Name the production, design the set. Match it all up for accuracy and authenticity. Televise it. Forget it. The next one is on its way. Such is life for our set designers. How often does one read in the press a review of a production which says: “The sets were excellently designed by Joe Bloggs?”

Perhaps it is just as well that they do not generally attract this sort of attention. After all a set is supposed to form the right background and create the right atmosphere in which the cast can move. If it does this well it does not overpower the viewer or thrust itself between him and the production.

Performances by actors and directors sometimes live on in memory but more often the sets which made their successes possible are forgotten. To help rectify this Fusion here prints some illustrations of sets from Associated-Rediffusion productions.

The post Name, Set & Match appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Outstanding contributions to the company’s programmes were recognised last month by the award of four £1,000 [about £16,500 in today’s money, allowing for inflation – Ed] Golden Star Awards. The awards were made by the board of directors from names nominated by the staff and recommended to the board by a preliminary selection committee. The award winners were:

Assistant head of engineering Basil Bultitude for his creative engineering contribution to programmes, particularly ‘The General Election’ on March 31 and April 1, 1966.

Programme director Charles Squires, M.B.E., for his direction of ‘Warship Eagle’, transmitted on July 13, 1966.

Author Paul Jones for his play ‘My Friend Corby’, transmitted as one of ‘The Seven Deadly Sins’ series on May 9, 1966. (Paul Jones died on October 30 so the award was presented to his widow.)

Actor Ian Hendry for the regularly high standard of his performance in the leading role in ‘The Informer’ series transmitted between August 1 and September 19, 1966.

Another award made last month went to Grahame Turner from the Guild of Television Producers and Directors for his work as one of the two executive producers on the television coverage of the World Cup. In addition, Alastair Burnet won the Richard Dimbleby Award for his work on a number of programmes including the Rediffusion productions of ‘This Week’, ‘Pay and Prices – the Crunch’ and ‘Division’.

BASIL BULTITUDE was born in October 1927 in Bangor, C. Down, N. Ireland. In 1943 he joined the BBC as a trainee engineer working in sound control in Belfast, Glasgow and Broadcasting House, London, and eventually became senior maintenance engineer at Aldenham. He was transferred to the BBC Television Service at Alexandra Palace in 1949 where he worked in vision control, telecine and maintenance. From there he went to Lime Grove, was promoted to assistant to superintendent engineer, BBC Television Service, and spent two years engaged in the design of the Television Centre.

In 1958 he joined Rediffusion Television as assistant head of engineering and still holds that post. He has acted as co-ordinating engineer for ITV on such programmes as Princess Margaret’s Wedding, the general election and the State Funeral of Sir Winston Churchill and as the ITV engineering representative to the BBC/ITV World Cup Consortium.

He is married with two children.

CHARLES RICHARD SQUIRES, M.B.E. Born February 13, 1928. Joined the film cutting room of the Crown Film Unit in 1942. Served in the Royal Navy for two years as a telegraphist. Left Navy in 1948 and returned to the film industry. Worked as first assistant editor, assembly editor and film editor at Shepperton, Denham and Pinewood Studios.

Joined Rediffusion Television in November, 1955 as a film editor. Main productions he worked on were the major documentaries: ‘Tyranny’, ‘Israel Rises’, ‘Two Faces of Japan’, ‘The Quiet War’, ‘One Man’s Hunger’ and ‘Watch on the Mekong’. Also produced the ‘Take Four’ film and music items.

Appointed programme director in 1965. Directed such documentaries as ‘Beat City’, ‘Airport’ and ‘The Grafters’, ‘Paradise Street’, ‘Walk Down Any Street’ and ‘H.M.S. Eagle’. Awarded M.B.E. in Queen’s Birthday Honours List, 1965.

Married with two children, a son aged 15, and a daughter aged 12.

PAUL JONES was born in Hampstead on September 28, 1921. As a freelance writer he produced scripts for the BBC and also the West End. He wrote television plays exclusively for Rediffusion from 1958. They included ‘Fate and Mr. Browne’, ‘The Problem of Girlfriends’, ‘The Two-Seater Bachelor Days’ and ‘A Couple of Dry Martinis’.

An actor before he became a playwright, Paul Jones had his first play ‘Birthday Honours’ produced at the Criterion Theatre in the West End in 1953. Of his work Maurice Wiggin, television critic of The Sunday Times, commented in 1964: ‘He never wrote a dull play yet’.

Paul Jones died on October 30, 1966. He left a widow and one son.

IAN HENDRY was born in Ipswich, Suffolk on January 13, 1931. He started his career in auctioneering and estate management but at the age of 22 turned to acting and trained for three years at the Central School of Speech and Drama.

His first professional engagements were in repertory at Hornchurch and Worthing. Later he played at Oxford where he took part in Anouilh’s ‘Dinner with the Family’ which transferred to the West End. He played in such films as ‘Simon and Laura’, ‘The Secret Place’, ‘Room at the Top’ and ‘Live Now, Pay Later’. Since then he has appeared in ‘Girl in the Headlines’, ‘This is my Street’, ‘The Beauty Jungle’, ‘Repulsion’, ‘The Hill’ and ‘Casino Royale’.

I lis first lead in a television series was in i960 when he appeared in ‘Police Surgeon’, playing Dr. Geoffrey Brent, a character which in 1961 was developed into Dr. David Keel, one of the leading parts in ‘The Avengers’, which he also played.

He is married to actress Janet Munro and they have a daughter.

GUILD OF TELEVISION PRODUCERS AND DIRECTORS AWARD

Grahame Turner born September 1927 in Westminster, he joined the BBC as control room engineer in 1944 and in 1948 was transferred to BBC Television. Later he joined BBC outside broadcasts at their Wembley headquarters. As a cameraman with the BBC be covered a wide range of O.B.’s from the ‘Coronation’ to the ‘Cup Final’.

At the start of Independent Television in 1955 he joined Rediffusion Television as senior cameraman, outside broadcasts. In 1958 be became a programme director and directed a wide variety of programmes including Sir Winston Churchill’s State Funeral and major sporting events such as The Derby and Wimbledon. In 1964 be was appointed producer for the ITV coverage of the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo and in 1967 was appointed Senior producer for Rediffusion’s outside broadcasts. He and Alan Chivers of the BBC were joint executive producers on the World Cup.

The post The Golden Star Awards appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Most actors and actresses are afraid of being typecast. People who produce their programmes do not have the same worries. Fusion thought it might be interesting to explore the situation a little further. Perhaps there is more in typecasting than meets the eye? It will be appreciated that the author, JULIA HELPS, has researched her imagination as well as facts. We would, therefore, categorically state that the results should not be identified with any particular member of the staff. Should any member of the company think that they refer to him/her, then it really is pure coincidence.

THE EXCITABLE DIRECTOR

A product of a major public school and of Oxbridge, he tended always to mix with the intellectual crowd. On leaving University, didn’t know what to do and went into fashion designing, making contact with an atmosphere of flurry and expressionism. Mated into television when it started in a desire to be ‘one up’ on all his friends. Artistic, imaginative, and esoteric, he was soon involved in directing. The mystery is how he turns out such great productions while never having been seen to have the production fully rehearsed. Recognisable by his short, quick footsteps.

THE ENTHUSIASTIC WRITER

May be seen flitting round Television House all and every day, either to see if there is another instalment of ‘The Hidden Crane’ to be written or to see how much his last episode of ‘Double Your Paradise’ has been cut. Very publicity minded, he attends all press conferences – in the hope of picking up new ideas. Although a prolific writer, very little of his material is original. He carries a typewriter round with him and a brief-case containing a note-book and sharp pencils, with which he takes down notes in shorthand. (He has developed a neat trick of using his brief-case on his knee as a desk while standing up.) His notes and observations may well be included in his next (43rd) novel.

THE GLOOMY P.A.

Well-educated, intelligent, she often wears glasses and is usually a University graduate. Bored with industry, she drifted into television with a view to becoming a director. As her ideals become more remote, her face grows longer and her watches seem to tick slower. She finds it hard to believe that a programme can come out on time or that people could be faintly interested in how lesbianism caused the downfall of the Roman Empire (with or without Sophia Loren). As each programme her director directs wins new laurels, she predicts that he is finished and soon she will be looking for a new job.

THE EBULLIENT PRODUCTION EXECUTIVE

Once a professor of economics, he found life too dull and came into independent television as soon as it started, rising rapidly. His alert brain, always full of new and unusual ideas (not always practical) makes him n welcome member at any committee meeting. His mannerism of running his hand through his hair before any startling idea, has been copied by young up-and-coming executive producers. Full of life, his office chair is rarely sat in – he prefers to prowl round it, and is more likely to be found anywhere in the building, or, failing that, at Wembley. He spends his weekends and holidays motor racing in vintage Bentleys when he is not catching butterflies.

THE HARASSED PRESS OFFICE WORKER

Easily recognisable from the fact that he never walks, but always runs, and has one shoulder higher than the other due to answering phones all day and writing at the same time. At lunchtime can be found propping up a bar, reminiscing about the good old days as a reporter. He missed his calling, which was obviously to be a politician – for he knows how to evade questions politely. He is friendly with all the regular press boys, but is inclined to get his celebrities mixed up owing to having met too many of them. Has a fund of anecdotes – all unprintable.

THE DAZED FOURTH FLOOR EXECUTIVE

An ex-Army or R.A.F. officer, he likes to have everything on paper and filed in folders of varying urgency. He has never quite understood what the letters TAM stand for, but believes it is something like Television and Mathematics, for a large set of figures always come in with these reports, accompanied by nice graphs. Having accepted the wireless and the phonograph, he cannot quite see why people want pictures to look at. He intends to retire at the age of 65 to the day and write his memoirs of the war (he did not like or agree with either Churchill or ‘Monty’). He also plans a witty look at television, which promises to be very, very interesting.

THE ERUDITE TV REPORTER

A tall, sombre man, he has an Honours degree plus a published award-winning thesis in classical Creek on the chemical composition of Michelangelo’s early statues. He scorns the everyday routine reporting of earthquakes, national leaders, political upheavals, or thefts of Goya paintings and is happiest when covering ecclesiastical conferences, teachers’ congresses and archeological discoveries. While covering national news, he is inclined to quote in the vulgate, which to those intelligent enough to follow, is extremely witty. He originally made his name by advertising detergents in Greek on BBC 2.

THE FABULOUS CASTING DIRECTOR

She was brought up in the theatre and considers that she has lowered herself to television, but ‘After all, darlings, we must eat cake’. On Christian-name terms with most of the leading Hollywood and West End stars, she maintains she knew most of them before they were well known – probably true. Having tried at one time nearly all aspects of the stage, she admits that at the age of 38, she found herself not suited to the life as the draughts gave her lumbago. She is perennially 39.

THE SQUARE-EYED TELEVISION CRITIC

An acknowledged intellectual, his favourite programmes are ‘Coronation Street’ and ‘Take Your Pick’, though he admits to watching ‘Monitor’ and ‘Panorama’ once a year. Having served as a tea boy at Dagenham and a telegram boy for the G.P.O., he wanted a sedentary job and applied to the Daily Gurgle for the post of television critic. He watches every programme that is transmitted, having four sets in his study, the fourth one in anticipation of a second commercial channel. His phone is within reach of his easy chair, as is a drink cabinet and his crits are sharp, pointed and witty – if you can appreciate his unusual sense of humour.

The post Typecasting appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

1. What kind of programme fields would you like to see us entering more strongly ?

In a sense we anticipated this question in January by the appointment of Buddy Bregman and Peter Eton and also by the brief which Peter Willes has for 1966-67 plays. Music, stars and comedy are the short answer on the entertainment front. As far as plays are concerned, I feel we ought to be reflecting more the quite unique position we have in ITV. This is our proximity and involvement with the London theatre. It is logical that the London station in the heart of theatre-land should shape and direct its play output accordingly.

2. Is the single television drama dying?

No, and the evidence of this belief is in the transmission this month of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge’. There will be other similar important single play productions in the future.

But I believe nobody has really challenged the assumption that plays have a natural place in television. Somehow, it has been assumed that because drama is a part of entertainment and art, it has an automatic place on television. This is not supported by the facts or common sense. It is not a common working-class or even middle-class experience to go to the theatre. It is therefore dangerous to assume that it is common practice to watch drama on television. Public affairs and documentary television have had to create interest in these areas of broadcasting. Similarly, television drama has to create a new interest in the theatre. Single plays need a sense of occasion, similar to that experienced when one goes to a theatre for an evening out. We must do more to stimulate the viewer and create this sense of occasion.

3. Do we get too much politics on the screen?

No, we can’t have too much politics. But perhaps we do have too many politicians. Politics aren’t (and shouldn’t be seen to be) dry-as-dust debate. Politics enter every field of human activity. The pre-Christmas ‘This Week’ item on poverty-stricken families was a human interest story. It was also a social story and, therefore, political.

4. How do you see documentary programmes developing?

Documentaries are in a critical phase. When public affairs programmes like ‘This Week’, ‘Division’ and ‘Shop Talk’ largely concerned themselves with short items, then there was some validity in having one-hour documentaries covering subjects in length and depth and using techniques which the magazine programmes neglected.

Now there is a trend in current affairs programmes to make more considered studies of single contemporary themes. So now we must re-think what is put into a documentary. The problem faces all broadcasting organisations. One answer lies in encouraging producers and directors to make more ‘personal’ documentaries by taking a subject and illuminating it from a personal view. (Any self-indulgences, of course, must be kept right out.)

If the subject is strong enough, this might be developed further by tackling different aspects of it in different ways, and by spreading the results over consecutive weeks, so that the total may be three or four hours of transmission.

5. Do we have enough sport?

Sport is an area of television where we must apply very strong discipline. There is danger in making wild assumptions about it. Because it exists, people seem to believe that it must also automatically be a staple part of television. Sport, however, is a minority activity in television terms, despite the ‘vast’ crowds that are said to attend major sporting events. From the company’s point of view, major midweek sporting activities are limited. Further, while we are subjected to the absurdity of short licence periods, we are inhibited in making arrangements with athletic associations, race courses and so on over a long term. But we must be alert to make sure we cover the best and most important sporting events. We must also attempt experiments with new techniques for covering sport, and not always adopt the conventional way.

6. What are your views about the long running series such as ‘No Hiding Place’ and the quizzes?

Firstly, these are popular by any objective criterion that a reasonable man, and not an intellectual snob, would apply whatever his personal view.

Secondly, the criterion is not whether they are old or long-running, but whether they are valid programme material in their own context. Nobody pretends they are high art. Third, I would not classify ‘Take Your Pick’ and ‘Double Your Money’ as quiz shows. I think the audience watches them because they are hosted by popular entertainers. I personally haven’t much time for the question-and-answer quiz shows which depend entirely on the contestants’ knowledge of the longest river in the world. That hasn’t got much to do with television.

These long-running shows will be replaced when we have got something better to offer. I’m preoccupied first with creating programmes, not destroying them.

7. What are your views on press criticism of programmes?

Critics can play an important and a constructive part through trend analysis. An example of this was the almost universal assumption by reviewers that the television link-man was an obsolete figure. They came to this conclusion before viewers had realised it and almost before the managements in television had realised it. They made the removal of the link-man acceptable and thus helped in a decisive step. But a critic’s view of last night’s programme has not more value than your mother’s.

8. How far do TAM ratings affect your judgements?

Except for the chap who likes to talk to himself, we all want an audience – especially programme-makers. TAM just means television audience measurement. It is a useful and efficient way of measuring audience response. It shouldn’t be used to motivate action or decisions.

9. Anything else you’d like to say?

Yes. We need all the teamwork and ideas available. We’re going to get up and go.

The post We’re going to get up and GO appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing

Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

by PETER HAYES

with
DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and

MAX KIRBY

THE Q-RADIATION

with
HAROLD KASKET as the Baron

Episode Four

Cast in order of appearance

Gulliver
Lord Cardington … JOHN GABRIEL
The Baron … HAROLD KASKET
Professor Tudor Owen … IVOR SALTER
Peter Chance … DAVID SUMNER
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD
Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
Police Superintendent
Dr. John Quendon … PETER HALLIDAY

Settings by KEN JONES

Directed by MARC MILLER

Trapped on Llanmaris by the Baron, Chance and Anna Parsons face annihilation by Owen’s death ray ….

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Q-Radiation — Episode 4 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing

Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

by PETER HAYES

with
DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and
MAX KIRBY

THE Q-RADIATION

Episode Three

Cast in order of appearance

Peter Chance … DAVID SUMNER
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD
Dr. John Quendon … PETER HALLIDAY
Tom Batley … RODNEY BEWES
Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
The Baron … HAROLD KASKET
Professor Tudor Owen … IVOR SALTER
Welsh Boatman

Settings by KEN JONES

Directed by MARC MILLER

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Q-Radiation — Episode 3 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing

Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

by PETER HAYES

with
DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and
MAX KIRBY

THE Q-RADIATION
Episode Two

Cast in order of appearance

Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
Lord Cardington
Professor Tudor Owen … IVOR SALTER
Dr. John Quendon
Tom Batley … RODNEY BEWES
Peter Chance … DAVID SUMNER
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD
Foley

Settings by KEN JONES

Directed by MARC MILLER

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Q-Radiation — Episode 2 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing

Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Klngsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

by PETER HAYES

with
DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and

MAX KIRBY

THE Q-RADIATION

Episode One

Cast in order of appearance

Dr. John Quendon
Tom Batley
Lord Cardington
Professor Tudor Owen
Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
Peter Chance … DAVID SUMNER
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD

Settings by KEN JONES

Directed by MARC MILLER

What has Dr. John Quendon invented and why did Professor Tudor Owen resign? Just two of the problems that face Chance and Anna in this week’s story …..

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Q-Radiation — Episode 1 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing

Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

By PETER HAYES

with
DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and
MAX KIRBY

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

Episode One

Cast in order of appearance

Father Gabriel
Peter Chance … DAVID SUMER
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD
Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
Brother Theodore
Brother Julien
Brother Victor … BLAKE BUTLER

Settings by ANDREW DRUMMOND

Directed by MARC MILLER

Sir Willoughby has an unexpected visitor and as a result, Chance and Anna Parsons find themselves trying to solve a mystery in a French monastery …..

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Elixir of Life — Episode 1 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing

Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

by PETER HAYES

with
DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and
MAX KIRBY

THE BRAIN MACHINE

Episode Two

with
HAROLD KASKET as the Baron

Cast in order of appearance

King Sharifa … HENRY SOSKIN
Colonel Selim … JULIAN SHERRIER
Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
Dr. Peter Chance … DAVID SUMNER
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD
Bernard Portman … RAYMOND MASON
The Baron … HAROLD KASKET
First Arab Guard … OSWALD LAURENCE
Second Arab Guard

Settings by BERNARD GOODWIN

Directed by MARC MILLER

On arrival in El Arish, capital of Mirzan, Chance and Anna seem no nearer to solving the mystery of The Brain Machine until their attention focuses on the Medical Centre ……..

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Brain Machine — Episode 2 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Billing
Issued by Publicity Liaison Officer, Rediffusion Television Limited, Television House, Kingsway, London, W.C.2. Tel: HOLborn 7888

SIERRA NINE

by PETER HAYES

with

DAVID SUMNER
DEBORAH STANFORD

and

MAX KIRBY

THE BRAIN MACHINE

Episode One

Cast in Order of Appearance

Professor Howard Portman … RONALD IBBS
Dr. Peter Chance … DAVID SUMNER
Jane Brightside … ANN RYE
Beamish … ROBERT MILL
Arab Spy … ROBIN CHAPMAN
Sir Willoughby Dodd … MAX KIRBY
Anna Parsons … DEBORAH STANFORD

Settings by BERNARD GOODWIN

Directed by MARC MILLER

Having successfully completed a research project into self-homing missiles, Peter Chance is astounded when told by his chief, Professor Howard Portman, to scrap all his work and start again …. Later, Chance sees Portman taking microphotographs of the apparently useless data!

The post Rediffusion Billing — Sierra Nine — The Brain Machine — Episode 1 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

March [1964] saw the publication of a ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ magazine for sale to the general public. Designed by John Tribe of Graphic Design and edited by Ronald Elliott, the 24 giant pages include six pages in full colour besides the front and back covers in colour. Price 2s; print order 200,000.

