James Cary and Dave Cohen, two very fine comedy writers, recently invited me round to their podcast, Sitcom Geeks, and let me bunny on about Ever Decreasing Circles.
Amazingly, no-one has yet complained.
You can find it via all the usual podplaces, and it's also here.
Ever Decreasing Circles
Thursday 7 September 2017
Monday 22 May 2017
A Degree Of Acidity
I’m not the only one asking questions about Ever Decreasing
Circles.
In March last year, the series was a specialist subject on fun
TV interrogation Mastermind for contestant Dave Horan.
What’s the name of the suave hairdressing
salon owner who moves in next door to pedantic Martin Bryce and his
long-suffering wife Ann?
Paul. Too easy. Way too easy.
What traditional party game does Martin
play in his garden with the old ladies he’s invited from the retirement home
for afternoon tea?
Harder. Charades. Correct.
Which actor plays Ann and Martin’s
long-standing friend and neighbour Howard Hughes?
Again, easy. Stanley Lebor.
What dish does Martin plan to cook for
himself on the first evening that his wife Ann is in hospital for surgery on
her shoulder? He ends up buying fish and chips because he’s forgotten to soak
the kidney beans.
Detailed, but weighed down by a bloody huge clue: kidney beans.
Name a dish that includes kidney beans. Chilli con carne? Correct.
What is the abbreviated name of the Open
University campaign against government cuts that Ann is involved in? Martin
disapproves and accuses her of becoming ‘a pawn of the Kremlin’.
Now we’re fully into specialist subject territory. I didn’t get this, despite the
second tow-hook clue labouring behind the question. Nor did Dave. It’s OUSA.
Arguably, this is the most esoteric question of the lot.
What is the name of supposedly fierce dog
that a landowner uses to scare Martin, Howard and Hilda away from what they
believe is a public footpath?
Dave passed on this. So did I. No idea. Though, because it’s
Esmonde and Larbey (and mainly because it’s comedy), it’s going to be the most
unassumingly pacifist name, isn’t it? Daffodil or Cuddles or something. Yes, it
is. Blossom. Dave and I both failed this one.
Which two opposing historical groups are
represented in the mock battle at the charity fĂȘte? The event culminates in
single combat between Paul and Martin.
(What is it with this construction that dumps a clue after the
question? Third time now.) Slightly too easy. ‘Which two opposingly historical
groups?’ (crap grammar) has ‘Roundheads and Cavaliers’ written all over it. And that's
correct. The Battle of Naseby: the last episode of the third series.
After Paul announces that he needs to move
away for business reasons, possibly to the Channel Islands, what show tune does
Martin happily sing while doing the washing up?
Another sod (and Dave’s second pass): the answer is Oh, What
A Beautiful Mornin’ from Oklahoma! by the peerless Rodgers and
Hammerstein.
What is the full name of the psychiatrist
who Martin meets at Paul’s Party? Ann suggests Martin should visit him professionally.
Proper hard (and fourth iteration of that clue-after-the-question construction). Dave Wilson. (Nice, bland name: nice, bland
character. Very Esmonde and Larbey.)
On Howard and Hilda’s first night on
Neighbourhood Watch Patrol, they arrest a burglar who pretends to be a plain
clothes policeman. Of what rank?
Another toughie, though a guess within reach: Inspector.
Correct.
Some questions reassuringly easy; some quite tough. Retired
teacher David Horan chalked up a very creditable eight points.
And Mastermind wasn’t alone.
Twelve months later – this March – I was alerted to the fiendishly
difficult Listener Crossword in The Times – puzzle 4441, ‘It’s Dark Up Here’.
If you’re not familiar with The Listener Crossword, my trying
to explain it will lose you hook, line and concrete wellies. The potted version
is: it’s properly SEND HELP difficult. So let’s assume you either
know it, or can’t get anywhere near it. (I’m in the latter category, though
with Honours for Bloody Well Trying to be in the former.) Exhibit 1A is clue
1A:
A degree of acidity (to such a degree a
taste of tannin is lacking) is a symptom of thrush.
Well now: here’s how this one pans out – according to Alan
Connor, crossword maven and author of the bloody marvellous The Joy Of Quiz.
A (= A)
degree of acidity (= pH)
to such a degree (= that)
a taste of tannin is lacking (= tannin’s
first letter, so lose a ‘t’ from ‘that’ = ‘tha’)
is a symptom of thrush (definition:
aphtha, ‘the disease thrush,’ says Chambers)
A + ph + tha. Piece of cake, eh? (Me neither.)
