apart from to annoy. Shrill, slow to react, fond of rolling his eyes and almost forgetting his lines, Paul adds insult to injury by suffixing almost every sentence with a high-pitched hollow giggle and killing virtually every scene he's in stone dead. Awful.

This fellow is just terrible. He can't even walk around convincingly and his laugh (bit of a  recurring motif - I often find you can judge an actor by how they laugh and cry) is a thing of cringing terror. Luckily, his character is written as something of a joke (he has a ridiculous hat and keeps quoting from gangster films) and he gets knocked off pretty quick so it's not like he's given much to do - but what he does do is SHIT.

Who's your favourite terrible actor? And your least favourite? And what's the difference?