Twelve articles have been specially written for the magazine. Here Fusion reproduces a couple of them to give you the flavour, plus our own photographs of the first early eveing show to get consistently in the London top ten.

Our neighbours hate us

It sounds like a dream job – listening to records, but when you know your choice is going to be heard by millions it’s not so easy as it sounds. Here Michael Aldred, an assistant on ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ tells how the discs are picked for the programme.

One of the most frequently asked questions about ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ is how we pick the records that are played on the programme. If you imagine all we do is sit back in our chairs with our feet on the desk while the melodious strains of the Beatles, the Crystals or the Rolling Stones waft around us, you couldn’t be more wrong. It is a wee bit more frantic than that.

Each week the major record companies send us upwards of 50 new pre-releases. In addition, music publishers and agents send acetate demo discs of new songs and new artists for us to hear.

To be completely fair to everybody – ourselves included – we have to play every record, all the way through, both sides, often more than once. Then we can be sure we keep up with what is happening in the music world.

Decisions on a record are collective – Francis Hitching, my boss, Vicki Wickham, his personal assistant, Cathy McGowan and I discuss each record before accepting or rejecting it.

If you allow a minimum of four minutes for each record, it takes something like three hours or so of playing time to hear everything. And that doesn’t take in all the discussions!

So we have mad record sessions which drive the inhabitants of the neighbouring offices on the fifth floor of Television House slightly mad.

When we have decided on the records which we think have the right sound for the programme, we set about booking artists.

When we’ve got everything lined up for the week’s show you might think we relax. But you’d be wrong … we’re already making plans for the next week.

I pick the stars

What goes on behind a show such as Associated-Rediffusion’s ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’? In this article the programme’s editor, Francis Hitching, lets you into the secrets behind his job.

The first person we booked on ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ was Billy Fury. In fact, he was booked before I got my own job! I arrived in the office on my first morning to be told that we’d got a star for the opening programme – Billy – and from there on it was up to me.

It’s a very pleasant job, I can tell you. With a couple of possible exceptions (and nothing anybody says will make me mention their names) pop stars are as nice a bunch of people as you’ll meet anywhere.

Lots of them genuinely seem to like ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ – perhaps because it gives them a chance to do something more than just sing. They pop into our office and give us ideas for features in the programme, or suggestions for records they’re tipping for the top.

Brian O’Hara of the Rolling Stones, for instance, rang up the other day to tell us about some clothes he’d seen kids wearing round the clubs.

Dee Dee Sharp, when she’s in this country, tips us off about new dances in America.

Dusty Springfield and Kenny Lynch are regular visitors to our room on the fifth floor – they seem to like our office coffee!

When we’re building up a programme, we try to stick to some rules we’ve invented.

1. The numbers should be a mixture of new ones and familiar ones. And ideally, we either try to play a record the first week it’s released – or when it’s got into our charts.
2. Besides the stars, we ought to have at least one newcomer – or comparative newcomer – on each show.
3. There ought to be a good, newsy reason for every record we play.

Because ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ is a live show, were able to fit in extra items quite late. The week the Springfields broke up, we reorganised the schedule so they could do a medley of their best-known hits for a farewell performance the same week. When film stars like Pat Boone arrive unexpectedly in the country, we drop a number so we can fit in an interview with them.

I think the stars like this sort of urgency. The Beatles came on the show expecting just to do a couple of numbers at the end of the programme.

But we’d had so many postcards from viewers – nearly 5,000 – that we decided to interview all four of them.

We also wanted Helen Shapiro to sing her number ‘Look Who It Is’ to each of them in turn. But when she ran through the song, it gave us a problem – there was only time for her to sing to three of the Beatles. Which one would we drop? In the end, it was Paul who stood down (with much grimacing and shouts of unfair). And as a consolation prize we gave him a spot on his own in which he picked the winner of the mime contest – who reckoned she was the luckiest girl in the studio that night.

The post Ready, Steady, Go! appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

These six happy faces (well, Lynda on the left maybe thought it looked more sophisticated not to smile) belong to the girls in the duplicating section at Television House.

They are the ones in the room on the first floor who push through batches of scripts, schedules, memos and other paper work for the whole building. Five Gestetners and one photographic machine help to turn out the work.

‘We use thousands of reams of paper every week,’ says Alma Darby (centre with spectacles) who is in charge of the section. ‘When there’s work to be done we all get cracking on it. We’re a jolly good team.’ Anyone who has seen them work together can tell that … and to watch them whiz around the table collating pages is quite an experience.

Proof that the girls all get on well together is the fact that in the six years she has been in charge, Mrs. Darby has lost only four girls from her staff: three of them got married and left to have babies, and one went to Canada to marry.

Mrs. Darby has been with Rediffusion for 11 years, from its beginning. She joined the duplicating section as an operator, on the recommendation of her daughter who was then a secretary with the company.

‘I’ll miss the place when I retire at Christmas,’ she says, ’but I’ll enjoy spending more time with my two little grand-daughters. ‘The nicest thing about Rediffusion is the friendliness and the freedom. If you’re conscientious and do your work, no one breathes down your neck.’

Life can move at a terrific pace, as happened on the night Churchill died.

‘Three of us worked on until nearly 2 a.m. getting out camera scripts for the funeral transmission,’ the girls recall.

Another long stint came on Election Day, when the section worked on the scripts for ITN; and there often have to be one or two girls in Room 135 on Bank Holidays.

Recent excitement has been caused in the section by the wedding of 22-year-old Anne Chappel (lower right), which was attended by all her colleagues. She gave up the maiden name of Joyce, but not her claim to be related to James Joyce: ‘He was my great-uncle, and my father lived with him for a while. He doesn’t talk about him much.’

Maureen Wood (third from left, above) is the daughter of Rediffusion security officer Albert Wood. Her great hobby is drawing, and she sketches and colours religious figures to be used by Frances Casemore (second from left, above) at Sunday School. Frances, aged 19, has been teaching at Elim Evangelistic Church, Thornton Heath, for two years. She is ‘mad about clothes’ and says she spends all her money on them. ‘I’m the only free one in the section – the others are all married, engaged or going steady,’ she says. ‘I don’t intend to change that yet.’ Lynda French, at 18 the baby of the section, is also keen on fashion – unusual shoes in particular. She keeps house at Thornton Heath for her 22-year-old brother.

Marion Crawley (top right) also lives at Thornton Heath and attends prayer meetings and Bible study classes at the same church as Frances. Until last year she belonged to the London Crusader Choir, of which Ronald Cooper in Rediffusion’s stationery department, is the organist. Now her time is taken up with her architect boyfriend, and she also spends free hours on her hobby of photography.

The post A collation of duplicators appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘I had to take some scripts and captions down to an OB unit’ says Paula Westbury. ‘I was sitting on the bus minding my own business when a mother and her daughter of about 18 behind me started talking about an article in that morning’s Daily Telegraph. It was about being a PA. “I think I’d rather like to be a PA – it sounds a nice job,” commented the girl. ‘No,” replied the mother immediately, “you don’t know what they did to get there”.’

Well, whatever they might do to get there, Fusion thought it might be interesting to find out some of the things which happen to them once they are there. This article by Julia Helps is based on a random series of interviews with the production assistants of Rediffusion Television.

Drawings by Maureen Roffey.

Scene: a continental nightclub after a hard day’s filming …

One member of the team quietly asks Marjorie Graham up to his room for champagne later that night – champagne which he has on ice in the bath. ‘He was showing off a little, so I decided to teach him a lesson by accepting.’ Later, as planned, she knocks at his bedroom door, clutching her toothmug. ‘He welcomed me. Then he saw the rest of the unit behind me, carrying their toothmugs. I must say, the champagne was excellent.’

Scene: Television House …

Marjorie is told she is going to Vatican City and that the team will probably meet the Pope. Cyril Bennett, then head of features, warns her to get a ‘Vatican Dress’. ‘I searched London for a dark, demure dress, and finally came up with the very thing,’ she recalls. ‘‘It was navy-blue cotton with a high neck and buttons down the front and it had a belt and long sleeves’ She returns to the features office wearing it and terribly pleased with herself. There is now no time to change it before leaving England. Faces fall. ‘Your Vatican dress,’ gasps Cyril, ‘it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.’

Scene: The American deep South …

Marjorie discovers that the State is dry. No liquor can be bought. The American unit insists that they have to have a drink,. The nearest place to get one is in the next State. A wealthy student who has attached himself to the unit helpfully offers to drive 200 miles in his Thunderbird to get some. Marjorie insists on going with him. They return some hours later with cases of whisky and beer. ‘The only reason I had gone was because I was sure he would forget the beer. I needed it to wash my hair.’

Scene: St Benedicts Abbey, Ealing …

Ruth Tester is told there are strict laws about exactly how far into the Abbey a woman can go. ‘They said punishment for the monks would be excommunication. I didn’t want to get all those kind monks excommunicated and I was so worried that I might overstep the mark. The crunch came, though, when I had to spend 6d to spend a penny. I had to take a 6d bus ride to Ealing Broadway.’

Scene: The South of France for ‘Riviera Police’ …

At the weekend part of the unit decides to go to a nearby island for a day’s water-skiing. ‘I went along for the ride,’ says non-swimmer Erika Klausner. ‘Seven of us piled into a little fibre-glass boat.’ Then the Mistral blows up. The boat starts shipping water badly. ‘Someone later said I looked a bit scared,’ says Erika. ‘A bit scared – I was nearly hysterical.’ Luckily they are near where H.M.S. Carisford is anchored on a goodwill visit. ‘They rescued four of us and fed us food and drinks in the wardroom – very much needed.’

Scene: Agadir for ‘Crane’ …

‘Another thing that happened to emphasise the point that salt water never brings me good luck,’ she continues, ‘took place in Agadir just after the earthquake.’ All are transferring from a small fibreglass boat (again) to a yacht. There is a moment when each is poised between both boats – rather like a minor Colossus of Rhodes. There is a swell and one larger wave than usual rolls along. ‘I lifted one foot from the little boat and put it down again – straight onto a rowlock. It went right through my foot.’ Erika is rushed to a clinic where nobody speaks English, though the doctor knows some French. Everyone smiles sweetly and carries her into the operating theatre. The doctor smiles again, picks up a needle and just sews up the gaping wound without an anaesthetic. ‘None of that stiff British reserve for me – I yelled the place down.’ Ruefully she adds: ‘The pay-off came when somebody said – not at all nastily – “and we’ve lost an afternoon’s filming”.’

Scene: Eastbourne …

‘The Story of John Logie Baird’ is being filmed. Somebody decides that a shot of seagulls swooping down is needed. Naturally no seagulls are to be seen. Vicki Miller is sent to buy some raw fish. ‘I sliced them up, then ran along the front, throwing bits of fish behind me. Hundreds of seagulls appeared. I had to run faster and faster until I was flat out, as the seagulls were really dive-bombing me. I don’t know when I’ve been so scared or when I have run so fast.’

Scene: The men’s Turkish baths in Jermyn Street for a live ‘ Here and Now’ …

‘Being a coward, I asked for a female vision mixer,’ says Nona Richards, ‘but I didn’t get one, so I was the only woman there. In a quiet moment, Geoffrey Hughes, director, leaps out of the scanner for a quick bath. ‘He left me in charge of his shirt.’ Tim Brinton, the commentator, is supposed to strip off and dive into the water at the end of his piece. All goes according to plan.

‘The shot that went out was fine – but you should have seen the pictures on the other cameras. It was incredibly funny.’

Scene: A ‘Here and Now’ from a dog sanctuary in Surrey …

Myra Hersh recalls: ‘Neither Daphne Shadwell, my director, or I had done an OB before. Our first problem was how to get into the scanner. Both of us were in tight skirts and high-heeled shoes. The one and only step was about two-foot high. The crew thought it was a great joke. Finally someone brought a box.’ Just before the recording, a terrific thunderstorm breaks. Both Myra and Daphne are terrified of thunder. ‘There we were, trying to do the programme and hide under something at the same time. It wasn’t our day.’

Scene: Canada for an Intertel …

Mary Horwood and researcher Stacey Waddy want to get back to the hotel to see the rushes of that day’s filming. It is the day of the East Coast power cut. They try buses, tubes, trams and even hitching. ‘We were so worried about being late for the rushes.’ They walk in pitch darkness through the lampless streets of Toronto. Finally they get to the hotel. ‘It hadn’t dawned on either of us during our frantic dashes that the power cut would stop the rushes being shown as well.’

The post It happened like this… appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘It happened, as most good topical TV features seem to happen now, on ITV’s “This Week”’ – Daily Mirror.

Fusion thought it might be interesting to learn just how these eulogies about a “This Week” item on Santo Domingo were earned. So here programme director PETER ROBINSON tells how bullets stopped him mowing his lawn.

Emotionally, at least, it all began with a satellite called Early Bird, a tune called, ‘Hey, Look Me Over’, ‘whooping’ red Indians, a New York restaurant where the waitresses didn’t wear too much, and my lawn at home in Epsom.

Early Bird was my reason for crossing the Atlantic on April 21 – to film and make technical arrangements for Rediffusion’s first programme via the satellite. It was called ‘Tonight in America’, and was transmitted on May 3, at 6.00 p.m., New York time, 11.00 p.m. in London.

‘Hey, Look Me Over’, was the title music for the show – a catchy, exhilarating tune, chosen by Cyril Bennett, the producer.

The ‘whooping’ red Indians were what we heard every time we cut to George Ffitch, on the steps of the Capitol in Washington during rehearsals – a totally inappropriate noise, funny at first, then more jarring and frightening as we came nearer and nearer to transmission time. We were connected soundwise to a Western being screened for early evening viewers! The American Broadcasting Company who provided the technical facilities did a swell job, including laying on the OB unit in Washington at 3.00 a.m. that morning, but things go wrong in the best regulated families. So we heard George’s voice only during transmission.

The restaurant with the sexy waitresses was where we went to celebrate the successful transmission of the programme in a great wash of relief and self-congratulation. It was also the place where Russell Spurr, Bryan Fitzjones and I were asked by Cyril Bennett, sober, whether we’d like to do a film piece on Santo Domingo for ‘This Week’- transmission May 13.

My lawn in Epsom was my conscience, and my therapy for the last two weeks’ work in Washington, Philadelphia and New York, the scenes of the Early Bird programme. That programme had also contained the latest news film from the Dominican Republic – a distant nebulous place, now looming large as my lawn receded.

Tuesday, May 4 – Russell took off for San Juan, Puerto Rico, the nearest airport to Santo Domingo to which the airlines now flew. I spent the day in New York buying suitable clothing for the location and trying to obtain a film crew from ABC. In the evening Russell phoned – San Juan was lovely, big hotels, swimming pools, beaches, palm trees, but Santo Domingo didn’t sound so good. Please purchase water bottles, tin plates, knife, fork, and spoon for the crew and ourselves.

Wednesday, May 5 – Bryan and I had a long conference with Jeremy Isaacs in London about the storyline and the plans for the location. Bryan was to stay in New York and do the dull and thankless job of maintaining contact with London and San Juan (whence we would send messages and exposed film), arranging interviews if necessary in Washington, and searching out historical library film. Then Jack Busch of ABC called to say that he had a crew. It had been difficult finding one – Morgan Smith (sound), Manny Longueira (camera assistant) and Ralph Mayher (cameraman).

Thursday, May 6 – at 6.30a.m. Russell and I met the crew at the naval air base at San Juan. As well as finding out the latest news from Santo Domingo and the conditions in the city, Russell had arranged with the US marines for a flight in one of their Navy Transport DC 4s. We met in a hangar together with three press men, one of whom was Roy Perrot of The Observer, and several members of the Organisation of American States, who were to travel with us. It was a self-conscious meeting. We were all tired, breakfastless and unshaven – none more so than Mayher, who had the beard as well as the stature and visage of one Fidel Castro. He wore an American field uniform and flashes on his shoulders labelled Vietnam. Apart from Russell and I none of us knew each other, or quite what we were in for. The marine colonel, Buffkins, informed us that we were going to a city where a ‘shooting war’ was going on, did we understand? Yes, we were beginning to. Here were our travel documents, which would entitle us to pass freely in the American security zone when we got there. They were important and should be carried at all times. On the one hour and 20 minute flight I tried to get acquainted with the crew, and to explain our methods of working. Ninety per cent of our shooting would be hand held, nothing would be set up or staged, and there wouldn’t be time for the usual pleasantries of light readings and sound levels. They understood. Mayher was used to it that way, Morgan Smith less so. We had three cameras, a 400-ft Auricon (for sound filming) with shoulder pod and a 100-ft Arriflex and a Bell and Howell for silent; also a small tape recorder for wild tracks. The two cameras not in current use must be kept loaded at all times, each film roll must be slated, and I would keep rough continuity sheets. ‘All righty.’ But had we got a script? No, we hadn’t got a script, but Russell would fill them in on the situation. From 1930 to 1961, the country had been ruled by the dictator, Rafael Trujillo, who, backed by the army and the big landowners, made millions for himself and his family. He was feared, hated and eventually assassinated. Chaos reigned and the rest of the Trujillo family were thrown out. A series of stop-gap governments followed, but in 1962 democratic elections were held for the first time in 30 years and Juan Bosch won a landslide victory. Bosch, a left of centre reformer, had been exiled for 25 years – now he was President. But the vested interests which prospered under Trujillo cried ‘communism’ – a military coup and Bosch was out, exiled again to Puerto Rico. A military junta took over and, in 1963 a motor car salesman, Donal Reid Cabral, backed by the army, and principally by General Wessin y Wessin became boss. On April 25, a group of younger officers, including Colonel Caamano, rebelled. They overthrew Reid Cabral and captured Santo Domingo, the capital. On the following day the Dominican air force under orders from Wessin y Wessin bombed the military barracks and the Presidential Palace. Several civilians were killed including a six-year-old child. This more than anything else probably accounts for the hatred that the Dominican people felt for Wessin y Wessin and his junta.

The biggest airlift since Berlin brought thousands of American airborne troops into the Dominican military base at San Isidro, and from there they linked up with the seaborne marines. Already there were more American service men in the Dominican Republic than in Vietnam. We had heard President Johnson in a television broadcast while we were in New York say: ‘We support no single man, or no single group of men in the Dominican Republic. Our goal is a simple one; we’re there to save the lives of our citizens, and to save the lives of our people. What began as a popular democratic revolution moved into the hands of a band of communist conspirators.’ However, the impression of the Dominican people and of the majority of the press was different. They felt that although the Americans had undoubtedly prevented a massacre they were patently siding with Wessin and the military junta against the ‘rebels’, or the ‘Constitutionalists’ as they call themselves.

The Americans had carved a military corridor which connected San Isidro airbase (where we were to land) with the Security zone around the new diplomatic quarter on the other side of Santo Domingo. This corridor cut straight through the rebel-held part of the city and the bulk of the rebel forces were penned into about two square miles of the business quarter. Already about a thousand soldiers and civilians had been killed and another thousand wounded.

When we landed at San Isidro the evidence of what Russell had said began to confront us – planes of every type; hundreds of American troops on foot and in jeeps and many others, just flown in, dossed down in the nearby hangars. We decided to try to reach the El Embajador Hotel, about 15 miles away on the other side of Santo Domingo, where we were to be accommodated with the rest of the press and television, as soon as possible. We spoke to a young US lieutenant … there would be no transport for at least two hours … OK, we’d start filming here … how about some food and a jeep in which to get round the airbase? Grab what you can – we did.