Around the perimeter of the crossword are the names
MARTIN, ANN, PAUL, HOWARD and, in the circled lights, HILDA. The complete set.
And circling around the middle are EVER DECREASING OOOOOO and OOZLUM BIRD (look
it up), in ever decreasing circles.
The setter, ‘Colleague,’ explains his thinking behind this
wonderful puzzle here. I shan’t add anything to it, except to
say that it is a work of art.
*
* *
A little extra news: when I met Bob Larbey for lunch in
December 2010 (see Lunch With Bob Larbey), he told me
he hadn’t kept a page of anything he’d written. There were many things I
assumed no longer existed – scripts, paperwork, paraphernalia.
This turns out to have been wrong.
I’ll be writing more about this.
Unusually generous props to David Tyler and John Finnemore for alerting me to the crossword, Alan Connor for scraping my brain off the floor and spooning it back in to my gibbering skull – and to Roger Phillips and ‘Colleague’ (who prefers this styling) for their generosity in helping me assemble this post. Plus knightable mentions to Ian Greaves, Matt Larbey and Eryl Jones. Grats, amigos.
Tuesday 27 October 2015
The Other One
What follows is a lie.
Here is some dialogue that was cut from Ever Decreasing Circles:
MARTIN: Look, Howard,
I am trying to scull here. Would you kindly stop dragging the anchor in the
water?
HOWARD: Sculls don’t
have anchors.
MARTIN: Now, let’s
have a look at you, Devizes. You’ve put old Bridport in the shade.
HOWARD: Martin, you
are talking to those bits of paper.
MARTIN: You know, I
used to do this for my Auntie Alice. She was a very nice lady. She made a
lovely chocolate spread, I seem to remember. I often wonder if I was
responsible for her phlebitis.
These lines aren’t from Ever
Decreasing Circles. But they easily could
have been.
Before the success of Brush
Strokes (1986-1991), Esmonde and Larbey’s two biggest BBC series were The Good Life (1975-1978) and Ever Decreasing Circles (1984-89). Both
starred Richard Briers, and there’s a clear line to be traced from Tom Good to
Martin Bryce.
As The Good Life begins, Tom Good is a frustrated industrial
designer, turning forty and wondering what more there is to life. His solution
is to apply his skills and enthusiasm to something new: self-sufficiency. Four
series later, he has morphed into a forthright bully, not listening to his wife
or (pretty much) anyone else, and going largely unchallenged. Neither the
writers nor the actor liked the character.
Ever Decreasing Circles introduces a man who tries to control everything, doesn’t listen,
and has gone unchallenged for rather too long. But now – unlike Tom Good – he
has an antagonist, and the two are a mere driveway apart.
Between these two sitcoms there was another, penned by Esmonde and
Larbey for the BBC and starring Richard Briers. And it wasn’t a success.
The Other One has slightly
faded from view. There were two series, in 1977 and 1979. The first was
released on DVD in 2007 to little fanfare, and the second is yet to be
commercially available. It is that rare confection: a sitcom that’s neither
domestic nor workplace.
Ralph
Tanner (Richard Briers) is ‘the most bumptious, pushy, ghastly man in the world’.
At an airport bar, he bumps into Brian Bryant, ‘the most boring man in the
world’. (See Dan and Diana Danby in Ever
Decreasing Circles: character names with built-in echoes are Esmonde and
Larbey shorthand for ‘boring’.) The pair are spectacularly mismatched.
Ralph is
an appalling, cocky,
oily, boorish, charmless know-it-all and self-proclaimed ‘lone wolf’.
RALPH: You put any
door in front of my knuckles and I’ll knock on it, whether it wants to be
knocked on or not.
Brian is nervous, divorced, well
meaning, gutless and an outright passenger, musclebound by minutiae.
BRIAN: Take me, for
example: I count. Railings, stairs, bricks and so forth. Well, that’s not really
right, is it?
Both have moustaches. Both are on
their way to Spain. Both are clearly bachelors. And, as will become evident,
both are lonely.
Brian is immediately impressed by
Ralph, who (unlike him) can get the barman’s attention at a stroke (see Paul
Ryman at The Egremont Club – ‘Steward!’), and he hesitantly follows Ralph’s
lead in being markedly relaxed about boarding the plane.
RALPH: I don’t scrum,
I don’t jostle, I don’t race. I stroll. I’d sooner miss
a plane my way than catch it your way.
As a result, they do miss their
flight, arrive at their Costa del Sol hotel nine hours late and find themselves
having to share a (non-guest) room together. So is this a holiday sitcom, like Duty Free or Benidorm? To begin with, yes.