The bus to take us to the hotel was a beat-up old vehicle with all the outward appearances of a colander – it had been shot up two days before. As we moved off, Ralph saw an American pick-up, and confirmed that it was going to the hotel, jumped into the open tray in the back and filmed all the way into and through the city. The scenes were fantastic, soldiers everywhere, every kind of equipment from artillery to field hospitals, and then more troops and the occasional tank or armoured car on the shanty town street corners … the poor Dominicans trying to lead some sort of day-to-day existence, and children playing with the spent shells of yesterday’s sniping. At the hotel, the scene was equally bizarre. Surrounded by soldiers and guns, refugees, with their children and odd belongings, shacked down on the patio and in the central lobby. We went to the reception desk … there were no rooms. On to the military press office just down the corridor. We explained who we were. Yes, we could have one room for the five of us and our equipment … they would try to find others. They needn’t have bothered, Russell was in his element. Familiar faces appeared everywhere, old press friends from Korea, Vietnam, Malaysia … he’d been around the trouble spots of the world. Within half an hour he’d got promises of four more rooms by nightfall … requisitioned half a hundredweight of American ‘C’ rations and, since everyone else was drinking the hotel swimming pool, six Coca Colas – there’d be more later. As well as being an admirable quartermaster, Russell had also made his contacts to get filled in on the story on the ground. He set off into the city, and the crew and I filmed scenes in and around the hotel, ending with a military press briefing, one portion of which sounded ominous: ‘This morning at approximately 10.30 Al Burke and Doug Kennedy of the Miami Herald were wounded when they were caught in the cross fire between a US and rebel outpost. They were returning to the US line from the rebel-held section of the city when the rebels commenced firing … I want to say that all members of the American press here have repeatedly risked their lives in an effort to report fully to the people of the world all facets of the political and military situation. The tragic and unfortunate wounding of these two men should point out to everyone in the world who listens to a radio, reads a newspaper, or watches television, of the outstanding job that you courageous people are doing.’

That evening, we sat in a bedroom in the semi-darkness – the electricity flickered on and off – canning up the day’s exposed film, writing continuity sheets and deciding what to do next day. Russell had made several contacts, including one in the rebel sector, who had agreed to take us to Caamano, the rebel leader. The crew did not show immediate joy at the prospect of this. What safeguards did we have? What about the two press men who’d been shot that morning? True, but many others hadn’t been shot. First we must get a car, and write ‘press’ all over it in large letters, then, when we’d got to the rebel zone, we’d drive very slowly, five miles an hour, to the place where we were to meet our contact. Once with him we’d be OK. The crew were happier, but still sceptical. Two would go, one was doubtful. OK, sleep on it. We arranged with one of the taxi-drivers outside the hotel for a fat price to have him and his car for the next three or four days.

Friday, May 7 – we met William, our driver, at 7.00 a.m. – all of us. He drove us to the edge of the rebel sector, explained how to get to our destination, got out and suggested that we drove ourselves from now on. Russell drove, we smiled and waved out of the windows at the suspicious looking civilians and scrappily uniformed rebels standing about in doorways and at street corners. After five minutes we were lost. We decided to stop, and I got out and spoke to a rebel holding an old carbine. He looked no more ferocious than any of the others we’d passed, but he never actually took his finger off the trigger. After a short conversation in pidgin-Spanish, many protestations that we were Inglese and not bloody Yankees, he ordered two youths to come with us and show us the way. Beside the building which was our rendezvous, the two boys pointed proudly to an American jeep which had been captured the day before. The three Americans who had been in it were now prisoners, they said. We were shown up and met Russell’s contact, who thankfully spoke English. After much palaver and explanation that we were from English Television and wished to present both sides of this unhappy story equally fairly, it was agreed that we should see Caamano in the afternoon. The fact that the three members of the crew were obviously not Inglese (although Ralph had now shed his conspicuous field uniform which we had persuaded him would be a sure target for every rebel rifle) proved something of a drawback to begin with. However, once it was understood that they were merely a technical crew working for English Television, all was well. We were welcomed warmly and asked what we would like to film during the remainder of the morning. First we would like to look around the rebel sector, film whatever scenes seemed interesting, and interview our English speaking contact.

The poverty of the place at the best of times was obvious and shameful. Add to that days of accumulated rubbish piled high in the middle of every street … a grotesque charred body lying on a pavement (they couldn’t bury all the dead) … battle-scarred buildings … shot-up or burnt-out vehicles standing about like so many deserted waifs … children of 14 carrying rifles (the new-found symbols of their manhood) … starving dogs and sounds of intermittent gunfire … and you have a Caribbean city under revolution. We turned a corner near the sea-front. A hail of shots surrounded us. Our contact, Hugo, was first out of the car and into a nearby building … we followed. We were greeted by our hosts with peels of laughter … there must have been a funny side to it … and, as we were soon to find out, the population had become so used to gunfire that they no longer considered it worthy of much excitement. Several times we poked our heads out of the door in an effort to see who was shooting at whom, but without much success. We decided the situation was too good to miss, and after finding a way out of the back of the building, we clambered over a wall and into a street running at right angles to the one where the firing was going on. We were protected by the buildings on our left and could see the bullets striking another building with a Red Cross flag on it about 20-30 yards away. The marines, it appeared, were firing at some rebels in the building and one had already been shot in the stomach. I decided that this was the time and place for Russell to interview Hugo. The result was unusual – Russell and Hugo in the foreground, Hugo protesting violently that he and the other rebels were not communists but Constitutionalists who only wanted free elections and a return to democratic government. In the background there were American bullets hitting the Red Cross building, and on the corner, just behind Russell and Hugo, a little cluster of rebels firing back. Every now and again another rebel would run across the street to join them, and across the way, one over-exuberant Dominican was carrying on a private war running backwards and forwards firing from behind a tree. The interview continued for about eight minutes, including two magazine changes, and then Russell also did a camera statement crouched down on the pavement beside the rebels.

In the afternoon we went to see Caamano. We had to pass six guards on the way into the dingy headquarters, and were frisked twice. We had a drink, some dreadful pink liquid, tried to collect our senses, and filmed a few minutes of the shambolic press conference which was going on. Eventually, when it had ended, we got our interview with the rebel leader – an extraordinary interview punctuated by the personal interpolations of his Minister for State, who was also acting as Caamano’s interpreter.

News travels fast in situations like this, and that night at the hotel there was much envious rumour and gossip of our scoop of an interview with a rebel under fire that morning. We were all delighted, and felt that while we had been lucky, we had got it because we had gone it alone, rather than filming with the main pack of camera crews who stayed together most of the time. The crew were as delighted as we were, but felt that we’d pressed our luck far enough. Russell and I agreed that we seemed to have covered the rebel zone and that there should be no need to return.

Saturday, May 8 – Manny, the camera assistant, went down with ‘gyppy tummy’. Russell went off to arrange interviews with the American Ambassador and the head of the local Peace Corps. I took Ralph and Morgan filming along the corridor and in the security zone – Junta troops, US marines and strongposts, military convoys, checkpoints, a mobile Red Cross unit. On the way back Ralph sat on the bonnet of the car hand-holding the Auricon, for a 10-minute tracking shot through the centre of the town.

We met Russell at the American Embassy. The Ambassador was unfortunately engaged. OK, we’d do the Peace Force. Robert Satin, the local head, had set up his HQ at a school two miles away. He’d be delighted to talk to us, but some other time. He was on his way to the rebel zone to relieve three captured American service men. Could we go, we asked? Yes, but only three could fit in the car. It was decided that Russell, Ralph and myself would go, taking Morgan Smith’s sound gear and leaving him to guard the remaining equipment with the driver. Satin, a romantic Pimpernel figure in a large Spanish straw hat and yellow cape to make him easily distinguishable, was the only man in Santo Domingo whom both sides trusted, and who could, therefore, undertake a mission of this kind. An American himself, it would be fair to say that he was not entirely uncritical of the American position in Santo Domingo. We were soon with the rebels, but not until our papers had been checked and our purpose explained would they lead us to the prisoners. On the way, as we walked through one of the rebel-held streets, one of the leaders tried to explain the rebel cause to Russell in Spanish. Satin interpreted, and we filmed as we went. The rebels here were so courteous and obviously sincere that one could not feel other than sympathetic towards them. Perhaps my early West Indian upbringing – I lived in Trinidad till I was 14 – made for a certain affinity.

The three prisoners, two petty officers and one private would say little to us, understandably. They gave us their names and confirmed that they had been well treated. The atmosphere between them and their captors was friendly, and one of the rebels complained that the only trouble they’d had was that the little fat petty officer ate too much. We stayed there at Cuccaraca 20, the name of the rebel headquarters, for about three hours, while they tried vainly to contact their main headquarters for permission to release the prisoners to Satin. The lines were blocked, no communication was possible. We suggested sending a runner, it was only two miles away. That would mean their man crossing the security zone, a risk they were not prepared to take. Could we do it for them? ‘No’, they said, it was too risky, and it was getting dark. We should really return to the security zone at once. The prisoners would have to wait for their release until the next day. As we were filming a final camera statement outside Cuccaraca 20, a rebel arrived to say that a junta 50mm machine gun was trained on the street where we were, and that a large number of rebels were ready to return fire from a building just across the street … we really should go. We did, but after 20 minutes’ driving we still could not get out of the rebel zone, barred everywhere by road blocks. Eventually we came full circle, and the members of Cuccaraca 20 undid a road block to let us out. That really was our last visit to the rebel zone, but not the end of the excitement for the day. As we neared the American Embassy, we ran into some sniping, which caused Satin to take to a side street. At the Embassy, American troops were active, kneeling behind trees, and taking up positions of advantage. It seemed mild compared to the events of the last two days. I sat on the Embassy steps investigating a blistered toe. A medical orderly insisted on disinfecting and bandaging it. The humour of the situation did not strike him.

That night, Russell and I took stock of what we had, and decided that next day he would film the re-arranged interview with the American Ambassador, and an opening camera statement on the border between the security zone and the rebel zone. I would catch the morning plane to San Juan and thence home to London to help identify and assemble the film. Russell would catch the evening plane, film an interview with Juan Busch, the ex-president, in Puerto Rico and then follow on to London too.

Sunday, May 9 – I missed my plane, the arrangements for transportation to the airport had been changed. When Russell returned to the hotel, having completed his filming, not without further incident (during his camera statement firing had again broken out, but he’d completed it nonetheless, and so filmed what must be the most unusual camera statement on record) we agreed that we would all take the evening plane. Back in our luxurious hotel in San Juan that evening, a bath, clean clothes, and a good meal at last in the penthouse restaurant from which there is a view of the whole city.

Monday, May 10 – 7.00a.m. call. ‘Breakfast is nerved by the swimming pool.’ What am I going back to London for?

3.00 p.m. – ABC New York – where all the in negative film was processed before shipment to London – ‘It’s good quality, you’ve got a humdinger’.

6.00 p.m. – a drink and a chat with Bryan FitzJones. ‘New York’s been in the nineties, Jeremy wants me to stay here till tomorrow. I’ve booked your flight, a BOAC VC 10, take off Kennedy Airport 9.30 tonight.’

Tuesday, May 11 – 9.45 a.m. – landed London Airport. I still had a wife – or perhaps she still had a husband.

11.00 a.m. – back at the mill (TVH) … rushes at 3.00, everyone delighted, but feel flat.

Wednesday, May 12 – more rushes – rough cut – script conference – rough cut. Jeremy and I left Peter Mills and Roy Jordan, the editors, to it at 3.00 a.m. on Thursday – transmission day. They worked all night.

Thursday, May 13 – 8.00 a.m. See another rough cut. Russell back … discussion … another cut … Jeremy asks Cyril Bennett for an extra five minutes on the running time … OK, 31′ 30″ it is. Finalise picture, Russell writing commentary … recording commentary … laying tracks … dubbing … Freddie Slade has to do it without rehearsal, take first time. Somehow the him gets on the air with five seconds to spare. Thirty-one minutes later we’re on the Hollywood Crawl – roller caption in American jargon – and that’s where it all began.

Saturday, May 15: I still have a lawn – I’m mowing it – a friend calls. ‘How’s the telly?’

‘Fine.’

‘What are you working on?’

‘This Week.’

‘That’s on a Thursday, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you do the rest of the week?’

The post Bullets stopped him mowing lawn appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

We have a fine group of world-wide businesses and in the specialised fields in which we work we are in the forefront of technological development. We have made a notable contribution to the improvement of living standards and a significant reduction in the cost of civilised amenities. We have benefited our own country by a sustained export effort and other countries by providing the capital investment and technical expertise to give them benefits they could not otherwise have. Given freedom and encouragement, we have further markets to explore, both at home and abroad.

But how can Britain attack new markets if saving and productive effort are penalised and tax-gathering becomes virtually a major industry? The Government’s use of taxation as an instrument of social policy cannot be counted a success if groups like ours suffer from a tax burden which penalises effort and stultifies initiative. The tax structure must be simplified, for its understanding engages far more of the time of the best brains in British industry than the country can afford.

Recognition that the distribution of broadcast programmes by wire is a social necessity and an economy is increasing.

The areas where reception of BBC 2 is poor or nil are much more extensive than had been expected. This could lead to hitherto unexpected limits on the number of future television programmes that can be broadcast over the air. The use of wire, instead of aerial transmitters, to bring programmes to towns would not only solve the technical problem, but could produce immense savings if Rediffusion’s highly economical techniques were used.

The Rediffusion community service which makes the benefits of wired reception available to whole communities, on a bulk basis and on bulk terms, has made great strides. We have contracts with the Development Corporations of seven of the new towns, and with numerous local authorities, and many more projects are under negotiation.

In the present service areas of the BBC 2 television programme, which uses the new 625-line standard, the proportion of Rediffusion wired television subscribers who can receive it is many times the national average. This is partly due to the more reliable reception we give, and also the fact that most Rediffusion single-standard receivers for reception by wire (unlike the majority of aerial sets) can be converted at small cost for dual standard reception.

Our wired networks are ready for the expected transmission of colour television programmes.

It is a pity that wired systems, with their inherent advantages, are not allowed to compete freely in the open market. The Government cannot prevent the private listener from illegally receiving the ‘pirate’ radio stations, but they can and do enforce the prohibition against relay companies. If we were not subject to this discrimination, our service would be even more popular than it is.

The previous Government decided that when our present licences became terminable at the end of 1967, we would be given new licences for a period of 12 years. We did not think 12 years for the new licence, or even the 15-year term of the present licence, was good enough. We have been ready for a long time to discuss with the Post Office the details of the renewed licence, but the Post Office are not yet ready to discuss them with us. Meanwhile, our entire relay business is theoretically liable to be closed down on two years’ notice – a highly unrealistic situation.

In television set rental and sales we continue to make excellent progress. The increase in the number of our hirers last year was most satisfactory, and considerably higher than the previous year. Considering the number of competitors and the difficulties some expanding rental firms have experienced, and considering too that our policy is to connect any make of set to our wired service, this progress speaks well for the quality of our product and our service.

The installation and maintenance of closed circuit television installations for local education and other purposes is a growing business in which Rediffusion’s experience is exceptionally useful, particularly where an extensive network is required. The development of this side of the business is undertaken by a central company, Rediffusion Industrial Services Limited, jointly with our regional operating companies throughout the country.

Reditune Limited, our background music service company, is improving its results and further progress has been made in operations overseas, which now cover 41 territories.

Redifon Limited has received the Queen’s Award to Industry for the export achievement of its Flight Simulator Division. Sixty-six per cent of the output of the division, and 54 per cent of Redifon’s total output, were exported.

Redifon’s share of the work on the first stage of the research simulator for the Anglo-French Concord [span class=”ed”>[sic] supersonic aircraft has been completed and the simulator is now installed at Sud Aviation at Toulouse. This simulator is being used for early prototype flight testing and for finalising the design of the cockpit layout.

The communications division of Redifon has supplied marine equipment, oil rig installations and land communication equipment to 60 overseas countries, as well as to United Kingdom customers. It has had a major success with its military transmitter-receiver pack-sets.

Redifon-Astrodata Limited, which is 70 per cent owned by Redifon Limited and 30 per cent by Astrodata Incorporated of California, has started to manufacture a new line of analogue-hybrid computers that are used in solving technical problems involving dynamic solution of differential equations, and for on-line process control functions in industry. Redifon-Astrodata now has a contract for a major computer installation for the Shell company at Amsterdam.

Redifon’s two subsidiaries in the plastics field, Rediweld Limited and Glass Fibre Developments Limited, have been operationally combined and have had a better year. Bigorders have been received for equipment for the Laney system of effluent treatment, which is made under licence.

Redifon (Canada) 1964 Limited has acquired the assets of a small Canadian manufacturing unit, Benco Television Associates, near Toronto and this should assist Redifon’s export activities to Canada and the United States.

Most of the television receivers sold and rented by the group are produced in our own factories. Demand has kept our factories fully employed and we have extended our productive capacity. Eight thousand receivers manufactured by us were exported to Hong Kong during the year, a considerable increase upon the previous year. Sets designed for use on Rediffusion wired networks are considerably simpler and much cheaper than comparable sets designed for aerial reception. This is the reason why the Rediffusion community service, already referred to, can provide the benefits of perfect reception of television and sound programmes by wire, where every house in the district is connected to the service, at less cost than direct reception of television only over the air. Our latest 19-inch ‘Dover’ television set was selected by the Council of Industrial Design for display in the Design Centres in London and Glasgow.

Rediffusion International Limited, the London-based company which has launched many of our now autonomous overseas enterprises, is contributing to the British export drive by representing overseas broadcasting stations, within and outside the group, to United Kingdom exporters. The company is the London agent for the sale of advertising air-time on those stations, which it provides with some of their technical services and programmes, and with marketing and sales promotion facilities which have been found very useful indeed by the newer stations. Once again, the most successful of our operations in the Far East has been our unique television service in Hong Kong. This provides two programmes, one in Chinese and one in English to the 57,000 subscribers (estimated audience over 400,000) to our vast wired network. All our wired network operations in Malaysia, except the small new network in Opoh, had a difficult year with the competition from state-owned commercial radio and television continuing, and with high operating costs.

Our company in Ceylon has added modestly to its number of subscribers and to its profitability, which in difficult circumstances is very satisfactory.

The Malta Television Service continues to attract attention as a model of what a small television service should be. It is in competition with the apparently unlimited resources of the Italian Television Service, whose transmissions are quite well received in the islands. Our wired sound broadcasting network in Malta and Gozo continues to hold its own, notwithstanding the competition from our own television service.

Our broadcasting companies in the West Indies and Guyana continue to prosper and to be well regarded, not merely for the good entertainment but also for the large amount of public service broadcasting they provide.

In Barbados, where we originate a sound programme which is broadcast by wire to approximately half the homes in the island, our service continues to hold its subscribers.

Our sound radio broadcasting company in Trinidad and Tobago (Trinidad Broadcasting Company Limited) does well in competition with the television service in which we are one of the two major partners. Our associated television company, the Trinidad and Tobago Television Company Limited with an impressive percentage of programmes produced or filmed locally, has competition from the Government-owned commercial radio and television services, yet it enjoys 75 per cent of the radio audience.

In newly independent Guyana, our broadcasting company, now named Guyana Broadcasting Company Limited, has recovered from the slump caused by the political uncertainty of the past. Guyana has immense potential wealth which is only now being developed, and has a great future.

The Leeward Islands Television Service in Antigua, in which we are partners with the Government, the Bermuda Broadcasting Company, Columbia Broadcasting System of America and local shareholders, is one of the smallest television operations in the world.

Radio Caribbean Limited, our sound radio broadcasting subsidiary in the Windward Islands, in which we are majority shareholders, at present broadcasts mainly in French to the French West Indies, but we are strengthening the station’s English programme.

We have a minority interest in the Bermuda Broadcasting Company Limited. In spite of competition from rival radio and television stations, that company continues to produce satisfactory results in a market limited to a resident population of 50,000 plus a large number of tourists and visitors.

The quality of the sound and television broadcasting services established by Rediffusion in Liberia, on behalf of the Liberian Government has been widely praised. It is recognised as the outstanding small-station broadcasting service in Africa.

Rediffusion Liberia Limited, which provides the management services for the Broadcasting Corporation and also operates a television set rental sale and maintenance service, is now making – in only its third year – a modest profit.

Our company in Nigeria, which relays the sound programmes of the Nigerian Broadcasting Corporation in the Western Region and in the Federal District of Lagos, has suffered from the violent political disturbances affecting these areas. Between mid-October, 1965, and mid-January, 1966, when the Army seized power, there was a total breakdown of law and order. This resulted in widespread disconnections and loss of revenue. We are confident, however, that given a reasonable degree of political stability, future prospects in Nigeria are good.

The Government of South Africa, having completed its FM radio network which provides programmes in several dialects for the Bantu population, has decided not to renew the licence for our wired relay operation in Orlando, near Johannesburg, which expired on June 4 this year, but by arrangement, we are carrying on the operation for another eight months from that date.

In the United States and Canada community antenna television (‘CATV’) has grown immensely in popularity because it has been able to relay distant stations as well as those that are receivable locally. However, new legislation in the United States is likely to restrict the CATV operator’s earning power considerably and Rediffusion’s very economical system of wired distribution deserves attention by those Americans who are still eagerly entering the expanding CATV field.

In Canada we have profitable CATV networks, at Sherbrooke, Quebec and at Jamestown, Ontario, and a profitable music-by-wire franchise for the province of Quebec.

In many countries where we operate we rent and sell (for cash and on hire purchase) television sets, if there is a local television service. This side of our overseas business is increasingly adding to profits.

Our planning in Rediffusion is always for the long term, as I have already said in relation to our need for a long-term licence. We could materially improve our immediate financial results, at the expense of our future, by standing still. The more important role that wired distribution of broadcasting may have to play in the future, and the greater interest in television that may come with the advent of programmes in colour, encourage us to look to the future. Already, however, some of our ideas are ahead of our time. We aim to provide better service at lower cost, but the competition we face is immense. We therefore encourage our research teams to prepare for the future, and our managers and engineers to keep their feet on the ground, by confining expenditure to projects which should have relatively early commercial success. Even this is an act of faith, expensive in capital, and it is hard to bear the further discouragement of really grievous taxation.

So much for the problems and developments associated with Rediffusion Limited. Quite a different set are involved when John Spencer Wills puts on his other hat as chairman of the British Electric Traction Company Limited. Within the group there are transport undertakings, laundries, bowling centres and a plant hire subsidiary. The transport undertakings in this country include such bus companies as Southdown, Aidershot and District, Midland Red, East Kent, Devon General, South Wales, and East Trent. About them he said:

No less than 14 per cent has been added to operating costs recently to implement the recommendations on wages and conditions made by the Committee of Inquiry under the chairmanship of Sir Roy Wilson. Attempts to make more use of one-man buses and to effect other economics have met with union unwillingness. In addition, operating costs, and consequently fares, have been artificially inflated by the heavy duty on fuel oil. Further, the industry’s burden of taxation has been increased by the withdrawal of the 30 per cent investment allowance for new buses and coaches.

Manufacturing industries, including the producers of relatively inessential goods, and the extractive industries will in future receive cash investment grants. But no service industries, not even those providing services which are basic necessities, as, for example, transport, will receive these grants. Such blind discrimination which favours all manufacturers and penalises service industries, regardless of the value of their respective contributions to our economy, is astonishing.

We should doubtless be grateful that the bus industry has been spared from the full effect of the forthcoming selective employment tax. Operators will still have to pay the tax, but it will be refunded to them quarterly, so we shall be obliged to ‘lend’ money to the Government free of interest. That does not trouble me as much, however, as the dangers that the subsidy of 7s. 6d. a man to be handed to manufacturers out of the proceeds of this new tax, may prove a disincentive to some of them to install labour-saving plant and machinery and so to release manpower for essential service industries, such as the bus industry, which are suffering from an acute shortage of labour.

Turning to our overseas transport interests, Canadian Motorways has suffered from a prolonged strike of haulage workers in the Province of Ontario, following the union’s refusal to accept a labour arbitration award. The strike, which began in January this year, closed down all the major trucking companies in Ontario, including one of Canadian Motorways’ chief subsidiaries, and lasted for 15 weeks.

Last year was a good year for Jamaica Omnibus Services. The mileage run and the number of passengers carried by the fleet of more than 300 vehicles showed substantial increases.

The road transport undertaking in Africa managed by our partners, United Transport Company of Chepstow, continues to prosper. Through our subsidiary company, B.E.T. Omnibus Services, we have a 41 per cent equity interest in United Transport Overseas, the holding company for these passenger road transport and freight undertakings.

It will be in the interests of all concerned when present antagonisms between Rhodesia and Zambia are moderated, and certainly there are problems, both economic and political, calling for solution in other African countries. It would, however, be incorrect to assume from reports in the press of happenings in widely-spread territories that there exists a state of general turmoil throughout the countries in which we operate. The excellent progress made in recent years by the African companies could hardly have been achieved had this been so.

The arrangements under which the Malawi Government has a financial interest in our transport operations there, and the municipality of Dar-es-Salaam a stake in our Tanzanian operations, are working well. More recently, the municipality of Nairobi has taken a substantial minority interest in our operations in and around Nairobi.

A new development during the year has been an extension of the African group’s touring activities into Ethiopia by the formation of a company there in partnership with a world airline.

An entry has also been made into road transport in Australia, where the growing economy should offer prospects for the carriage of freight by road.

A further expansion of business has been achieved by our subsidiary, Advance Laundries. Practically the whole of the increase came from the commercial services – Towelmaster, linen and garment hire, office cleaning and hotel laundering, which together account for the major part of the Advance Group’s work. On the domestic laundry and dry cleaning side, a major reorganisation of service is in progress in the Greater London area, following the acquisition of the Tip-Top group of dry cleaning companies.

Advance Laundries invests large sums in new plant to increase efficiency. To give an example, research into automation by a research company in which the group has a half interest, will shortly result in the installation by Advance Laundries of one of the first production models of a continuous washing machine which will process cabinet towels at the rate of 1,200 feet a minute.

One of the principal aims of the new selective employment tax is to encourage a more effective distribution of the nation’s labour force. But to impose a heavy pay roll tax on an industry that relies largely on part-time female labour – which would not be likely to interest, or be available to, the ‘favoured’ manufacturing industries – is totally illogical. In addition to the Magnet Bowling centres at Barnsley, Cambridge and Bristol, three further centres have been opened this year at Peterborough, Poole and Darlington. Two more are under construction.

In common with the rest of the contractors’ plant hire industry, the subsidiary, Eddison Plant, was affected by the Government’s policy of reducing grants for road maintenance, and of deferring, as from July, 1965, major building and road construction.

The company now operates over 1,000 road rollers of different types as well as a wide range of other kinds of contractors’ plant. The materials handling division has a fleet of over 500 fork lift trucks with a wide range of lifting capacities. The scaffolding division successfully completed its first full year at Nottingham and these operations have been extended to a depot at Leicester.

The company now has 21 depots covering England, Scotland and Wales, and further depots are being considered to give even better local and national coverage.

All of which shows the wide range of activities covered by the Rediffusion and B.E.T. groups. Whether the individual companies are concerned with producing television programmes or providing the means to receive them, whether they are bus companies or laundries, there are two key words which sum up practically the entire operation – public service.

The post Public service round the world appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

With shouts of ‘Have a nice holiday – enjoy yourselves’ ringing in our ears, eight members of a unit of nine gathered at London airport. Needless to say the non-arrival was H. [Hughie – Ed] Green, who seems to have a special clause in his contract that guarantees late arrival.

With collective suggestions from the unit ranging from ‘we can always post sync’ and ‘we can do the reverses in Lincoln’s Inn Fields’ the unit passed through the appropriate gate on its way to the aircraft. H. Green arrived eventually at the airport and, with Ken Wyatt as a ministering angel, was rushed through the booking-in formalities and arrived breathless but unabashed, to be greeted with various coarse comments by the unit. Perhaps with Berlin in mind and the possibility that BOAC might be talked into letting Green into the sharp end of the aircraft, there was an immediate rush to the insurance counter.

During our journey to India, the unit were given a long ‘multi-coloured’ iced cake suitably inscribed ‘Double Your Money’ and garnished with £ signs. Not knowing where to put the cake, and not wishing to be told, it was decided to let the steward cut it up and distribute it to all the passengers on the aircraft. In this way, we disposed of the cake and ensured that any noxious contents planted in this delicacy by critics of the programme got a good distribution. This, of course, is known as audience participation.

Another thing that came to light on this trip was an aversion that Hughie Green has to people sleeping on aircraft. If any member of the unit managed to drop off, this sufferer from insomnia would shake them and enrol them into his club. If you tried to persist in sleeping, not only were you woken up again, but you were sat next to, and engaged in conversation.

Fourteen hours later, the unit arrived in New Delhi, and was conducted to a large baroque edifice which was the hotel. Armies of porters descended on the luggage and under the maternal supervision of our unit manager, the fracas was stopped from being a riot and transformed to the comparative quiet of say, the ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ studio. But, dear reader, the weekend didn’t begin here, it ended in calamity when, on ordering beer (purely on medical grounds, of course, as the water is suspect) a gaily ‘turbaned’ gentleman giving an impression of Peter Sellers said: ‘Very sorry, dry day, no drink.’ Even H.G. was speechless.

Other memories of the trip after this great shock are rather confused, but some of course do still stick in the mind.

There were the strange antics of director and quiz master in front of the Taj Mahal which confused a large percentage of the local population when the first contestant failed his first question after being brought all the way from London.

It was with little regret that eight members boarded their plane to leave India, even though they were wondering what the next contestant would be like and whether their own personal stomach upsets would be settled by New Zealand.

We would like to point out that after our arrival in North Island, N.Z., the fact that it rained and floods covered most of the island had nothing whatsoever to do with our new contestant coming from Manchester. We would also like to point out that the national disaster referred to by the Prime Minister during our stay was these self-same floods, and had nothing to do with the programme or the unit.

A rather odd incident concerned the kangaroo that appeared in the show in Australia. It was quite definitely male, but was confused by being named Mabel. Still, that’s show business.

Other events included buying tailored shoes in Hong Kong. There were four fittings and still they were completed in less than 24 hours. There was the rudeness and slowness of the American customs at Honolulu and the rain that fell in Antigua against all local knowledge but which was attributed by the unit to our contestant. There was Green turning blue during the filming at Niagara where the temperature was 18 degrees Fahrenheit while two days previously we had been filming in a temperature of 88 degrees Fahrenheit.

These and many others were memorable incidents but the facts are that the unit flew 39,500 miles, filmed in five countries and recorded in Canadian and Australian studios three one-hour tapes in 28 days.

The post Around the world in 28 days appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

There was an almost universal belief around at a point in time that will seem to historians of the future like some Stones-in-the-head Age, say ten years ago from now, that selling time on television was a simple, impossible job. The simplicity belief sprang from the popular conviction that selling in this context was all a matter of being a rather nice chap and a rather nice sort of chap, a bit polished around the elbows from leaning on bar counters but none the worse for that generally, a decent set of golf clubs and a thick skin. Impossible because the cost of television advertising was quite clearly (we all agreed, buyer and seller alike) just a tiny bit expensive considering that there were really no viewers, not even many sets to view on, from or at.

All quite clean and tidy, a normal British sort of situation bound to come out all right in the end because eventually the real truths begin to become clear to more than a very few. Take the sales executive first whom we all hope is still, under our revised and increasingly enlightened attitude, a rather nice chap because that is someone we would prefer to have around anyway and so presumably would the people with whom we do business. But if he has no brain, cannot think fast on his feet, understand the fundamentals of at least 10 major consumer industries and a lot more besides, he is not for us.

For the fact is that the obvious success of television as an advertising medium in the intervening years has paradoxically created more problems for the selling of it than have been solved. Alongside this, and springing in my view from the existence and growth of television, has been the essential requirement from industry to make more efficient their selling communication with the customer. Success, then, has created its own critical searchlight under which justifications in minutest areas of communication science are required to be as polished and susceptible to keen examination as no other medium. (Indeed I sometimes wonder if other media are thought to be in the same business.)

‘Efficiency’ appears in everyone’s speech/article/election address these days and is the one word over which no one is going to argue. The advent of television suddenly made the importance of this whole cost of communication the subject of detailed rethink. Television was communicating, it was costed at a certain figure, but how much was it worth?

So time selling became more than having a rate card and the last rating trends in your pocket. Industry and their advertising agencies required a lot more information and were prepared in many cases to go out and get it. We had to know that too and a bit more as well about our own medium that would give us an edge if we could find one. Now of course it is a buyers’ market as well, which most people accept as being a healthier situation for both sides.

The first essential to sell any television time is to have the audience watching your channel. Size by itself is not all that important in the final analysis and it is certainly true for example that in London, that most fickle (or discriminating, depending on how you look at it) audience is more difficult to please than in some other areas where regularly high ITV ratings are obtained. The attractiveness of our programme schedule in all its different facets is, therefore, fundamental to our business. At this point most of those who are not concerned with the sales operation would limit their awareness of what else happens to the existence of commercials on the screen.

We transmit approximately 25,000 commercials a year which come from 160 clients and they cover the whole range of consumer industries. Each of these industries is within itself a highly competitive assortment of marketing companies manufacturing products which are sold under retail conditions which are themselves increasing in efficiency and competitiveness year by year. It is absolutely clear that advertising by itself, even television advertising, will not sell a product that is not going to fulfil a need for the buyer and is not presented in a bright and attractive way and at a competitive price. If you can date in your mind the beginning of the revolution in retailing, packaging and product development that has taken place over the past few years you will find that it coincides pretty clearly with the first real impact of Independent Television 10 years ago. So the manufacturer must be improving his sales efficiency all the time and under that heading come the three vital ingredients of product, price and packaging, followed by good distribution, then comes television. If the first three ingredients are right television can help immensely with distribution. When distribution is achieved television’s impact with the audience will create that awareness of the product which is the final link. All very simple, but what are the qualities then needed for a time salesman? In the first instance he is fighting against other media, selling at what are thought to be fairly high rates and working in a system of audience measurement that measures the audience minute by minute throughout transmission hours whereas newspapers and magazines, if they bother at all, take a six month audit of their sales of copies (not people reading, not people actually seeing the advertisements on the pages, just copies sold). The television man must also know what the manufacturer is trying to achieve, to whom he is hoping to sell his product, e g. housewives, men, young mothers, everyone, etc. because our audience changes in character hour by hour. He must have an awareness of how a manufacturer’s particular product stands in the total market, whether he is the brand leader or number five in the market and whether the market itself is changing month by month, because this in itself can generate revenue for the programme company because the keener the competition the more chance there is for advertising activity to follow. He must have arguments to advance in favour of media advertising to the public rather than expenditure on premium offers, competitions, all those activities generally called below-the-line expenditure. They have a part to play in marketing but too much emphasis on these will detract from revenue to media as a whole and therefore us in particular.

He must in short be a marketing man and be in a position to talk to the manufacturer and to his agency in terms which they use and have the same ambition for their advertising as they have to make it more effective all the time.

A lot of television time will sell itself; that is in the nature of anything which is inherently the best. The importance to this company and to all others is to make sure that we obtain the top 30 per cent or 40 per cent of our business because this has to be fought for and makes all the difference to the company in terms of profitability. It is the sales department’s job to get it. Crikey!

The post A great problem, this success business appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The post ‘Fusion’ covers appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The mere suggestion that I should look back in memory over the nine and a half years I have spent with A-R was enough to make my mind blank. When the days, weeks, months and years fly by as they seem to do in television, how does one recall the vital moments? I can’t. Through the mist of time, some things emerge slowly, most of them quite insignificant and ephemeral – probably of no interest to anyone. But it is of such inconsequences that life is made up. So I shall rattle on and hope that moments will generate in a way of their own.

It is always well to begin at the beginning, so I will recall my first day at Stratton House where the first 60 members of A-R were then housed. I entered with trepidation for as far as I knew I was entering a world of strangers. The office I was given contained a desk, a fire escape and nothing else. ‘A chair? So sorry all the chairs were used for a meeting in the Board Room along there. Help yourself.’ I wandered into a sea of chairs where two men were on the same errand as myself. They turned and in a flash we were all hugging one another with joy and relief. Weston Drury, head of casting, with whom I had been associated in the thirties at Elstree Studios and Ernest Gartside, one of the kindest production managers in films, were newcomers like myself.

The early days at Television House can never be forgotten by any of us veterans. The noise of the pneumatic drills thundering on the office walls, the barrow loads of cement trundling up and down the passages and the showers of dust are now all part of the history of ITV. I was reminded lately, on finding a second toilet roll, a box of tissues and a waste bin in the Ladies (but still no light over the mirror!), of those desperate days before the plumbing was completed when, penny clutched in hand, we rushed along Kingsway to the Holborn Tube, or blushingly offered a pink pass in a nearby building where hospitality was available.

Those, indeed, were the days of pioneering. The electricity failed? Magically, we were all issued with hurricane lamps until normal service was resumed. The heating system died on us? Every office had its convector heater. At last the time came when the girls no longer got their 10s. [50p in decimal, about £22 in today’s money allowing for inflation] a month hairdressing allowance and the men could no longer send one suit a month to the cleaners. We were on the air.

Of September 22, 1955 I remember only the first night nerves and wild excitement that possessed us all. This was it! Everyone was at concert pitch and the Mayfair Hotel, from whence came part of the programme, was littered with cables and cameras.

Below ground level at the foot of a short staircase, the ‘control room’ had ingeniously been installed. Never before or since, I wager, has there been such a glamorous control room. In the seat of office sat the director (Kenneth Carter) with his PA, Norma, and his vision mixer and crew. All were in full evening dress – white ties and plunging necklines!

A grand party was held later in the ballroom which was crowded with showbiz celebrities and distinguished guests. My lot was to dash round with photographer Dick Dawson to see how many we could capture for stills. My feet ache at the mere thought of it.

From this time on, my memories are like a mosaic, vari-coloured and of all sizes and shapes. Some are mere fragments such as the turkey that wouldn’t go in the oven. Dionne Lucas, Cordon-Bleu chef, was to demonstrate how to cook a Christmas dinner and a kindly gas cooker company loaned a newer-than-modern stove. Alas, it took all our united efforts, much butter and almost a shoehorn to get the bird in. Our chagrin on knowing that this noble turkey, which we had seen basted with brandy, was to be given away was only tempered by the fact that the WVS took it for an Old People’s Home.

The visitor that wasn’t there – that was on the day that George Cansdale put his head round my door and asked if he could leave a friend with me while he parked his car. ‘Sure’, said I and he opened the door wide and nothing came in. Then I saw standing and looking minute in the doorway – a lion cub a few months old. Actually it was a lioness, so little she was still spotted. She wrinkled her nose in a mighty snarl and out came a tiny ‘Mee-oo’.

A particularly vivid and pale yellow piece of mosaic I recall was in the Club, then rather new to us and catered for by Fullers. The only food they could cook on the spot was an omelette and my guest, taking his on a very hot plate, jerked his hand back so suddenly that the omelette became airborne. It sailed in a graceful parabola across the room and landed on someone’s empty plate. He couldn’t have done it if he’d tried.

Do you remember ‘Gala’ – the first one for which Maria Callas did not arrive for the rehearsal? My feelings on being told to go to Hackney Empire for her eventual recording on the very Saturday that I was due to collect my new bubble car were far from charitable. But oh! when that voice soared up to the roof of the old music hall, all was forgiven. Moreover, bless her, she whisked off to catch a plane and I got to Raymond Way’s in time.

The bubble car, of course, has since then provided Television House with many a giggle. The most famous story is of the day a policeman summoned me to the reception desk to inform me that, according to witnesses (and thank heaven they were there) a Rolls Royce, turning in Drury Lane, had got its bumper caught under mine and all unbeknowingly had towed the bubble away. The driver discovered the appendage in the Aldwych, and no doubt madly embarrassed, had hopped out, freed the bumpers and abandoned the bubble to its fate on a pedestrian crossing. How I miss our good friend Albert who took care of 596WML in Drury Lane until it was made one-way and metered. Now the poor little thing languishes in odd gaps in Bloomsbury and since Christmas has had its right winker light side-swiped six times.

Who could forget that wonderful third year anniversary when we sailed down the river with so many television personalities on board that ITV would have gone out of business if the boat had sunk? The spluttering fireworks before the floodlit lower spelling out A-R (in full of course), the wonderful entertainment and dancing on the deck, the glamour of the Thames on a perfect autumn night as we drifted down to the illuminated Cutty Sark? These are pleasant memories.