Ralph and
Brian are well written characters. But they are also, perhaps, works in
progress. Ralph has a lot in common with Martin.
Don’t quote
Shakespeare at me, Brian. Particularly when he’s in one of his cockier moods.
Look, I’m not being
old-fashioned about timekeeping. I’m just saying it’s your fault.
Brian, am I allowed to get to my crux?
I am a difficult sort of chap to get on one postcard.
I don’t like satire, Brian. Doesn’t ring bells with me.
Would you kindly put
all these little birds in your head into their respective cages and listen to
what I’m saying?
Nail on the head, Brian. Nail on the head.
And some (though far fewer) of Brian’s lines could have been Howard’s.
I should be home in
time for Nationwide.
I, personally, am my
weakest point.
That’s why I don’t
talk about myself. I’m not vital.
Everything I deal with
is totally useless.
Together, Ralph and Brian contain
the seeds of Martin and Howard’s double act.
RALPH: Look, Brian, I
am trying to scull here. Would you kindly stop dragging the anchor in the
water?
BRIAN: Sculls don’t
have anchors.
RALPH: All right,
Brian, all right. What’s the matter? Have you gone mad? Are you having a spasm
or something?
BRIAN: Well, you did
ask.
RALPH: Oh yes. He
asked. Ralph asked. And he got, didn’t he? The old death by a thousand cuts,
eh?
Ralph is irritated by Brian’s
little habits.
RALPH: The one that
comes at the top of my list is when you say, every single day that we are out
in the country, ‘Hello, hello: first cow of the day.’
BRIAN: Oh, well, I can
explain that. It’s connected with Swiss roll.
This is very typically Esmonde
and Larbey. Compare:
ANN: Hilda, why do you
call your spare room ‘The Polly Wolly Doodle Room’?
HILDA: Because of the
gramophone record.
But the big difference between
Ralph and Martin is that Ralph is, by any measure, impossible to like. Tom Good
is remembered with affection, and he’s unbearable. Ralph is awful – for solid,
comic reasons – but something drives a wedge between the character and the
audience. What?
There is a virus in TV comedy
that occasionally flares up, and it comes in the form of the note (to writers)
that the character must be likeable.
This is horseshit.
Tom Good is a bully. Basil Fawlty
is a snob. David Brent is a twat. Edina and Patsy are monsters. Brian Potter is
a martinet. Literally everyone in Spaced,
Girls and The Young Ones is a
bellend. But they’re all VERY FUNNY. ‘Like that. All in capitals,’ to quote
Georgette Heyer. And that gets the audience past the characters’ shortcomings. Likeable
isn’t necessary: they need to be sympathetic.
The viewer can sympathise with Basil’s snobbery: running a small hotel must be
like nursing a never-ending stream of picky infants, each with its own demands
and sore points.
But in The Other One, something didn’t land. Bob Larbey spotted something
was up at the first recording in December 1976:
You could feel the
studio audience recoil when Richard came forward with the moustache and the
smarmy kind of look about him. And the look said, ‘No. That’s not Our Richard.’
‘Not our Richard?’ Briers could
play unlikeable (Tom, Martin) with enormous charm. Here, Ralph is characterised
by his total lack of charm. He’s sexist, twitchy, selfish, egotistical,
meretricious, brutish, a coward and an inveterate liar. A toxic blend of
Martin’s twitch and Paul’s Teflon coating.
Brian (Michael Gambon), on the
other hand, is solicitous, gauche, proper, credulous, foolish, awkward and – also
– a coward.
Gambon’s background was in
theatre, and he was relatively unknown to TV in 1977. When he came into his
own, most notably as writer/victim Philip Marlow in Dennis Potter’s peerless The Singing Detective, it became clear
that he was an actor of astonishing chops. But in The Other One, he’s a lot less sure of himself in front of the
camera. He even fluffs his lines, quite noticeably.
Was the casting upside down? It’s
tempting to flip the actors, and imagine Gambon as an irritating
medallion-chested know-it-all with brilliantined hair and Briers as his faffing
acolyte. That might work: Gambon with his anatine tenor, Briers with his
desperation to please. But it’s simplistic.
The problem isn’t so much that
one of the two leads isn’t likeable, but that he doesn’t meet enough
resistance. There’s no counterpoint. There’s no Paul Ryman. The Other One clearly has Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid (aim
high – why not?) in its sights: what might now be termed a ‘road trip’ or
‘buddy’ story. But these are very fussy buddies. Resistance, had it been there,
may have fostered sympathy.