And how about those revues so splendidly worked for by the ARTS? I am still blushing over my photographic disasters at the dress rehearsals. So elated was I at being asked to take pictures for Fusion, that I made the mistake of not trusting my gear but on two occasions borrowed electronic flash equipment with dire results. The first one had not been properly charged and I ran out of light before the first interval and for the second I was loaned the very latest thing which developed a short, and packed up in like manner. Doing my best by low key stage lighting, I managed to produce a collection of murky prints as seen through a glass darkly.

During the last nine and a half years there have been many merry meetings and many sad partings. My deepest grief was, of course, the death of Hugh Findlay, an old friend before he joined A-R and a colleague that many have missed as much as I.

And now, all my dear kind friends that I shall miss so much, I must bid you adieu. Before I go, let me counsel the young not to apprehend the passing of the years. The longer you live, the more you live and the more you live, the more memories you can store up. I wouldn’t swap mine to be 30 years younger. So once again adieu, as away I go – ‘I’ve got a lot of living to do!’

The post Thanks for the memory…. appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

When a delivery van draws up at the goods entrance of Television House, clerk Harry Boatman swings into action, opens the doors, checks in the goods, signs for them, enters them neatly in his log, informs the appropriate department and makes sure nothing gets lost until they are safely taken away to their destination.

There is a touch of military precision about the whole procedure which dates back to the days when Harry Boatman used to be a ‘regular’ in the Army – just after the start of this century. In fact, he joined the Royal Regiment of Artillery, R.H. & R.F.A., in 1905 at the age of 20, though his military career came to an abrupt end one day in October, 1914, at Strazelle [Strazeele, in northern France near the Belgian border – Ed] where he was wounded in action. Shrapnel had torn through his body and – while he was bandaged up to stop the flow of blood – a shell burst under the shield of a gun close by, ripping off the majority of his fingers as well as part of his right car.

Totally disabled, he was discharged from the Army after a spell in hospital and almost immediately joined the Civil Service as messenger and caretaker, serving among others such distinguished establishments as No. 10 Downing Street and The Treasury.

He retired from the Civil Service in 1950, aged 65, after 35 years, but only a few years later he was back at work, first with the NAAFI Bakeries and then, since 1956, with Associated-Rediffusion. At 77 he is probably the oldest member on the permanent staff of the company, and he is certainly one of the happiest. Married, with two sons and two daughters and he is not sure how many grandchildren, he lives with his wife in Merton.

Like most soldiers he treasures his memories and is justly proud of his gleaming row of medals, one of which (the DCM for distinguished conduct in the field) brings him a steady 6d. [2½p in decimal, 46p in today’s money, allowing for inflation] a day for life. He has also been awarded the BEM, and the Imperial Service Medal besides other service medals.

But Harry Boatman does not dwell in the past – he has his feet firmly planted in the present, enjoys his job and takes to it with the kind of enthusiasm that puts many a blasé youngster to shame. Maybe he only has a couple of fingers left to write with but his log book is immaculate and he would never dream of leaving his post unless there was someone to relieve him. For one thing, a driver might get into trouble for parking – which is now no longer allowed outside Television House.

Harry is a remarkably fit man. His secret? He firmly believes that there is nothing which ages a man more than the knowledge that he is no longer needed and since he is still very much in demand he feels on top of the world. Besides, being concerned in such a new and exciting 20th century venture as television, obviously helps to keep him young and active. I wondered what his wife thought of his extended working life. Would she not prefer to have him at home. ‘I am a nuisance at home’, he said with a twinkle in his eye, “my wife is glad to have me out of the way.’

Inevitably I had to enquire when he thought he would finally retire.

It was quite a joke to him.

‘When I die,’ he said without hesitation.

However, I can confidently predict that there won’t be a vacancy at the Associated-Rediffusion goods entrance in Television House for a long time to come.

The post Goods inwards looks outwards appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

One of the limitations of television, particularly on outside broadcasts, has hitherto been the very great bulk and weight of the television camera, and of the other essential control and power units, etc., to which the camera must always be connected by a thick and unwieldy cable. This dearly restricts the mobility and versatility of the system.

This difficulty has now been overcome by the development of a miniature television camera of such reduced size that the entire equipment including a radio transmitting link can be carried by one man. The camera itself, which measures only 7½ in. × 4 in. [19x10cm – Ed] is carried in the operator’s hand, and the rest of the equipment, control unit, power supplies and transmitter complete with aerial, is carried in pack form on his back, the total weight being 60 lb. [27kg], maximum. This equipment has come to be known by the nickname of “Creepie Peepie”.

The picture obtained from the camera is radiated by the transmitter on a frequency in band 3, and may be picked up within a radius of several miles on any standard type of television receiver. This receiver would normally be housed in the outside broadcast “Scanner” or in a special mobile van, from which the received picture would be passed on to the Master Control Room in the normal way.

For the technical

The camera contains a standard vidicon pick-up tube together with its optical lens system and scanning and focusing coils, and a 2-valve video pre-amplifier; it is connected to the camera control unit via a small flexible multi-cable. There is an optical viewfinder attached to the side of the camera and a zoom lens is provided for use if desired as an alternative to the interchangeable fixed lenses. The entire optical system is of the standard 16-millimetre type.

The Camera Control Unit is electrically speaking in three parts: i.e., the control unit proper, the synchronising generator, and the low-power transmitter. The control unit proper contains the main video amplifier, scanning and sync pulse generators, mixing circuits and the pre-set controls. The controls provided are: target voltage, beam current, black level, video gain and picture size, hold and shift controls. The electrical beam focus control is on the camera itself. The synchronising generator which is fully transistorised is so small that it is built into the lid of the control unit. It contains 32 transistors and 42 germanium diodes, which would have been the equivalent, not so long ago, of 74 valves. The function of this unit is to supply timing pulses to the control unit for the purpose of triggering the scanning, blanking and sync pulse circuits, so that the various components of the picture signal arc put together in the correct sequence. The low-power transmitter feeds about one-tenth at a watt of power to the aerial and the resulting signal may be picked up within a distance of about 100 yards. For all these purposes, the control unit uses only 11 valves.

The power unit contains a transistorised H.T. unit and a miniature 12-volt silver-zine battery giving a running time of 3-4 hours. As implied earlier where a range of a few miles is required a high-power transmitter, having a power of 5 watts, is available. This is in two units: the transmitter itself and the power pack very similar to that described above. The two units arc mounted on top of the other pack-borne circuits, and are included in the quoted weight of 60 lb. A small flexible aerial is fitted to the top of the transmitter.

The complete equipment, therefore, radiates a standard TV signal, and the operator is free to move about wherever he will. The received signal may be fed to the relay frame in the scanner and selected by the programme director just like a normal camera picture.

Extensive tests have had to be carried out to discover the most suitable type of receiver for use with this camera. Good sensitivity and a first-class automatic gain control system arc essentials. The best performance in these respects would appear to be given by the Murphy Receiver Model VR 97, while for adequate performance coupled with ease of portability the Alba portable Model 909 is to be recommended, being very useful for setting up and checking of equipment. Considerable assistance has been given by Messrs. Wolsey Aerials Ltd. in constructing special receiving aerials to our requirements giving the desired characteristics of direction and gain.

There are numerous other matters—mainly problems of communication which have to be dealt with when using a portable camera. It may be required to have a spoken commentary, as well as pictures, from the camera site, and the operator must also be in contact with the programme director in the scanner. Multi-channel radio links are thus involved, which may even have to be extended back to base in certain circumstances.

The post Creepie-Peepie appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The phone rang … suddenly … shrilly. P.S. stretched out his hand and hesitated – was this a trap? What fiendish question was he now to be asked ? He overcame his fear and picked up the phone, hand trembling slightly. ‘Hello, production office’ he said. No one answered, but he could hear heavy breathing through his earpiece. He glanced at his colleague T.H. and his eyes indicated the extension, which T.H. slowly lifted to his ear.

‘Hello’ said P.S. again. The muscles of his jaw twitched and his steel-blue eyes narrowed through the thick cigar smoke that filled the office. Both men were still, tense. The phone had not rung for at least two minutes and now – this. The tension became unbearable and beads of perspiration trickled slowly down his temples, dropping from his chin and staining the blotter on his desk. He could still hear the breathing of his adversary and faintly in the distance, revolver shots – one! two!! Immediately a voice at the other end – metallic, authoritative – called: ‘Hold it there – don’t move’. P.S. tensed. It was not the first time this situation had arisen. Twice before this very day he had heard those shots, and the cold command to stay still. He glanced quickly at T.H. on his left. T.H. sat still, relaxed, but ready to move instantly to back up his colleague in any emergency. The pencil drummed lightly on the ash tray before him. Both men were experienced operators and had passed through these crises many times before. There had been that time with the lions and panthers when only feet had separated them from a terrible mauling – and they were still in action: and again, when all seemed lost, and they had fought their way through the Russian mob and beaten the crime – and punishment. But this – this, was different. P.S. glanced swiftly at the schedule hanging by his side. Nothing sinister – all should have been quiet. But it was always in these moments of apparent calm that the greatest danger came. Although it seemed like hours, in fact only a few seconds had elapsed since that first terrifying ring.

Suddenly the door was flung open and D.N. stood framed in the opening. His sharp eye took in the situation at a glance. ‘What now?’ he gritted and took one sharp, nervous pace into the room. P.S. held up his free hand in a gesture of silence. D.N. stood stock still, his eyes never leaving the telephone in P.S.’s hand.

In an instant the tension broke as a sharp, incisive voice said ‘Is that the production office? Oh! Studio 5 here – will it be all right if we go to lunch five minutes early?’ The air whistled through P.S.’s lips in a surge of relief. ‘O.K.’ he said. Slowly he replaced the receiver, slumped back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Another crisis over. He smiled: ‘How about a quick jug in the club before lunch?’ There was a quick flurry, the slam of a door and – silence.

I must confess that the above is a slight exaggeration, but sometimes this is how it appears to us on extension 207 in the production office at Wembley. It is not a large office, but every day from early morn until half an hour after the last studio closes, these is always a duty manager on hand to answer queries on studio technical requirements, dressing room allocation, special effects, staff problems, hygiene, safety first, and 100 other subjects of a production, whether it be of a personal or domestic nature.

On average, about 15 productions are transmitted, telerecorded or videotaped every week at Wembley, and four or five at Television House.

Those of you who read articles on ‘Hippodrome’ and ‘The Informer’ in Fusion will have realised the enormous problems facing members of the production teams, and these are but TWO series. Apart from these two there are also other series such as ‘The Rat Catchers’, ‘No Hiding Place’, ‘Orlando’ plus drama, science, schools, features, light entertainment, children’s and religious programmes, all of which have their own (and equally important) administrative problems and, in all of which, somewhere along the line, the production office is involved.

For example, while ‘Hippodrome’ was in production, the production office team were responsible for the housing, feeding (and bedding) of 12 elephants, 12 lions, six tigers, two pumas, and five leopards, plus assorted dogs and trainers – not to mention the acts – Mexican, French, Spanish, and German – who required facilities for cars, caravans and cages and the laying on of electricity, water and heating.

During ‘Ready, Steady, Go!’ every week cloakrooms are set up to take care of the coats and handbags of up to 150 teenagers and while ‘Five o’Clock Club’ is transmitting and recording parents must be accommodated and facilities for them to view the programmes laid on – somewhere. We have in our time, dealt with a fire in dressing room 26, flood in Studio 2, a ‘punch-up’ in Studio 5 and a robbery (and arrest) in dressing room 513.

The post The 007 men on 207 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

At first sight it would appear to be impossible to connect a death at Broadcasting House, fires in a yard on which Studio 5 now stands, the battle of El Wisket Ridge, two fair-sized boilers and some pumps in Studio 1 at Wembley.

The clue as to how all these things can be linked lies in the name of Jack Elkins who has been making things connect at Wembley ever since 1934, apart from the war years when he was himself connected – to the Army.

Jack Elkins was born in Wales 44 years ago this month (October). George Elkins, his father, came from Nottingham and had gone to Wales to work in a power station at a mine. His mother was a Londoner.

Perhaps that is why his parents decided to move to London when the slump hit the Welsh coal mines in 1928. Jack and his three brothers, moved into a new home where the back gate led out onto fields. They were brought up within reach of the fresh, green countryside. The house was in Kenton and Jack Elkins and his wife still live there but his three children have farther to go for the countryside. As Jack grew up so did the houses – all around them.

Back in 1928 Jack’s father found work at what were then the Wembley film studios on the site now occupied by our studios. One by one the sons left school and one by one they, too, found work at Wembley. Jack was the youngest of the family and the time arrived when he, not unnaturally, joined his father and brothers there as well.

One by one the Elkins have left Wembley. Jack’s father retired from the boiler-room in 1947. He died a few years ago at the age of 82. Fred, who was an electrician at Wembley, is now a lighting charge-hand at the Merton Park film studios. Four years ago Bert also left his job as a set storekeeper to join a film studio. Today he is a camera grip operator at Ealing. Finally, two years ago Alf left the boiler room to work in another boiler house belonging to H.M. Stationery Office.

Only Jack remains, constantly to pop up in all parts of the premises where his job as charge-hand plant supervisor carries him. But back in 1934, when he first arrived, his job only carried him as far as the banks of glass batteries used for the sound equipment – six columns with four dozen batteries in each column.

This is where the first of the apparently unrelated items in the opening paragraph of this article comes into the picture – literally. For ‘A Death at Broadcasting House’ is the film which Jack Elkins remembers most from those early days. The cast included an actor by the name of Val Gielgud.

Wembley belonged to Associated Sound Films when Jack Elkins first arrived. Then it was acquired by British Talking Pictures who developed into Twentieth Century Fox. They used the studios to turn out quota pictures – one, or more, a month.

‘We were kept pretty busy’, says Jack in a characteristic understatement. ‘The interesting thing about those days was the fact that when we arrived in the morning we never knew when we were going home – that day or the next.’

Another interesting feature was the colossal waste of timber. They had an excellent system for clearing a studio of sets at the end of filming. Quick as it undoubtedly was, this method would hardly be considered today despite its attractive, basic simplicity. The idea was for a man to go round with a hammer and knock the supports away from the scenery. (Perhaps this was how the term ‘strike sets’ was derived?) Anyway the result was that the sets crashed down in a twinkling.

The method of disposal after this was also remarkably simple. The shattered remnants were piled up in the yard on which Studio 5 now stands and when the heap became unmanageable it was set on fire. Think of the amount of storage space which could be saved if the same system was adopted today.

Back in 1939, however, another sort of fire blazed up. Jack Elkins left Wembley to join the Rifle Brigade, serving in North Africa with the 9th and 2nd Battalions. ‘We went backwards and forwards across the Western Desert a couple of times’, is his phlegmatic summing up of the war out there. Tobruk, he recalls, was ‘a bit of a shambles’ when he last saw it.

It also appears that life was ’pretty warm’ when his battalion became involved in the Battle of El Wisket Ridge. ‘The infantry took the ridge. Then we were placed up there with anti-tank guns, blankets, ammunition and food. The idea was that we should hold it for three days.’

But they only stayed one day. During it the German tanks attacked continuously despite the fact that 50-55 of them were put out of action by the anti-tank guns. During that day also, his group used up all the ammunition which was supposed to last for three days. At the end of it they were told to disable their guns and make their own way back.

An indication of how ‘warm’ it was can be gathered from the fact that the battalion’s colonel was awarded the V.C.

Back at base Jack Elkins was asked if he could ride a horse. Upon giving a negative reply he was transferred to the Mounted Military Police.

For his remaining 18 months in North Africa Jack Elkins and his horse patrolled army food and lorry dumps. Then, in 1945, after four-and-a-half years out there, he was shipped home and demobbed. Back he went to the boilerhouse at Wembley.

The Wembley studios had meanwhile been doing their bit to win the war by turning out training and other films for the Army Kinema Unit. They, too, were demobbed back into the hands of Twentieth Century Fox and were let out to different film makers in the next few years.

Then, five years ago last January, Jack Elkins, his boilers and the studios were taken over by Associated-Rediffusion. Jack Elkins and the studios (with the addition of grey hair to the former and sundry alterations to the latter) are still with us but the old boilers have gone.

They had been working ever since 1929 (when what are now Studios 1 and 2 were being constructed) and Jack Elkins had been making them function for a good proportion of that time. Two years ago they were replaced by two smooth, shining, almost silent, new boilers. Each one measures 10 ft. by 7 ft. and each has an evaporation of 4,000 steam pounds per hour to provide heat for the radiators and hot water for the buildings. When it is really cold in the winter they have to be fed with 2,700 gallons of fuel a week. In the summer they tick over happily on 200 gallons a week.

‘I wasn’t sorry to see the old ones go. They gave a little bit of trouble occasionally’, says Jack with a slight smile which left the impression that the trouble was more than slight on more than one occasion but that Jack Elkins was equal to his boilers.

There was one day, however, when he was almost beaten – before the new boilers were installed. As he was approaching the boiler-house he heard what sounded like a terrific explosion. He rushed into the building expecting smoke and fury. He was wrong. A hurried inspection revealed that all was apparently well. It was – until they started pumping up oil into the gravity feed tank. The ‘oil’ turned out to be water which had seeped through to the tank under the floor and in through a burst pump connection. The explosion he had heard was the sound of the tank leaving its base and hitting the floor.

That’s about the only time Jack Elkins has come near to hitting the roof – either literally or metaphorically. Normally everything is spick and span as it should be with the man who is also responsible for the eight women day-cleaners, the five male night-cleaners, the one toilet cleaner and one general labourer who come under his domain, not forgetting the two plant attendants who assist him in the boiler-room and around the building on any plumbing job which might turn up. These jobs can vary from alterations to equipment to finding wedding rings down a sink. They also include the ‘practicals’ on a production such as laying on gas or water.

‘They come in cycles. During the summer people mostly seem to want rain, and in winter they want fires and cooking facilities’, says a man who is obviously accustomed to every sort of strange request.

And that brings us to the last of the items in the list in the first paragraph.

‘Excuse me Jack, they say they need some pumps in Studio 1’, says a visitor to the boiler-house.

‘Left it a bit late haven’t they’, says Jack. ‘All right, I’11 come and have a look’.

They got their pumps but then if Jack Elkins has anything to do with it they generally do get what they want.

The post The man who keeps Wembley warm appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

A two-headed figure, half man, half woman, looms at you out of the gloom. You turn – and a wild-cat, eyes a-glint and jaws snarling, is ready to pounce. Everywhere you look, nightmarish objects stare back at you.

‘This is our horror room,’ says Mary Paul, whose husband Ken is one of Rediffusion’s chief props suppliers.

Ken Paul’s sprawling premises occupy two shops, three storeys high, in England’s Lane, a part of Hampstead still village-y in character. They house thousands of articles for hire to stage, screen and television companies.

Most of the props borrowed for Rediffusion’s ‘Crane’ come from here, because Ken Paul, while stocking all sorts of antique and unusual props, specialises in Moorish and Eastern pieces. You want a hookah? There’s a choice of half a dozen over in the corner. We’re in a room entirely given over to Eastern stuff, in surroundings as exotic as anything in the Arabian Nights.

Some of the latest additions in this room are those bought from the set of a recent film made in the Near East. (A reversal of the usual procedure, and one that is not too common, for most of the articles stocked are genuine and not reproductions, and are bought privately or at auctions.)

‘When the stuff came in, we noticed the most peculiar smell,’ says Mrs Paul. It was very puzzling – until we realised it was a hang-over from contact with camels.’ Mrs Paul is a blonde, vivacious woman. Her husband, who has a trim, pointed beard, is slightly more reserved. They married in 1942, and started up in business with £100 [about £3,500 in today’s money, allowing for inflation – Ed].

‘We got the lease of one of these shops – the other we only acquired recently – and did it up ourselves. We started with hardly anything – a tandem in bits, an enormous grand piano, a rocking-horse and a doll’s pram.’

Mrs Paul recounts this as if it were all a huge joke – one that has gone on being funny all these years. She’s not always in the shop, but when she is there she finds the business great fun. ‘It’s not like work at all.’

She continues: ‘When we began, we intended just to sell antiques. We didn’t think of lending them until a friend gave us the idea. Our first film order was for “The Scarlet Pimpernel”. It was worth £25 and we were thrilled.’ [The film was 1934, too early for the 1942 establishment of the business; the ATV/ITC TV series was 1955, which seems too late. If the TV series is what’s intended, £25 is £560 in today’s money]

The normal hiring fee is five per cent of the original cost of the article for each week of hire. Where the same article will be needed maybe for months – for the full run of a TV series, for instance – a special fee is arranged.

Ken Paul explains this as he hurries about in the office quarters at the back of the shop. This is where the administrative work is carried out by the Paul’s manager and two assistants. It’s called an office, but really it’s more of another props room.

A huge Victorian cabinet stands along one side, covered with a multitude of unrelated objects. Part of the space inside is used as a drinks cupboard, the rest holds neat drawers full of snuff-boxes, of all shapes, sizes and antiquities; fans of ostrich feathers, lace, and painted satin; and hundreds of postcards. (‘You get people asking what Portofino or somewhere looked like 50 years ago, and you can usually show them.’)

Cups of half-drunk tea or coffee lie scattered among the accounts and order books. You expect to turn the china upside-down and find it marked ‘Spode’, ‘Minton’ or even ‘Worcester’.

You pick up a cup to see if you’re right and you’re distracted from your aim when you find that the cups are resting on a glass-topped display cabinet filled with fabulous jewels.

‘They’re not all real, actually,’ you are told. ‘This diamond set – the tiara, bracelet and necklace – they’re paste. But they’re very fine quality. They came from a duchess who had them copied exactly from her real set, which she kept in the bank.’

There is jewellery of all periods and types. ‘We’re very good on pawn-shop settings. Rediffusion usually comes to us if they need a pawn-shop in “No Hiding Place” for example.’

Jewellery was among the items on the pages-long list of props that Rediffusion hired from Ken Paul for the ‘Crime and Punishment’ drama production. There was also a samovar on the list, a Victorian doll’s pram and two Russian icons.

‘The icons were presents to our two daughters when they were younger,’ says Mary Paul. ‘When we started borrowing them to hire out, they asked for the fee. They’ve been borrowed so often now that they’re part of the stock.’

Another prop that originally belonged to the Paul children is a huge Victorian doll.

It now lives down in the basement, in the room that could adequately rival Madame Tussaud’s ‘Chamber of Horrors’ for monstrosities.

A life-sized stuffed bear rears up on his hind legs as if to pounce when you reach the bottom of the stairs. Behind him, a hideous stuffed monkey. Lying on the floor, glowing wickedly and translucently, the wax model heads of a number of mass murderers.

‘There were more masks,’ you are told, ‘but they were borrowed so often that in the end they melted under the hot lights.’ More grotesque objects are upstairs, among the ethnographical gear, with voodoo carved figures and masks.

Then there’s the naval and military room, with cutlasses, globes, daggers, guns, maps, portraits and heavy bronzes. From here come some of the props which appear weekly in the ‘H.M.S. Paradise’ episodes. Another speciality is blackamoors, ebony-coloured figures beautifully painted, some of them extremely rare and valuable, as is the greater part of the stock.

‘When we’ve supplied a lot of the props, we like to see the final production – whether it’s on television, the stage or the screen,’ say the Pauls. ‘Sometimes, though, it can be quite a harrowing experience. You see a big fight scene, all your stuff gets knocked about, and you think – “Now I know why so-and-so came back damaged”. It’s sad … but you can’t mind too much, and on the whole people are very good about looking after our props.’

After the horror room and the military room, it is a relief to wander into the gracious atmosphere of the Victoriana room, where all the trimmings of that leisurely age are stored.

It is an even greater relief to pass into the next room and find yourself in a fully-equipped pub – bar, stools, prettily-painted handles for pulling a pint.

‘All fake again,’ you’re told.

But if you’re lucky, there’s a real drink waiting for you in that Victorian cabinet…

The post Voodoo and murderers in Hampstead appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

This is Joan Kemp-Welch’s story. Born Wimbledon 1916. Educated Roedean. Started stage career at 17. Winner of the award of the Guild of Television Producers and Directors for the best producer of light entertainment in 1958. Lively. Determined. Energetic.

Enter room 519, Television House – ‘won’t keep you a moment’, says Joan as she races through a 1959 Show programme with a visitor. ‘I think it’s going to be great’, she ends… ‘all right, thanks very much for coming in to see me, good-bye, see you soon’. Advance to chair in front of desk. Start interview.

‘I always wanted to go on to the stage. But as there was no money to pay for the training, I decided to take up a scholarship I had won to train to be a teacher. Meanwhile I was a member of the amateur society at the “Q” Theatre. Somebody fell ill and I took over the part of a maid. They offered me a year’s contract on the strength of it’. (Aside to her P.A.: ‘Here’s that memo you were asking about’).

‘Just before the war I decided I wanted to produce so I went along to Harry Hanson. I always remember him telling me: “We have enough trouble in the theatre without women producers”. At the beginning of the war I was playing the juvenile lead in “Ladies in Retirement”. That lasted two years. Meanwhile I did two films, one was opposite Bob Montgomery and in the second I was Anna Neagle’s mother in the Amy Johnson film. She has never let me forget that.’

(The phone rings – ‘Miss Joan Kemp-Welch has a visitor at the moment, she will ring you back when she is free’, says her P.A., Gerry Burke.)

Back to Joan: ‘The war brought directors into short supply. I went to Penge for a week to produce for Harry Hanson and I stayed for a month. I have never stopped producing since then. Next I went to Buxton for six months and then on to Colchester for a year-and-a-half. Two of the people I directed there were Dora Bryan (it was her second job) and Paul Rogers.’

(A visitor bursts in to get her to sign some travellers’ cheques. Exit visitor. Back to Joan.)

‘After that came a tour of India and Italy and the end of the war. I went to Scotland to produce for the Wilson Barrett company. I was asked to take over for three weeks from Clare Harris, and I stayed for three years. It was great fun. I produced musicals with a company of sixty artists. We stayed three weeks at each theatre in the circuit at Aberdeen, Glasgow and Edinburgh.’

‘Jacqueline Mackenzie was one of the people working in the wardrobe department. I gave her her first break.’ (The phone rings: ‘Of course you can see me in five minutes,’ she says. The phone is put back. The interview goes on.)

‘We did a series of revues which got fantastic notices. Peter Moffatt wrote the revues – he also selected the music for “Rush Hour” and he is working for me on the “1959 Show”.’

‘Before I left Scotland I was asked to do a panto at Blackpool. This was my first real contact with the variety stars. Olga Gwynne was the principal girl and Dave Morris was the comic. Another panto followed at Aberdeen in which Jackie Hunter starred and Dick Emery played the dame’. (Again the phone rings: ‘Oh, you know that sketch, well I want to have a word with you about it. I’ve cast the match girl.’ It doesn’t make sense but it works – the caller goes).

‘Yes and what year were you at Aberdeen’, you prompt her. ‘I’m so sorry I’m absolutely terrible with dates. Never could remember them’, she replies.

‘Incidentally I had any number of letters of congratulation from friends in Aberdeen and Scotland after winning that award. I was very touched. It is heart warming that they still remember me.’

(Again the phone rings: ‘Certainly, I remember I’ve got an appointment to see you at twelve’). Back to her story…

‘Then I came to Town. I went to Bromley where I produced every third play for J. Arthur Rank, who owned the theatre. Meanwhile I put on a panto written by Peter Moffatt. It was “Goldilocks” and it was an enormous success. Tony Bateman of “Cool for Cats” was the dame – it was his first chance – and Duggie Squire was the bear – he did the choreography of “Cool for Cats”.’

‘During this time I did a lot of Sunday shows for the Repertory Players – twelve in all. They included “Serious Charge” with Nigel Stock, “Shadow of the Vine” with Eric Portman and “Annabella” which we televised last autumn.’

(A letter has to be signed. The ink has run out – ‘We never have things like that. There is never the time to go to the stationery department’, she half apologizes.)

‘Next came “Miss Hargreaves” with Margaret Rutherford at the Royal Court. After that there was “Desire Under the Elms” at Hampstead. Then there was “The Vicious Circle” at the Watergate with Faith Brook and Hugh Burden. It had wonderful notices and it meant I had two shows running at once.’

‘Lloyd Williams came to see “Desire Under the Elms” and asked me to go into television. I had never been inside a television studio in my life. I told him this but he said “never mind we are running training courses”.’

‘Then he came to see “The Vicious Circle” and asked me if I had made up my mind. I took the plunge. It was a bit of a gamble as I had made a success in one medium. It was rather a lot to hope I could do the same in another one.’ (This is said in the most modest way possible before the phone again interrupts… ‘Certainly you can go ahead and arrange that’, she says.)

I did five weeks training and then I was thrown into the first regular transmission put out by Associated-Rediffusion on the day after opening. It was called “How to make a Frame for Flowers” with Elsa Court and was in the women’s programme. I did seven programmes a week for women for three months. We did a twenty-minute revue in a studio the size of a pocket handkerchief’

‘Then I had 10 days off during which I directed and produced “Dead on Nine” at the Westminster Theatre. It ran for a year. Later I had another fortnight off to do “Albertine by Moonlight”. It was a ghastly failure and came off after three nights. The critics hated it.’

‘The funny thing is that although my entire life has been spent doing drama the only play I have done here was “The Blood is Strong”. I have got into musicals and stayed there. And I have enjoyed doing them.’ There is no doubt that she means just that.

‘Among the programmes I have done for Associated-Rediffusion are the Lester Ferguson series, the “Dickie Valentine Story” for our first anniversary, “Cool for Cats” and “Answer Please”.’

‘Gerry Burke has been my P.A. ever since we first met on my first musical – “Palais Party” with Lou Preager. We have put on an average of one programme a week ever since we have been together. How I could manage without her I do not know.’

‘The award was for a year’s work and during that year I did three months of “Cool for Cats”, a Christmas Eve show, eight weeks of “Rush Hour”, six weeks of “Free and Easy” with Dickie Valentine and one of the anniversary “Women in Love” playlets.’

‘Now we are doing the 1959 show with the same team who helped me to win that award. As I said when they gave it to me, I feel that the award belongs as much to those who have worked on my programmes as to me. I really mean that.’

‘When you have that amount of enthusiasm backing you up you cannot fail to succeed.’

The post The Joan Kemp-Welch story appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Three years ago on June 9, 1960, the first production was transmitted from Studio 5 at Wembley. Since then thousands of people from this country and from all over the world have come to stand and stare.

Advertising agents and advertisers have goggled at the lighting console, heating engineers have marvelled at the ventilation system, architects have wondered at the high degree of accuracy in the floor level, television experts have come from all over the world and few have gone away without learning something. All have been bemused by the giant doors – there is nothing to touch them anywhere else in the world.

When you live with something like Studio 5 you tend to forget that it is a show-piece just as the people in a town rarely visit an attraction which is a focal point for tourists… unless they want to show it off.

Those directly involved with handling visitors know how deeply people are impressed by Studio 5, but we who live with it tend to forget that this happens. We’ve told the story before, but it’s worth repeating, how the Japanese television engineer was told by a compatriot when he said he was visiting England: ‘You must see Studio 5.’

A brochure has now been printed to give away to visitors and the inside pages of this brochure are reproduced here because we feel that the staff might be interested in seeing what others will receive. Most of the photographs were specially taken by Donald McCullin.

A highly technical workshop like Studio 5 must have an equally skilled staff. In Studio 5 the hands of the craftsmen, artists, technicians that fashion every production, are experienced, talented and thoroughly professional. Even the hand of welcome in the reception hall plays its part. The hands that paint the backcloths. The hands that dress the set with properties. The hands of the make-up artists that prepare the cast for their performance. There are many pairs of hands and all of them help to maintain the high standard. So much to be done: a deadline to be reached every day. The set must be designed, then fashioned, then built. The property men must dress it with the hundreds of bits and pieces. The carpenters must modify, improve and alter. The curtains must be hung – but even in this apparent turmoil there is time for a meal, a drink or a quiet read.

The stage is set, the cast is assembled, the Director arrives and rehearsals begin. High above the studio floor he sits, facing fourteen 21-inch monitors, and selects the picture he wants. His word is everyone’s cue. Flanking him are the Vision Mixer (right) and Production Assistant (left). In the early stages of the rehearsals the Director may have a discussion on the studio floor with the Designer, Floor Manager, Senior Cameraman or artists – but for the performance he sits alone. Each of the two sections of Studio 5 has its own Control rooms but when it is operated as a single unit, one half, 5A, becomes the master and 5B, the slave. Studio 5 is equipped to operate on the 405, 525 or 625 line standard. The Vision, Lighting and Sound controls are situated on the first floor with double windows and have an easy access to the studio gantries. Each section is equipped with four 4½-inch Image Orthicon Cameras and 5A can employ all eight cameras at one time. Lighting Control and the Camera Control Unit downstairs on Studio floor level can be likewise divided, or operated as a single unit.

The final ‘take’ – the last performance – the Studio is stilled before the opening seconds. The set is built, dressed and lit – everything is prepared. The Floor Manager, who hears the Director through his headphones, cues the Studio and the production begins. The cameras swoop in and out or crab sideways, peering, staring, prying. The lights beat down, the floor is tense and alert.

The final shots are taken, the performance ends. In half an hour the Studio is empty – to be filled again tomorrow – and the next day and the day after that. Studio 5 has a healthy appetite. But so has television.

The post The world comes to Studio 5 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Bill was young and like many young men he had a keen sense of adventure; a desire to travel. Northern Ireland where he was born and brought up at the beginning of this century held few attractions for him. His Irish father and Scottish mother had not stood in the way of his elder brother when similar thoughts had passed through his mind … when, like many others at that time, his hopes had focused on a new land with new chances – Canada.

And so Bill’s brother sailed away. Bill was not long in joining him in Canada. There he soon found work. First he helped to make chocolate sweets. Then he worked in a Toronto biscuit factory. Bill might have become a prosperous Canadian but in Europe at that time factories in Germany were turning out arms not biscuits.

German troops were marching. War was declared and Bill, like many others who had sought fresh chances in new lands, decided that patriotism was a call he had to answer. He threw up his job, returned to England and volunteered. His brother clung to their newly-found country but also answered the call. He joined the Canadian Ambulance Service.

Soon, by some strange coincidence, the two brothers found themselves near to each other again in France. Bill, instead of packing biscuits into boxes, spent his time packing shells into gun barrels on the Somme not far from Ypres.

Five 100-lb shells screamed off towards the German lines a minute. The Germans replied and instead of 10 men manning each gun there were, more often than not, only four. But still the guns were fired. And still the German shells burst around them. Twice Bill had to be sent home with shell-shock. Twice he went back.

Then an offensive started against the Italians. They retreated and Bill was sent with the 29th Division in a bid to stop the advance. He helped to see that a fair proportion of shells were sent in the right direction before he, too, was injured. Ironically it was not a piece of shrapnel which pierced his leg, nor a stray bullet. A gun fell from its carriage on to him. And that was Blighty and the end of the war for Bill. Like thousands of others he had done his bit.

And so, in 1918, he was demobbed. Canada was a long way away. Bill’s brother went back. But perhaps the shellshock, the dreary days of hospital, had blunted Bill’s enthusiasm for a new country and a new life. Like thousands of others he did not find the transition from the Army to civilian life an easy one. He rejoined the Army.

As an experienced gunner they sent him to Shoeburyness, the Royal Artillery experimental depot. They made him a wine waiter to the 150 officers. He learnt a lot about wine and served many V.I.P.s when they came to see new weapons tested.

And there he met the girl who was to become his wife. She was governess to an Army officer’s children. In her younger days she had been an actress, once appearing as the principal boy in a Leeds pantomime. After their marriage Bill decided to leave the Army. They moved to Southend and Bill became a traveller to a firm which made umbrellas and walking-sticks. He tramped around Westcliff and Southend seeking orders. But his firm was a small one and not very prosperous. One morning Bill found himself out of a job. Luck was with him, however, for a dockers’ strike was on.

The same afternoon he was back in a job – working on the lighters unloading cargo from liners anchored oft Southend.

But that did not last long and soon Bill found new work – doing a milk round in Camden Town. Times were bad. He was forced to sack the boy who helped him. The boy retaliated by stealing the milk which Bill had left on the doorsteps. His pony had a long journey each day and dashed for his stable as soon as the last milk had been delivered. Perhaps there is a, by now, elderly policeman who remembers that pony’s attempt to knock him down in Trafalgar Square.

Bill began to prosper by taking over poor milk rounds, working them up into good ones and selling them. He soon knew Brixton, Victoria and Pimlico extremely well. Then he decided to stay put for a while and took over a dairy in Dorset Road, Clapham. He built it up until a bigger firm bought him up. Then the United Dairies bought up the firm which had taken him over.

Bill worked for United Dairies for a number of years – 400 customers a day, 3,500 stairs to climb each round. He became district manager – seven shops and 16 rounds: 12 shops, 43 rounds.

Then German troops marched into Poland. Bill’s world crumbled around him again much as it had done 15 years earlier and much as it did for thousands of others.

He returned to a milk round, this time in Kensington. Twice his home was blitzed. Once his wife was buried in the wreckage. Twice blast shattered his windows.

Meanwhile his brother’s son had followed their example in the First World War and joined the Canadian Army. Outside Rome Bill’s nephew won the M.C. for gallantry. He died there.

Back in England fate played another trick on Bill. In the First World War a gun had fallen on him. Shortly after the Second World War a crate of milk fell and split open his stomach. Bill still carries the scars. After that he was not quite so good at lifting things. He had to leave his job.

Just over three years ago Bill got another job – with Associated-Rediffusion.

You’ve probably seen him many times and he’s probably smiled at you and said ‘Good morning’ many times. For Bill, now white-haired, always has a cheery smile, much as he did for housewives on their doorsteps in days gone by.

Bill enjoys life as a labourer in Television House, shifting goods and furniture, restocking toilets with towels, soap and toilet rolls, clearing out wastepaper.

He thinks you all are wonderful people. ‘I do honestly believe that. Everybody is so considerate, patient and tolerant. I’m grateful to all I come in contact with.’

It was nice meeting you, too, Bill Shaw.

But Bill nearly always has a companion on his work around Television House, as most of you will know.

He is another Bill – Bill Farrell. Grey-haired and broad faced, this Bill also enjoys working here. For him, too, life here is quite a contrast to previous days.

Many are the times that his hands have been stained red by the Rowley Red Clay from Staffordshire. For Bill Farrell spent 35 years working for the Royal Doulton Potteries at Lambeth as a plaster model maker and a mould maker.

From his moulds were cast the terra-cotta façades for many of the buildings in London. Thousands of Scotch whisky flagons have also passed through his hands – he helped make them, not drink the contents.

Beer is his drink. During the war he was holding a pint of bitter in the ‘Prince of Wales’, Stockwell, when the place was hit by a bomb. Sixty people were in the pub at the time. Six got out alive. That’s about the only pint of bitter Bill Farrell has never finished.

Another time in the war he was going down to the cellar during a raid when a bomb dropped near by. The cellar door came away in his hands.

But that sort of thing does not happen around Television House these days. ‘It’s a change working here, wandering around the building all day, after 35 years shut up in one room at the pottery.’

Bill Shaw and Bill Farrell may not have the most glamorous of jobs in television but it is interesting to reflect that they are probably one of the best-known pairs of people in Television House.

The post Feature billing for a pair of Bills appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The cutting above is a reproduction of a personal advertisement on page one of The Times on October 10, 1921. The ambitious 17-year-old responsible had carefully picked his words to create the biggest impact from the 15s. [75p in decimal, £30 in today’s money allowing for inflation – Ed] investment in himself.

Today The Times prints – without charge – parts of the speeches made by the leader that youngster has grown into. The shrewd, successful, 55-year-old business and financial expert responsible for those speeches selects the ideas which his judgement tells him will succeed just as carefully as he picked the words for that advertisement. Today, however, the loss could be millions of pounds not 15s.