The writers even seem at pains,
in the scripts, to shore up ‘these two pariahs’. Typically, Esmonde and Larbey
wrote short stage directions. Their typical half-hour amounts to around 50
pages. The first script of The Other One
runs to a lardy 77 pages. It includes lots of what might be read as justification.
Brian ‘feels guilty,’ ‘is used to
being unnoticed,’ ‘is obviously wearing his best Hepworth’s suit,’ ‘tenses like
a greyhound in the traps,’ and ‘accepts this as his usual fate’. Ralph ‘smiles
patronizingly,’ ‘makes Brian do the hard work by volunteering nothing,’
‘chuckles a “thereby hangs a tale” chuckle,’ ‘preens in his innocence’ and
‘doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s going on, but compensates by doing a
running commentary’.
Perhaps the other significant
weakness of The Other One is its
overall story arc. The trouble with holiday sitcoms is that they rely on a cow of
a lot of suspension of disbelief – the audience has to deliberately avoid
questions like ‘why are these people still here?’ or ‘do they always come to
the same place?’ or ‘when are they going home?’ Esmonde and Larbey tackled that:
in the fifth episode of the first series, Ralph and Brian go home.
Episode six opens, and the title
sequence has changed. The sunglasses, cocktail and cigarilloed ashtray in the
opening cameos have been replaced with two briefcases – Ralph’s smart 1970s
aluminium attachĂ©, and Brian’s battered old leather Wexford. Back to life.
(This is noteworthy. Sitcoms that
change their ‘sit’ are rare. It’s difficult to pull off. And it doesn’t quite
succeed here. The pair go from holiday pals to work colleagues, on the road,
repping together. It leaves a credibility itch in the audience’s nerve endings,
which doesn’t help.)
The remaining eight episodes see
the pair travelling around the west country in Ralph’s crimson Ford Capri trying
to sell packaging.
In Ever Decreasing Circles, the writers were prompted to explain why someone
as lovely as Ann (Penelope Wilton) married a skyscraping buffoon like Martin.
They addressed this in the second series.
ANN: When I first met Martin, quite frankly I was a
bit of a mess. I’d picked the wrong bloke, and the wrong job. Left both. I
wasn’t really coping with anything. And then suddenly there was Martin who
said, “Don’t try to cope. Leave it all to me.” So I did. He brought back some
order into my life – some security. And he was always kind. He drives me mad
sometimes, but I love him.
In The Other One, Esmonde and Larbey went to greater dramatic lengths
to apologise for Ralph. Why is he single? Was he never tempted to get hitched?
RALPH: Married? No.
Only once. I was on time all right, standing there like a lemon with a rose in
my buttonhole, making jokes about the bride always being late. She wasn’t late.
She was on the Dover ferry with my brother.
This is a moment of candour and
possibility. The awful mask slips, revealing the human beyond. A chink of
redemption. Yet, in the next scene, the following morning, Ralph is back to
usual dreadful self. Reset. A dead end.
The canniest decision Esmonde and
Larbey made (possibly in their whole career) was in the early execution of The Good Life. They had their
forty-year-old central character and his wife espouse self-efficiency, Rotovating
their garden to muddy hell; and they had the upper-middle neighbours (the
Leadbeatters – ‘better’ versus ‘good’) looking down their sitcom noses at the
Goods. Then they threw in a masterstroke: what
if these two couples like each other? Wallop.
Putting animosity to one side
left them with rich characterisations and acres of canvas. In Ever Decreasing Circles, Paul was the
nice enemy. In The Other One, the two
characters were cross with each other. They had stand-up rows. Ralph bullied
and took advantage of Brian. That seems, if there were one, to have been a
mistake.
Was The Other One, then, ‘a flop,’ as Richard
Briers called it, and ‘a glorious failure,’ as Bob Larbey said? It wasn’t the radiant
success that its neighbour series were. (There were nearly others too: Now And Then, commissioned by the BBC in
spring 1980 but which John Howard Davies nixed and eventually appeared on ITV three
years later, and Arthur’s Kingdom,
seven episodes of which were ordered in October 1979 but which didn’t happen –
why and what it was remain unclear.)
The Other One was, though,
a stepping-stone. It had the bones of Martin Bryce and Paul Ryman in it, but unfortunately
it also contained the bile of Ralph and the shrivelled balls of Brian. (The
series was originally titled Ralph And
Brian – is it too much to read a ‘R&B’ reference into this? Probably.) The
show is vinegary, and lacks much of the writers’ typical warmth.
Usually,
Esmonde and Larbey deployed ghastliness in careful measure. In The Other One, they put it front and
centre, and built an entire series around it. Esmonde and Larbey’s work tends
to glow with charm. Here, they tried something else. And not all experiments
yield success.