The advertiser in The Times in 1921 and the man quoted in that paper today is John Spencer Wills, president of the B.E.T. Federation Ltd, deputy chairman and managing director of the British Electric Traction Co. Ltd, chairman of Associated-Rediffusion Ltd, chairman and/or director of various omnibus companies in the B.E.T. group, past president of the Institute of Transport, deputy chairman of the Monotype Corporation Ltd, … an abbreviated list occupies three column inches in Who’s Who.

He did not waste his 15s. in 1921 nor has it been his habit to waste either words or money since then. He has used both to work for him better than most who were born in the early 1900’s.

During the First World War he attended first a preparatory school in Shropshire and then the Merchant Taylors’ School, London. John Spencer Wills played the usual games without distinguishing himself at any of them, although, significantly perhaps, he did like steeple-chasing more than other forms of exercise. He admits that he found rugger a little frightening. No doubt some of his contemporaries who played the game with gay abandon would today find his responsibilities positively petrifying.

The lanky youngster might have continued in this fashion had not fate intervened. He outgrew his heart and was ordered by the doctors to give up games. The academic side of his activities flourished. Mathematics and science were the subjects he enjoyed most and was, therefore, the best at. We shall see that later on in life he was to find another favourite subject – work.

Here at Merchant Taylors’ he came under the influence of the first of two outstanding men who were to make a great impact on his early years. This man was Dr J. A. Nairn, the headmaster at the time. The scholarly authority and penetrating judgement of this doctor of divinity, who had been appointed headmaster at 26, made a lasting impression on the schoolboy. Their friendship did not end when the youngster left school in 1921. Upon Dr Nairn’s retirement five years later the Lord Chancellor (an Old Merchant Taylor incidentally) appointed him to the living of Stubbings, near Maidenhead. There Dr Nairn christened the younger son of John Spencer Wills, 20 years after his pupil left the school.

The year 1921 was not a good one in which to start a career. Jobs were hard to find. People were beginning to talk about The Slump. The tall, slim youth decided to advertise in The Times and thereby established an important principle he has followed throughout his career. He believed that more satisfactory results could be achieved from people approaching him rather than the other wayround. He still does.

And his faith was justified for among the replies was one from a Mr Emile Garcke who wrote, in his own hand, saying he wanted ‘an educated young gentleman with a view to making him my private secretary’. It did not take John Spencer Wills long to find out that Mr Garcke was head of the executive of B.E.T. An interview resulted in the following letter from Mr Garcke:

Ditton House,
Near Maidenhead.
21st October 1921

Dear Sir,

Replying to your letter of 18th inst and call yesterday I write to say that you are appointed to the position of my personal confidential clerk at £50 p.a. [£2,100] payable monthly and in addition, you will have board and residence and washing hill at above address, free also a season ticket between Maidenhead and Paddington. The engagement will be terminable by one month’s notice on either side. When you are in London – about three days a week – you will provide your own luncheon.

I suggest you should commence your duties on November 1st and that if convenient you should go down to Maidenhead on Monday 31st, by train leaving Paddington at 6.33 p.m. I shall be on the same train and a motorcar will meet us at Maidenhead station. I enclose form of application for railway season ticket for you to fill in and return to me. I do not know whether you have a bicycle but you would find one useful as my house is 2 miles from the town.

Yours truly,

E. Garcke.

Fortunately John Spencer Wills did have a bicycle. He also had ambition and courage. Most youngsters would have accepted the offer without more thought than that it might be a useful entry to the B.E.T. But the 17-year-old boy who was about to take his first job was not satisfied with a possibility. He wanted a certainty, and so he made it a condition of his acceptance that he would be taken into the B.E.T. organisation proper after two years. Even before embarking upon his career he had laid down the first of many conditions to follow; already he had his eye on the main chance.

Mr Garcke was the second man to have a very big influence on the rapidly maturing youth. A tireless, painstaking worker, he had founded the B.E.T. empire and was responsible for building it up, company by company. Some of his qualities were undoubtedly passed on to his confidential clerk.

John Spencer Wills lived at Mr Garcke’s home in Maidenhead, travelling up to London most days. Much of his time was spent assisting Mr Garcke in his hobby – philosophy. For hour after hour he pored over books in the London Library, picking out extracts on philosophical subjects. More hard labour went into the compilation of a special file of triads needed for the book Mr Garcke was writing. Today this privately published book, Individual Understanding, is a treasured possession of John Spencer Wills.

But the young clerk acquired more than a knowledge of philosophy from Mr Garcke. He also learnt something about bee-keeping. The old man took it up as part of his philosophical study. And such was Mr Garcke’s ability to grasp a new subject that he was lecturing to the Beekeepers’ Association within a year.

John Spencer Wills learnt how to mount the tongues of bees on slides and how to file Mr Garcke’s investigations under a complicated system of classification of the sciences. He was shown the importance of attention to detail at an early stage in his career.

But possibly more important still was the fact that his position gave him a valuable insight into the work of a man at the peak of his power. This glimpse from the top right at the start must have acted as a considerable spur to his ambition.

Perhaps Mr. Garcke, too, realised that his clerk could not be held back for after one, not two, years, John Spencer Wills was transferred to the B.E.T.’s Secretaries office.

He worked at the headquarters in Kingsway as an assistant secretary to a number of bus companies and lived in the suburbs in a dingy, none-too-comfortable bed-sitting-room at Palmers Green. Such was the start for a man who now lives in a house in Kensington during the week and on his own Sussex farm at the weekends. He recalls those days with an amused shudder.

Already he was making sure that it would not be his lot for long. For two and a half years most of his spare time was occupied in study. He passed the Intermediate and then the Final examination of the Incorporated Secretaries Association (now merged with the Chartered Institute of Secretaries).

Soon he realised that acting as a company secretary was not going to result in quick promotion. So he decided to go into the field; to get a job working in the provinces with one of those bus companies.

At last a chance came; B.E.T. acquired a new company in Hull. John Spencer Wills applied to go there and was appointed its secretary and accountant at a salary of £260 a year [£12,500]. Now he had both a bedroom and a sitting-room in his digs.

But before he took up his new job he was sent to the Eastern Counties Road Car Co. Ltd, for a three-week course of intensive training.

And so he arrived in Hull armed with ambition, drive and a little book full of notes on how to run a bus company. And in Hull he had a big shock. There was no proper office, hardly any staff and not even a reliable ticket system. John Spencer Wills rolled up his sleeves.

The situation might have been designed for him to achieve the greatest possible impact. He created order from the chaos and within a very short time was appointed the company’s general manager. At 22 the young man from headquarters had made a very big mark.

It is difficult to estimate the importance of the effect the next four years had on him. His chairman left him to get on with running the company’s affairs. If he wanted to put up the fares or anything else he did it. For four years he laid a very solid foundation to the company which had become the East Yorkshire Motor Services Ltd. Today he chuckles as he recalls those years. It was great fun for a youngster to have such power.

But the slump had arrived and it was not so much fun to have married men with two or more children coming to him and begging to be taken on as a clerk at 35s. a week [£1.75 in decimal, £90].

Ask him why he stuck with buses and he will become slightly annoyed. In those days there was no chance to wander from pasture to pasture, finding the most tasteful grass. People were delighted to keep what they had got. As a man with the power to hire and fire their plight was brought home to him in no uncertain fashion. He interviewed a steady procession of working men, their elbows sticking out of their coats, their families lacking clothes and food. Despite this he liked bus work.

In Hull it resulted in his being involved in something else which must have had a big effect on the formation of his character. This was a running fight with Hull Corporation who operated a rival bus service.

The young general manager found himself far from the calm, well-mannered, orderliness of the Kingsway headquarters of B.E.T. He had wanted to go out into the field but he had not realised that it would be a battle-field.

He found himself in head-on conflict with the chairman of Hull’s watch committee which was then responsible for licensing bus services in the city. The educated, well-brought-up, man from the South was faced by a self-made stoker, a Socialist by conviction and a blunt, forthright Yorkshireman by birth. Any attempt at reasoned argument was met with a stoker’s sledgehammer vocabulary. John Spencer Wills did the only thing possible – he learnt to talk the same way back.

The only snag was that the watch committee’s chairman was deaf, relying on a hearing box with earphones to listen to the young man’s retorts. The stoker adopted the only effective counter he knew to his opponent’s cogent arguments – he switched the hearing box off.

The watch committee and its chairman soon made up their minds about their attitude to the rival company’s general manager. Without putting it too strongly, they hated his guts.

But already John Spencer Wills had attracted attention from those in London. At the age of 26 he was asked to return and become a director with B.E.T. Five days after he had accepted this invitation, the corporation, not knowing of the move, surrendered. They sent a deputation to ask him to take over the management of the corporation’s bus service. It is interesting to reflect what would have happened had that deputation arrived five days earlier.

Now, however, John Spencer Wills had his feet firmly on the B.E.T. ladder. He describes his progress up that ladder over the next 20-odd years as steady, progressive plodding. This plodding carried him through the chairmanship of more than half the bus companies in the group.

But it did not carry him either so high or so fast as another facet of his earlier life which has more than a little bearing on his character. For six years, from 1933 to 1939, he held a pilot’s licence.

He took up flying when he was 28 for two reasons. First, he wanted to prove to himself that he could do it. Secondly, he thought that B.E.T., with its vast public transport interests, would expand into aviation. Until 1942 he was in fact managing director of British and Foreign Aviation Ltd and chairman of a number of aviation companies. The war, however, knocked things sideways.

He might have been a good pilot but he was a very bad navigator. Once when flying back to London from the cast he became lost and landed in the middle of a housing estate to find out where he was. The only way out was to take off smack between two houses. Today he smiles when recalling the incident and admits that he might have been killed.

More of the dare-devil in his make-up is revealed when he recalls watching the Boat Race by flying round in circles a few hundred feet above it. He also remembers taking up a girl to show her the sights of London from the air. (There was no restriction on low-flying in those days.) She was sick into her handkerchief and tossed it overboard. The slipstream caught it and smacked it back across the pilot’s goggles. John Spencer Wills is probably the only man alive today to have flown blind a couple of hundred feet above London. The girl, grand-daughter of Mr Emile Garcke, is his wife.

That was a lighter incident in his career. A more important event, which demanded just as sure a grip on the controls, was the grim battle over the 1945 Labour Government’s bid to nationalise the bus companies. Already B.E.T. had lost its electricity and gas undertakings to nationalisation. Now it was threatened with the loss of its interest in public transport.

Two big companies – Tillings and the Scottish group – sold out to the Government. But B.E.T. stuck to its belief that nationalisation was against the interests of the public, its stockholders and its staff. The fight was strenuous. Perhaps it reminded John Spencer Wills of his earlier battle against Hull Corporation; perhaps he used some of the techniques he learnt then. Nobody will dispute that he played a very important role in the anti-nationalisation campaign.

It was around this time that he was approached by Mr Allan Miller, then the controller of Broadcast Relay Services (later to become Rediffusion), with offers for him to become the managing director of the company. Each offer was more attractive than its predecessor. Each was refused. Allan Miller was not the sort of man to take ‘no’ for an answer. Nor was John Spencer Wills the sort of man to shift from the position he had taken up. It looked like stalemate but eventually a solution was found. The B.E.T. group, faced with big losses from nationalisation, took over Rediffusion and John Spencer Wills became chairman of it as well as managing director. The belief of John Spencer Wills in people approaching him had again been borne out.

Meanwhile the threat to nationalise buses had been halted so B.E.T. was left with its bus companies and Rediffusion. A few years later it was only natural that Rediffusion, with its television systems in Bermuda and Montreal already operating, should be among those to apply for a contract when it was decided to set up Independent Television in this country.

Once more John Spencer Wills and his fellow directors were called upon to make a coolly calculated decision. After many hours of anxious thought and deliberation, in which he played no small part, the decision was taken. Associated-Rediffusion was formed.

The story of the company’s early days, with the losses growing and growing, is well known. Not so well known arc the talks, worries and decisions which bespattered those troublesome times. Associated Newspapers withdrew. B.E.T. and Rediffusion took over their interests.

Behind it all were men who had considered every factor and decided to stick it out. John Spencer Wills carried more than his share of the responsibility and worry.

Now Associated-Rediffusion is under attack for the amount of money it makes and some of the programmes it transmits. As chairman he has little time for these attacks. He is not ashamed of making a profit nor is he ashamed of the programmes transmitted. But he does get annoyed at what he describes as ‘high falutin’, carping criticism’.

He thinks that the desire for entertainment and escapism are not far separated and he is not afraid to admit that, in common with a great many other people, he likes Westerns. John Spencer Wills makes no bones about the fact that he is proud to be chairman of Associated-Rediffusion and has been heard to describe the staff at Television House and Wembley as ‘a damn good lot’.

He genuinely believes in alternative and not competitive programmes. While admitting that this would be in Associated-Rediffusion’s interest, he is convinced that it would also be in the interest of the public to have a real, alternative television service.

He is also adamant about the value of people talking things over round a table. John Spencer Wills does not aim to set himself up (or anybody else) as a dictator in Associated-Rediffusion or any other company. ‘We’ve not got any and we certainly are not going to have any either.’

His own policy is not to interfere unnecessarily. He describes his role at B.E.T. as that of ‘Cabinet maker’ – to appoint the chairman and directors of the many companies within the group.

Many characteristics have combined to help carry him up the B.E.T. ladder. You will have gained a good idea of some of them from the preceding pages.

Mr W. T. James, who has also climbed high in the B.E.T. organisation, has known and worked with him for 27 years. He sums these characteristics up as follows:

A tremendous capacity for work, backed by a keen, perceptive brain. A forceful, analytical mind, logical in argument and quick to find a weakness in a case or document. This makes him a tough man with whom to negotiate. A virile imagination takes him a jump ahead of most people. He has the ability to issue the right orders and to make sure they are carried out. While not tolerating fools gladly he is a fair-minded, not ruthless, man.

Today John Spencer Wills has a not inconsiderable private fortune. Like others in a similar position he would be much better off financially if he avoided our high taxation and went to live in Bermuda or the West Indies. Why doesn’t he? Ask him and you will get a simple answer which also accounts for a great deal of his success. ‘I enjoy my work.’

Much as he attributes his success simply to this enjoyment of his work, so his chief hobby is simple. It is complete idleness. Walking and shooting are other occupations. Most weekends will find him out walking around the 2,000 acres, largely woodland, he owns in Sussex. Each weekday he compromises by walking from his house, through Kensington Gardens, to his office at Stratton House.

Dairy farming interests him as well. He lives on one farm near Battle and lets another five farms to tenants. He enjoys novels, good or bad, and likes to go to the theatre to see a serious drama.

Happily married to a lady who is well-known in the B.E.T. organisation for her charm and frequent attendance at functions all over the country, he has two sons. Colin, aged 22, is articled to a chartered accountant. Nicholas, aged 18, is now in Australia acting as a jackaroo on a sheep station before going up to Cambridge in October.

John Spencer Wills has no need to use the advertisement columns of The Times today. If he did he would certainly require more than the 17 words in which he described his qualifications in 1921. Then he had ambitions but no influence. Today he has achieved many of his objectives and acquired a lot of influence in the process. But the impression remains that he has some ambitions still to fulfil.

Sir John Spencer Wills (10 August 1904–28 October 1991) was chairman of Associated-Rediffusion.

The post Profile of John Spencer Wills appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

This article was prompted by the Machiavellian thought that by airing in Fusion something really misleading about the activities of the presentation section the so far unpenetrated mystique of our main effort may remain unpenetrated. I must admit that certain sections, notably vision mixers, sound balancers, telecine, VTR, links, MCR and certain production assistants, have a shrewd knowledge of our day-to-day operation, but beyond this club there is such a wide misunderstanding of the role of presentation’s duty team (programme officer, programme officer’s clerk and announcer) that by occasionally letting slip selected phrases like ‘…network considerations … Post Office switch … clock-hour entitlement … electronic cue-dot … George or clean feed …’ we can scare away without much difficulty those people who fondly imagine that the programme officer only has problems at times of breakdown or national crisis. To protect our interests we try to ensure that such people remain in a permanent state of healthy bewilderment about all that goes on in the presentation control room on the first floor at Television House – in fact, to have gone so far as to reveal its location is almost a breach of professional ethics.

It is with this delicate and necessary feeling for the irrelevant that I draw your attention to the photograph reproduced here. It shows Muriel Young and announcer Mel Oxley consorting with Charlie Squires’ mina bird, Will, and a Spanish girl called Magadelaina who is dressed like a Goya painting. The fact that they are all in Studio 10 (another of Presentation’s Secret Weapons) is accounted for by an exhibition of cage birds at Olympia and of Goya’s works at the Royal Academy.

But I had better explain.

For 125 consecutive Fridays ‘London Weekend’ has been transmitted after the early evening news bulletin. Its brief is to tell people what is happening (in the real world, not the telly world) in London over the weekend. The time-honoured ingredients are Laurie West’s weather forecast, a run-down of London’s main sports fixtures and, above all, an illustrated list of selected events ranging from Sheepdog Trials in Hyde Park to a route map of the Lord Mayor’s Show – whatever happens to be on.

It can, of course, be argued that one or two of our viewers might conceivably be unmoved by the prospect of an exhibition of cage birds – though Will is a good ambassador – but it is not London Weekend’s job to invent popular happenings only to describe such exhibitions or goings-on as seem to be of genuine interest in their own field, however unlikely or specialised. Unbelievably, it is only necessary to refer to a display of medieval rooks in Soho or to a collection of antique musical instruments in Holland Park, for someone to ring up, either asking for the address to be repeated or volunteering information about some more recondite subject – such as a rally of greenhouses at Catford.

The sifting of information and the impartial selection of items which seem worthy of a mention involves research in miniature; the explanation on-air requires scriptwriting in miniature; and the transmission, which combines film, slides and Studio 10, involves production in miniature. The transmission is carried out by the duty programme officer, to whom (apart from perhaps a deep breath and a raised eyebrow) it is just part of the evening’s work. The research and preparation is done by a production assistant attached to presentation, who becomes after a few weeks so knowledgeable about London affairs that she is like a walking encyclopaedia. Our current P.A., Helen Best, is always having adventures in the course of her inspection of subject-matter. She has permitted me to reveal that at a preview of rare pottery, including oriental vases worth thousands of pounds, she observed that the experts were inspecting the bottoms of the vases by holding them aloft. Not wishing to be outdone she lifted up what she thought was a particularly beautiful example of Nth dynasty pottery and gazed at it knowledgeably. A mink-clad lady near by eyed her rather oddly. A moment later poor Helen was engulfed in cocktail snacks. Unfortunately the crush was so great that she could only stand her ground with a wintry smile.

One obstacle in the path of accurate research is the unbounded enthusiasm of the PRO types at exhibitions, who provide a flood of information of varying relevance: ‘Two Irish Romany caravans have just managed to make the Camping and Outdoor Life Exhibition. One arrived at Paddington Goods Depot in good time for the show, but its wheels were with the caravan which took a devious route from County Cork to London. Irish Wagontrain Master Mr. Matt Murphy said…’ Sometimes there is a barren-looking weekend, when there really seems to be nothing to which we could send people with a clear conscience. To cover this contingency we have a number of old faithfuls like Kew Gardens, Dockland, the Tower and London Parks, which do yield, if squeezed, a surprising flow of interesting material. When there is a surfeit of events we concentrate on those which have just begun or are just about to finish, and in this way the weekly content remains fairly constant. Frequently it is the ‘dull’ weekend which on close inspection reveals odd little exhibitions of high calibre; on the other hand a reasonably interesting-sounding ‘Display of Boats’ may turn out to be a couple of shelves of dusty models, in which case we ban it loftily from our script.

We do not have any illusions about ‘London Weekend’. It is the kind of item, like the BBC’s ‘Points of View’, which inevitably gets handed to a presentation section because it is short and regular and complicated without being creative in the sense of a proper programme. Nevertheless, although it forms such a small part of the section’s work (a point which I might well be lynched for failing to labour) I have a soft spot for the assignment because for once we are indulging in something which at least approximates to other activities in the programme department. For the section which is obliged to be to some extent ‘apart’, 6.08 p.m. on Fridays is our Moment of Normality, when for a few minutes we find ourselves initiating a contribution to the station output. But who knows? By the time you read this some Master Finger may have tapped the kaleidoscope which governs the pattern of our programmes, and ‘London Weekend’ may have disappeared.