It’s
hardly surprising that two male writers wrote a lot of male double acts (Ben
and Walter in You’re Only Old Once,
Jacko and Eric in Brush Strokes,
Harry and Dennis in Hope It Rains)
but it is unusual for one of Esmonde and Larbey’s to have backfired.
However,
writers are proficient recyclers, and Ralph Tanner had one more (wholly
successful) outing – in the third series of Ever
Decreasing Circles, as swaggering creep Rex Tynan (played with oiky unction
by Peter Blake of Kirk St Moritz fame).
Rex T (a
dinosaur, as his name suggests) doesn’t just share his initials with Ralph
Tanner. He is also a rep. He’s also a womaniser. He also drives a red Ford
Capri. And he is a liar. He hoodwinks Martin into thinking that he has been
unfaithful to Ann on a two-day business trip to Bruges. Rex Tynan is Ralph Tanner.
What Ever Decreasing Circles got right –
sidelining a horrible character and confining him to one episode (two, if you
count Rex’s off-stage appearance as the man who stamps ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ all over
Martin’s face at the Christmas party) – The
Other One arguably got wrong.
Rex gets
punched on the nose at the end of his story. Ralph’s finale is something quite definitely
else. The closing scenes of The Other One
are a bizarre, awkward cadence in which the writers bolt headlong for the fire
exit: the lead characters get into Ralph’s car and drive off. They actually drive off together into the
future. It’s hella odd. It is an example (a bit like the slightly overstaged
finale of Ever Decreasing Circles) of
an ending being all confection and no logic. Ralph and Brian haven’t been in
love, as far as we the audience can tell, at any point: nor do they need each
other. These two lonely men have found each other and bonded, though that bond
is brittle and insubstantial and goes nowhere except into the distance. What is
set up doesn’t pay off. It is an ending, yes: but adding Shave And A Haircut (Two
Bits) to the end of Mozart’s Requiem is an ending, and adding ‘and they all
lived happily ever after’ to Animal Farm is
an ending. It just isn’t the the right one.
The
likeable horror and the significant shadow are characters that the writers had
fun with more than once, in varying shades of subtlety. Their best work was a
blend of cuddle and needle. In The Other
One, there may have been rather too much needle.
Pints this time to Ian Greaves and James Cary, for words of wisdom. Grats, amigos.
Sunday 14 June 2015
Lots Of Dots...
How writers write is seldom explored. There are good
reasons: it’s not easily discussed, and it’s not very interesting. You might as
well ask how sneezers sneeze or accountants account. It’s largely instinct
(intangible) and craft (tangible, but prone to prescription). A writer, on her
or his own, is a brain in a jar, generating and shaping and tipping out and
re-shaping ideas quite privately. How that person writes is so internalised
that the process is almost beyond description, and likely way beyond any
entertaining or meaningful conversation.
But that answer doesn’t allow for how a twosome operates.
Writing partnerships are relationships; and relationships have
dynamics, compromises, competing urges, blazing rows and moments of love.
That’s more like it. Those elements are the makings of a story.
John Esmonde and Bob Larbey met each other at the Henry Thornton
School in Clapham. Bob was two years older than John, but they shared a sense
of humour and a love of football (later to pay off in their uncharacteristic
pancake of a series, Feet First). After
National Service (later to pay off in the far more successful Get Some In!), they met up, at the old boys’
club, playing football together (later to pay off in… well, read on) and making
themselves – and others – laugh.
Being friends before we became partners was, I'm sure, a great
bonus. The success we enjoyed together is partly due to having known each other
for so long. Having been friends first made writing more of a shared pleasure.
At the time, John was working as a technical journalist, and Bob was
employed by a printing block maker. Neither found it fulfilling.
Office jobs did nothing for us and not a lot for our employers, so –
rather like Tom Good – we looked for a way out. We chose comedy writing instead
of self-sufficiency and used all our spare time sending stuff here, there and
everywhere. All of it was turned down, of course, but we stuck with it and,
some four years, later sold our first comedy sketch to BBC radio.
Thrown these crumbs of success, they started writing more often –
initially in the evenings, while maintaining their day jobs, until they started
to fall asleep at work and took the plunge to become full-time writers.
Writing partnerships tend to work to one of two methods: one is the ‘type-and-pace’
method (Cleese and Chapman, Mitchell and Webb) where one notes it all down
while the other paces the room, and the ‘write-and-swap’ method (Fry and
Laurie, Bain and Armstrong) where both write separately, then swap material and
rewrite each other’s work. Both styles require having first brainstormed the
idea thoroughly. Esmonde and Larbey were of the former.
When we were creating a script, we’d take it in turns to do the
writing. We
used to write longhand, as opposed to typing the script straight away, which we
always found distracting.
Their
surroundings were deliberately unglamorous.
We rented a series of disgusting little offices and just used to go
to work – sit in the same room, talk a lot, drink a lot of coffee.
Their
first disgusting little office was at 47 West Street, Dorking, mid-way between
their homes. Later, they moved to a little office above a greengrocer’s in
Billingshurst – where Ever Decreasing
Circles was written and (perhaps uncoincidentally) the exteriors were
filmed. It was also disgusting.
It wasn’t long before there was fag-ash, cups that hadn’t been
washed for days and bits of paper everywhere. Not many people came to our
office, but those who did used to say, ‘Oh my God, how can you work in filth
like this?’
They started with the bit they found hardest: plot structure.
John and I always write a very detailed story-line before starting
on the script. By that time we’ve a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen.
Then they routined the scenes, playing the parts themselves ‘very
badly, but to our ears they were perfect’.
We’d get into a stream of improvised dialogue and afterwards try and
remember what it was that had made us laugh, then write it down. That's the
hardest part.
Many writers stick to this rule. The simplicity of it is very
appealing: use Take One. That’s the line or idea which came out unrefined, before
being overthought or overstudied or over-written. What was the exact wording
that made you both laugh? It’s probably right. Sometimes, it can be something
apparently innocuous. In the last (longer than usual) episode of Ever Decreasing Circles, Martin’s
employer, Mole Valley Valves, merges with Lee Valley Valves, and relocates. Martin
is being forced out of The Close: his basic nightmare. Esmonde and Larbey had previously
made great play of Martin and Ann’s night in Kidderminster (indeed, ‘Kidderminster,’
in the dialogue, comes to stand for ‘passion’), but now the writers needed a
place name that smacked squarely of alien waters. A by-word for ‘not The
Close’. Something cold, difficult, new – and funny. In the writing session,
this happened.
How about, ‘I’ve
just had Oswestry chucked in my face’?
This was, they decided, perfect. Oswestry, with its combination of far-away-ness
and audible curlicue (comedy is music; it has to sound right: ‘Discuss the
contention that Cleopatra had the body of a roll-top desk and the mind of a
duck’ – thank you, Richard Sparks), hit the mark.
We both knew immediately that Oswestry was just right. I mean, there
are times when Kilburn can fit the bill, and others when it just has to be
Thames Ditton. Not only did Oswestry have the right ring to it but, being
almost in Wales, it must have seemed to suburban Martin like East Africa.
This kind of detail appealed to Esmonde and Larbey. One Ever Decreasing Circles (the Gasthaus
Glockenspiel episode, explored in the previous post as the possible bandage
across a story wound) starts with a lengthy scene about a missing three-eighths
grub screw. That's not funny per se
but, coming from Martin Bryce’s mouth, it’s a hatch-down moment of terrible
importance: his invaluable three-eighths grub screw lost, he needs to find it.
Nothing can stand in his way. Detail. Detail.
Detail is the arena of quotable comedy. (See I’m Alan Partridge: ‘I gorged on Toblerone and drove to Dundee in
my bare feet.’) Esmonde explained as much.
People ask where we get our dialogue from, but they
don’t realise it’s all around you. Like a feller the other day in a shop: ‘I
have here a statistic,’ he says, ‘viz,’ he says, ‘that there are more people in
Italy kicked to death by donkeys than what die in air crashes.’ With jokes it’s
either win or lose. But, if you write characterful dialogue there’s another
level of funniness. We don’t think that people are innately witty when they
talk. We prefer a laugh from the way a character says, ‘Well…’
Bob Larbey backed this up, with a very fine example.
Once, working on The Good Life, we thought we would see if we could get
laughs from a totally unfunny script. We wrote a whole page with nothing but
‘Good morning’ on it.
He slightly misremembered this, but it is a magnificent scene. ‘The Wind-Break War,’ arguably the finest
episode of The Good Life, sees the
Goods fighting the Leadbeatters quite needlessly over the positioning of a tall
fence that accidentally casts a shadow over the Goods’ soft fruit. There is a
fight, and a lot of wonderful passive aggression, and the Goods move their
entire crop to defeat what they see as the Leadbeatters’ sabotage manoeuvre. Yet
it’s nothing of the sort. It is a misunderstanding. And, when that’s revealed,
the couples revert to embarrassment.
That is (and it’s from the one published Good Life script) a minute of dialogue. Nothing, on the page,
distinguishes it from small talk. Yet the context, timing and (crucially)
performance of the scene make it as good as anything Esmonde and Larbey wrote. Somehow
it advances everyone in it, without needing any exposition on the page. It
does nothing and does everything. The characters are so well worked out that
the scene can be set going, and simply roll to the front and collect its
laughs. It’s close to perfection, but good luck justifying that.
‘Looking at our scripts… Just lots of dots…’
The Good Life was, like that snippet, an idea that had travelled far enough from
its inspiration to become a functioning organism.
The Good Life never set out on a
theme of self-sufficiency. We started with the premise of somebody reaching his fortieth
birthday. People think of it as one of those milestone ages, the ‘Oh, God, what
have I done with my life? What do I do about it?’ John and I wanted to write about a man who was fed
up with his job and fed up with himself. He could have become a lorry driver. [In the original draft, he was going to build a yacht and sail
around the world.] But we added the
self-sufficiency, which seemed a good idea. When we’d got him in our minds, it
was he who decided what he wanted to
become. The character takes over.
Plenty of sitcom characters come from real life. Famously, Basil
Fawlty was found by John Cleese in Donald Sinclair, the insufferable hotelier
of The Gleneagles Torquay. Just so Martin Bryce. In contrast to the oft-told
story of the anonymous ‘referee on Clapham Common’ the writers repeated to the
cameras, in conversation with Richard Webber, author of A Celebration Of The Good Life, John Esmonde offered this more
revealing progenitor.
Bob and I used to play old boys’ football, and we had regular
meetings to talk about subs, match fixtures, things like that. This [one] chap
would arrive with a briefcase and give a dissertation on how to take a penalty.
Now, think of that happening in someone’s front room. [He] was certainly no
lithe athletic type, being unbelievably English in his fairness but, at the
same time, really frustrating. He was always painfully keen. I remember one
week we were playing a match and didn’t have a referee, so he decided that he’d
be the ref and play as well. As you can imagine, that’s quite difficult. He
even scored – after which he apologised to everyone on the other side.
The writers recognised the potential for comedy in their erstwhile
colleague, and ran it past their bench test.
I have only two criteria in trying to think up a new idea: will the
idea stay funny for more than a few episodes and do I think it's funny in the
first place?
Yes and yes. So down to work.
When you first create characters, you think a lot about them of
course, but you never know everything about them, so when you have an idea for
a story – say, a dance – you have to work out whether your characters like to
dance and, if so, how they dance. I don't suppose you'd covered that
eventuality when you first invented them.
Martin, of course, is a man with a colossal catalogue of issues. In
one episode, he tells Ann, ‘I’m writing a letter to The Times.’ ‘What about?’
she asks. His reply is both ludicrous and bang on: ‘Everything’.
Martin was terribly tortured. He had so many little bees and bugs in
him. His hang-ups were amusing, yet totally realistic, because I’m sure there
are plenty of people who can’t stand telephone wires getting tangled up,
road-sweepers leaving cigarette butts behind, molehills, awkward-looking odd
numbers – just some of the aspects of life that irked Martin terribly. [He]
could see the perfect world on the horizon, but never quite reached it.
Once Esmonde and Larbey had established their protagonist, they went
to work on his opposite number.
We got the idea of someone who wanted life to be perfect, who wanted
life to fall into place around him, to the point of being neurotic. Then we
asked ourselves, ‘What would rock that particular boat?’ The answer was a
nearby Mr Perfect who breezed through life getting everything right.
A good test of character is always to ask, ‘What’s the worst thing
you could say to this person?’ The answer, in Martin’s case, happens very early
on – in the second episode of the first series.
PAUL: Isn’t it time we started to ease the world off old Atlas’s
shoulders?
HOWARD (RISES): You’re absolutely right.
MARTIN SHOWS FEAR.
HOWARD: It’s about time we pitched in and did some of the work
ourselves.
PAUL: Some? What good will some do? This man needs a total break
from all of it.
HOWARD: That’s it! I formally suggest we take every job that Martin
does for every club and every society and share them out among ourselves.
MARTIN’S SMALL ‘NO’ IS LOST IN A CHORUS OF ‘HEAR HEARS’.
Cutting Martin’s balls off – as happens here – by saying, ‘I’ll do
it: you sit down’ is the most ruinous thing that has ever happened to him. Showing
this worst case scenario so early on in the series serves to strengthen the
character. Esmonde and Larbey knew this: they were at the top of their game
writing Ever Decreasing Circles.
Richard Briers described them at the time, without undue exaggeration, as ‘the
best in the trade’.
They were also strict. If one of them disagreed strongly about
something in a script, it was nixed. Likewise, they weren’t unafraid of killing
their darlings if they didn’t stand up to scrutiny.
You can think of a funny line and
then ask yourself whether so-and-so would ever say such a thing. If he
wouldn’t, you have to toss it away.
Briers was a gift: it has been said many times before, but it
deserves underlining. A brilliant piece of music played by an average musician is
too readily an average piece of music. But hear it played with flair and guts,
by a brilliant musician, and you’re gifted the thing the composer intended.
Likewise comedy. To have something performed, semiquaver perfect, by an actor,
is an unalloyed joy.
Seeing it is
quite exciting. Sometimes we laugh.
Richard Briers was an expert at making an unlikeable character
likeable. Tom Good is, in all truth, a bit of a shit. He ignores his wife for
three years. Martin Bryce is impossible to live with: Richard Briers makes it
possible. Esmonde and Larbey wanted Briers from the off, because they reasoned
that he was probably the only actor who could make Martin in any way loveable.
They were right.
And there were at least two good reasons the writers kept their lead
actor in mind. Firstly, if, as the writer, you can hear the character’s voice,
it becomes much easier to write them, and they start to sound real. Half your
job is in the bag.
Secondly – and this is the kicker – Ever Decreasing Circles (nearly called One Man’s Close, Close Connections and The Close Friend) might adhere to the (then) conventions of studio
sitcom (four sets, four minutes of film per ep) but the the show isn’t set in
The Close, it’s set in Martin. The
‘sit’ bit of the sitcom is its principal character himself.
A lot of series are about what people do… what they try to get done.
This was about the inside of his head more than anything else. Things like
colour coding, counting, clean shoes: everything in its place and a place for
everything.
The show set in someone’s head wasn’t new then (see the truly
amazing – and enough cannot be said about it – The Strange World Of Gurney Slade for an earlier example) and has
been done since (the lovely chamber piece Marion
And Geoff, for instance). But Ever
Decreasing Circles externalised that idea, because the writers spread the
world inside the man’s head into the world outside his head. Howard and Hilda
are the best neighbours Martin Bryce could wish for; Paul Ryman the worst. Martin has angels and devils, and they live either side of him: on each
shoulder, if you like. That such a simple idea could easily slip into
caricature is obvious; that it didn’t is testament to the writing.
The last decision a writer makes is when to stop. Esmonde and Larbey
halted after four series of Ever
Decreasing Circles, just as they did with The Good Life. Enough, when it seems so, is enough.
We prefer to leave the public wanting more, rather than run out of
things to say.
How did Esmonde and Larbey write? Very well.
A shipping container of
thanks is shared by Steve Arnold, for pointing me towards a rich seam of Radio
Times articles, and Richard Webber, whose book A Celebration Of The Good Life (Orion,
2000) yielded a great many quotes from Esmonde and Larbey for this piece. If
you don’t own the book, correct your error at once. It is one of a kind.
Other sources: ‘The laughter lies in the toil’ (Gordon McGill, Radio Times, 27 March 1975), Television Comedy Scripts (ed. Roy Blatchford, Longman, 1983), ‘It’s a good, busy life for Richard’ (uncredited, Radio Times, 23 January 1984), ‘The luck of the insecure actor’ (Tim Heald, Radio Times, 20 October 1984), ‘Will Jacko say “I will”?’ (Jenny Campbell, Radio Times, 26 November 1988), ‘Funny line of work’ (William Greaves, Radio Times, 23 December 1989), Biography: John Esmonde and Bob Larbey (Television Heaven, 17 February 2005), Bob Larbey interview with Robin Kelly, Writing For Performance (2005), Comedy Connections (BBC, 2006), John Esmonde’s obituary (The Times, 12 August 2008).
Other sources: ‘The laughter lies in the toil’ (Gordon McGill, Radio Times, 27 March 1975), Television Comedy Scripts (ed. Roy Blatchford, Longman, 1983), ‘It’s a good, busy life for Richard’ (uncredited, Radio Times, 23 January 1984), ‘The luck of the insecure actor’ (Tim Heald, Radio Times, 20 October 1984), ‘Will Jacko say “I will”?’ (Jenny Campbell, Radio Times, 26 November 1988), ‘Funny line of work’ (William Greaves, Radio Times, 23 December 1989), Biography: John Esmonde and Bob Larbey (Television Heaven, 17 February 2005), Bob Larbey interview with Robin Kelly, Writing For Performance (2005), Comedy Connections (BBC, 2006), John Esmonde’s obituary (The Times, 12 August 2008).
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