The last sentence was prophetic: after 131 editions ‘London Weekend’ was buried on April 3, 1964

The post Presentation’s moment of normality appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Let me explain from the beginning for those who do not know – Rae Knight, the programme editor of ‘Close Up’ is female, although one would never guess this from her daily post which invariably is addressed to ‘Mr Knight’ or ‘Rae Knight, Esq.’

Rae, I soon learnt, spends most of her time viewing miles and miles of film – ‘I sometimes feel more like a pit pony,’ she says, ‘just, coming up for occasional glimpses of daylight.’ But Rae has not always lived in the dark.

After reading English and History at Oxford for eight months, she had to come down owing to the death of her mother. Rae wanted a job, so she cut out three advertisements from a newspaper – one for a librarian, one to work in an insurance office and one to train as a dentist’s anaesthetist – and applied for them. She was accepted by all three and as she was equally unqualified for each, plumped for the one to train as a dentist’s anaesthetist. She loathed that and gave it up for modelling. However, dress modelling was obviously not Rae’s vocation either – ‘I wanted to laugh whenever I was meant to have a serious face’ – so after a brief spell working in various offices and even for a short time in a chocolate shop, she took a job as a factory hand.

After three weeks working the machines that make bread machines, the output per man (and one woman) must have dropped. Rae was taken off the machines for causing too great a distraction and put on to the administrative side of the factory. There she concentrated on the safety, health and general welfare of the workers.

Rae’s administrative capabilities were widened with marriage and one icy March day found her planting 22,000 cabbages on a small-holding in Kent. As many cabbage planters before her must have found, it is not the most lucrative occupation, so the benefits of an outdoor life were relinquished for a job with the BBC.

During two years there, Rae graduated from working in the film library to becoming a researcher on ‘Tonight’ and there her days of viewing film began. How did the transition to Associated-Rediffusion come about? ‘I just fell into it,’ replies Rae, ‘through someone I met at a party.’

Now, three years later, she is still viewing film, but with rather more fringe benefits. When she first began, the film industry was inclined to look down upon the television world. To be allowed snippets from new films meant constant telephoning and letterwriting to the film companies. Now, they welcome television publicity and Rae is inundated with pamphlets, photographs and invitations to film previews. Recently she was invited to Hollywood for the premier of ‘It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world’, although there is not much hope of being able to accept that. She did go to Southern Spain for the filming of ‘Lawrence of Arabia’. Many other people also went to Spain in various capacities for that film, and as sleeping accommodation became scarcer, it was arranged that members of some crews should share rooms for the night. Rae, owing to the usual mistake with her name, found she was expected to double up with a strange cameraman, until she found other accommodation.

On another occasion, Rae had arranged an interview with Hugh O’Brien where he was staying in Eaton Terrace. When she arrived, the butler showed her in but left her for a few minutes while consulting Hugh O’Brien. Strains of conversation floated out: ‘…but I’ve got this chap from TV coming…’ When it was at last established that ‘this chap from TV’ and Rae Knight were one and the same person, she was shown in. Hugh O’Brien was obviously pleasantly surprised. Other trips abroad include a visit to Rome to see Charlton Heston when he was making ‘El Cid’; Paris twice – once for ‘Goodbye Again’ to see Françoise Sagan, Yves Montand, Ingrid Bergman and Anthony Perkins, and again for ‘Waltz of the Toreadors’. Rae went to Cannes for the film festival, Madrid for ‘55 Days at Peking’ and even to Munich. That was for the filming of‘The Great Escape’ with John Sturgess and it was on that occasion that Rae gave her first television interview.

Interviewer Nick Barker was meant to be appearing and it had been arranged that he should follow Rae out with a film crew. When there was no sign of either, there was a major panic: Rae rang London to suggest dropping the interview. Instead she became the interviewer and was filmed by a German film crew, which she hired there.

If one day your young daughter should say to you: ‘I want to work in a chocolate shop when I grow up’, don’t despair – just think to what it could lead.

The post Profile on Rae Knight appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The following article has been written by ROLLO GAMBLE and is about some of the incidents which hare brightened his days as a director.

I remember making a film for the Army in India called ‘Hold Your Fire’ (until you see the whites of their eyes) – this entailed among other elaborate details, a platoon of Gurkhas dressed up in Japanese uniforms (their resemblance to the Japanese is remarkable), crossing a river and being ambushed. The river I chose was only about three feet deep and 25 yards wide in the jungle near Dehra Dun. The Gurkhas were most co-operative, for when the sun started sinking below the fringe of the trees and our cameraman shouted for lights, a Gurkha would shin up and remove the obscuring branches with his kookri [more usually spelt ‘kukri’ in English, a curved knife – Ed]. Their technique filled us with admiration – they would sit on the end of the branch and hack it at a point nearer the trunk – we would shout warnings, but these were never heeded. Sometimes they were 200 feet from the ground then, with a wonderful sense of timing as the branch cracked, they would grab part of the main tree and remain aloft hanging by an arm, roaring with laughter. We siting a rope across the river and lined the bottom with small explosives to be electrically operated by the sappers. At the word ‘action’ the Gurkha ‘Japs’ emerged from the jungle and started crossing the river holding the rope and squatting to make the water seem deeper.

Then on cue orders were given for the Indian Army ambush to go into action and the explosives were detonated in the river. To avoid the explosions the actors had been told to keep strictly to the rope. However, a few decided to act the part of dying more realistically. They flung themselves away from the rope and were carried down by the stream. It was too late to stop the explosives. At the end I had half a dozen casualties, one of whom, sadly, died – a piece of metal from a detonator easing had penetrated his anus. Every reasonable precaution had been taken and the film showed exactly what had happened, so we were all exonerated at the Court of Enquiry – however, I vowed I would never have anything to do with filming again.

Of course I did.

One of the most frightening experiences was making a film on mountain climbing at Banff Springs in the Rockies. The commentary and dialogue was in French since the television film was intended for the French-Canadian population. I had two Swiss guides to assist me, Bruno Engler and Walter Lippman (not of course, the doyen of American political commentators).

The pay-off was the successful arrival on the pinnacle of the tyro, a young French Canadian called Gil La Roche. We chose one of the minor peaks and were duly roped together by the Swiss guides. The cameraman had an auricon [16mm sound-on-film motion picture camera] in a rucksack strapped to his back. In another a clueless electrician carried the battery — upside down, so that the acid ran out and ruined a suede jacket lent him by Bruno Engler. We also carried with us a large, round, empty biscuit tin.

When reaching a well-climbed summit, it is the custom among mountaineers to sign a book which is kept inside a tin ensconced in a cairn of stones, thus proving that they have been there. Though this peak was steep enough, it was not considered by genuine mountaineers to be worthy of a cairn of its own — so we provided the tin and book and were prepared to build a cairn.

I was fat and extremely out of condition in those days — so I had more or less to be dragged to the top by the guides and the rest of the crew. On the way we filmed Gil La Roche suspended over various vertiginous chasms. One was particularly terrifying. There were two pillars bending towards each other. The gap between their tops could not have been more than 3 ft. 6 in. but the drop between was at least 2,000 feet, a mere step but what a step and a step we all had to take to reach the top.

All preparations were made for the pay-off scene when Bruno had to come in on cue with the book. But Bruno, brilliantly agile mountaineer and splendid ad lib. actor, was no good at coming in on a cue. After 17 takes tempers were frayed. Exasperated beyond endurance he shouted ‘Merde’ and punted the biscuit tin high into the air. In dismay we watched it bump down the rocky slope, plunge over the precipice, to hear it no more as it dropped thousands of feet into the valley.

French-Canadians are volatile — there are plenty of Gallic elements left in their genes. This could have started a fight, which in that precarious situation could have been dangerous. Since I was the only Englishman there, and everything is blamed upon the director anyway, it could have been especially dangerous for me. If I had not exercised tact I would no doubt have been forced to follow the biscuit tin. Luckily someone saw the funny side and all ended in laughter. Our dilemma was solved by rewriting the script. To everyone’s astonishment we won a certificate from the Canadian Government – for the best television film in French Canadian made on top of a mountain by a foreign director over 45.

Talking about prizes, I remember an extremely active year, sometime ago now, when I had collaborated with Daniel Farson. We were sent letters telling us we had been short-listed for a prize at the Television Ball. In fact several people told us (on the ‘very highest authority’) that we had a very good chance and we were advised to attend. Dan and I both loathe functions of that sort. However, for my part, vanity prevailed, I got quite excited and went off to Moss Bros for the necessary clothes. Somehow, at enormous cost, we got two returned tickets at the last minute and turned up at the Ball.

We were shown to a table already occupied by rather a sinister group of middle-aged and were received, as we introduced ourselves and sat down, extremely coldly.

Opposite me sat a stout man with an ill-fitting wig, which he adjusted from time to time. Next to him a pretty, but stern woman of 45 or so smoked from a long cigarette holder. She gave me not the flicker of a smile of welcome and I quickly realised that one of her eyes, which did not move, was glass. To add to my embarrassment, I remember, something very hard kept grating me. I began to suspect that the lady sitting next to me was rubbing my shin with a metal brace attached to her leg. There were also curious squeaks coming from under the table. I was forced to drop my napkin only to discover it was the leg of the table I hail been trying to avoid and the squeaks were coming from a sort of metal fastener the lady wore on her brogues. As I rose again to my seat, she looked at me severely and said she had been ‘observing my work of late’. Whether this was intended as praise or blame it was impossible to tell. I can never forget the unfriendly stare of those eyes around that table; if there was a relenting gleam it was in only one and that was the glass eye.

Eventually the silence was broken, a few names were dropped – a very tall, very thin man, with a finely pencilled moustache winked at me evilly — the word ‘corporation’ figured from time to time – and then, sickeningly, it dawned on me that we had blundered into the case-hardened cadre of the BBC.

Alas. They have all seceded now, some to rest forever, some to retirement with the O.B.E. and others to commercial television – for the young have taken over.

Very soon the speeches began and it became apparent we had not won a prize. The lady with the brogues bent over and whispered: ‘Better luck next time – I like your shows – jolly good live.’ ‘Not live – filmed’, I hissed. With that she turned her back and I slunk away. Dan had of course made his escape long before and I joined him at the bar, horribly disappointed. So much for prizes.

If I suffer from folie de grandeur it is only in my dreams.

I am John Huston and I am getting a long shot composed of Canyons, Kraals and 40,000 cattle. My assistants are my PA, the clapper boy (a part often doubled by me) and two or three Africans who don’t speak a word of English. We are all shouting and beating reflectors to get the cattle to stampede in the right direction. The Indians on horseback (my dream is very mixed up) who are supposed to do this only create chaos. Eventually it happens, the cattle stampede – straight at the camera and we are all immolated under pounding hooves. I then wake up with a pounding heart to meagre reality – sweating and disgruntled.

One sometimes has moments of vicarious grandeur – when one visits the houses of the great to obtain interviews. Usually, of course, one is admitted by appointment through the tradesman’s entrance. The butler who lets one in, invariably expects a large tip – and who should blame him, for the disruption of the household regime will be appalling.

There is the preliminary discussion with the VIP involved. He or she will always ask: ‘How much time does it take, how much machinery will you bring and will it make a mess, etc.’

If one has any sense, one always asks for twice as much time, describes the machinery as gigantic and dangerous and the mess disgusting. Luckily for TV most people are so vain they will put up with anything, for a chance to appear – and if one can get out fairly cleanly, it is gratifying to hear one’s victim say: ‘That wasn’t so bad after all’.

An exception to this was our visit to Barbara Cartland’s country mansion. I had been received graciously in her boudoir where she was putting the final touches to her make-up. When she asked the usual questions I exaggerated everything according to plan and told her it was unlikely we could be finished before lunch time. ‘Then we’ll all have a jolly lunch together afterwards’, she added with her immense charm.

I did not reckon with the wiring of Camfield Place. During a shot there was an appalling flash, all the lights went out and we were told the cooking stove had fused. Miss Cartland, though she must have cursed us, seemed unruffled – imperiously she summoned a man from the electricity board. We lunched off cold cuts and vitamin pills and got home shattered, exhausted and filled with admiration long past midnight. That was an ill-fated story – the programme was transmitted out of sync on its first showing and it has taken me about three years to explain to Barbara Cartland what happened.

Another occasion nearly ended in a far more sinister tragedy.

With enormous difficulty we had got permission to film an actual wedding. It wasn’t so much the church service we were interested in as the wedding breakfast, which was to take place, at lunchtime, in the Dog and Fox in Wimbledon. We had two crews, one to handle the orange blossom, confetti and all that in the morning, and the other to set up in the D. & F. for the breakfast.

The breakfast, I may say, consisted of champagne, soup, turkey, gaufrettes trifle and wedding cake. I suppose there must have been places laid for 250. At any rate it was a vast area to light and we had to hire a special generator. The crew spent the whole morning trying to start the infernal thing without success. We had our camera set, the toastmaster in his special and stentorian voice was already announcing the guests – the bride, groom, mothers and fathers were all lined up to receive – but there were no illuminations and it was useless to ‘Roll’. We were all in despair, the electrician was going mad. In a paroxysm of temper he seized a hammer and clouted the generator, intending to smash it.

It started.

The lights went up and we filmed, surf-riding on a wave of elation. But sudden transitions from despair to relief in circumstances of that sort can be dangerous. The electrician was so pleased with himself that he drained all available glasses (there were hundreds) and was seen staggering about among the lights. The baby of the bride’s sister was crawling on the carpet and was just saved from instant death as someone caught a falling 2-K inches from its head. This had the effect of sobering everybody up.

But I digress – I was talking about celebrities. I once asked the Duke of Marlborough if I could film at Blenheim. He told me of a BBC crew which had been there (with Dimbleby I think) when the sound assistant pushed his fish-pole through the face of a Holbein portrait. The Duke had the canvas sewn up by a picture restorer and apparently there is nothing to be seen of the damage – accidents happen in the best regulated societies.

With this by way of warning he gave us permission to film – I’ve always regretted that we never did. The project was cancelled.

I am reminded of a great house in Smith Square, its reception rooms walled with impressionist paintings – part of the valuable Courtauld collection – and the home of the then Home Secretary.

Mr [Rab] Butler received us with his famous sophisticated charm. We had admired the pictures and punctually were all set to go. ‘Cut, I’m sorry’, called the sound engineer. There was a strange buzzing in his cans, some electronic fault we supposed. The delay was appalling, for Mr Butler is one of those politicians who is genuinely very busy. I left the engineer, his screwdriver poking about in the entrails of the tape recorder, to make my apologies. A half-hour had gone by attempting small talk, when I noticed clustered over the microphone a swarm of flies. It was obviously the fly mating season and this was the cause of the noise. We shook the mike and fanned it, but it must have been very sticky because the flies returned every time – the only answer was to get a flit gun [a hand-pumped insecticide sprayer]. After searching the house, Mr Butler produced a very rusty flit gun from his basement. I was photographed applying the flit and this photograph made the national dailies with the caption, ‘The Home Secretary gets a flitting’. I expected to be clapped into gaol, as was the Good Soldier Schweik, who remarked in a pub in Prague as he observed a portrait of his Excellency, that flies had settled on the Archduke Ferdinand.

Now from the homes of the famous to the homeless.

Without warning I was flying towards Latin America, my mission to film the 150th anniversary of the Argentine’s liberation from Spain. Large sums of money were concealed about my person – I had to find and finance cameras, crews, film and the rest. Our contact was an American beachcomber, called Rossiter. He met me in Buenos Aires, sweating with moral disintegration – no cameras were available, only a Kodak, designed for amateurs with an automatic light meter – automatic in that it was unnecessary to set the stop. The cameraman, Pepe le Moko, only had to point, focus and squirt. We were doing this at a vast, ominous, military parade, when the news of the Chilean earthquake broke. Two hundred miles of coast had dropped three metres, a great fissure in the Pacific sea-bed had collapsed causing a tidal wave and destruction never before experienced.

Michael Ingrams and I were again in the air, our Lufthansa plane soaring over the Andes and circling endlessly the aerodrome at Santiago de Chile.

The American hotel block stands in a square opposite a Ruritanian Palace – the manoeuvres of the President’s guard causing us macabre amusement as we watched from our 17th storey suite. In the foyer of the hotel highly organised American aid airmen and WACS [US Women’s Army Corps] swarmed, with a scrum of international journalists at the bar.

Our aim, therefore, was to get to the scene of destruction as early as possible. We found a camera somewhere and a cameraman, Orlando Furioso. At 4 a.m. the next morning we were on an aerodrome in the office of the American commandant asking him to let us fly 1,000 miles south in a Globemaster. The Americans with their wonderful sense of international charity had sent a fleet of these transport planes with cargoes of medical supplies, blankets, etc. There is a wide shelf behind the pilot’s cabin. Here we lay, given cocoa and cigarettes by gum-chewing airmen resembling Hollywood extras. Michael and I were in lounge suits (his Savile Row) and had urban and effeminate footwear. We had left our bowler hats and umbrellas in the Santiago hotel.

The Chileans complain they cannot have an interesting sex life because the country is so long and narrow, they all have to stand in queues. However, it’s a marvellous country to fly down. At dawn the snow-capped peaks of the Andes are rose and the range is dotted with volcanoes in semi-eruption. The lumbering plane throbbed along. Asking Orlando Furioso for pictures of passing mountains, we discovered to our horror he had no idea how to operate the camera, let alone speak English. Having read a few ‘do-it-yourself’ pamphlets on both photography and Spanish, I was able to give him rudimentary instructions. Calculating the exposure, since this camera had no built-in meter, sent the three of us into committee every few minutes.

The plane settled, a fat turkey, at a place called Puerto Mont, or Puerto Meurt – (Port of death?) if it had been called Puerto Merde it would have been more fitting.

Shivering with cold, we trudged across the aerodrome in six inches of mud, our suits and pansy shoes suffering. In the drizzle, Michael, suave and diplomatic, persuaded the Chilean Army to lend us a jeep.

It was as if the fields and woods of Kent had been shattered and rent. Huge slices had been carved out of the road. The railway line had been whipped like a child’s skipping rope and broken up in hummocks. Hillsides had slipped into the valleys, a rich man losing in three minutes his 40,000 acre ranch as it slid cowboys, crops and stock into Lake Rinnehue [sic – Riñihue].

We reached the pathetic, broken town. Resigned figures were picking in the ruins. The boulevard, a dual carriageway along the embankment had sunk into the river, the lamp-posts and trees sticking regularly through the water. Orlando filmed soup kitchens organised by nuns, relief camps, bodies collected from ruined homes, and funerals slowly processing away.

In the hotel, cracked, still standing, but disembowelled, there was a room for us. There was no electric light, no lavatory working, no water, only wine, which somehow had survived in large quantities.

In the back an electric fan, not revolving, swayed from the ceiling. Seeing it, I remarked that it must be very draughty to move such a heavy object – not at all, I was told it was the building which was swaying, for tremors are felt for weeks after a severe earthquake.

To light us to bed we were allowed one candle. Every half-hour or so the building shook and we could hear deep in the earth, a steady thrumming. We wanted to film Michael during an earth tremor in the hotel bedroom, on the site writing his report.

So we used the candle for a key light (about six inches from his nose) and Orlando persuaded the landlady, who reluctantly let us have another candle for a filler. We ran the camera at its lowest speed, wide open. Michael did the action in the slowest of slow motion and lo-and-behold the shot came out and was used in our story on ‘This Week’. The next day I was invited into a crippled house. The old couple, their faces browned like worn ivory, lined with suffering and stoicism, insisted on giving me a glass of their local liqueur. We could not talk. I filmed them in their hopeless and dimly lit kitchen and parted in tears. A rusty old taxi took us to the aerodrome. There the ever kindly Americans squeezed us into a Globemaster, already overloaded with heart-rending refugees, and flew us back to Santiago.

After this the rest of the story filmed in Santiago was as stale as margarine is to butter. The anti-climax was intense and led us to all kinds of extremes of relaxation. However, that is a story for St Peter at the Gates of Heaven.

The post Digressions of a director appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘It’s lucky I wrote my biography in 1959,’ said Eric Maschwitz. ‘Now I can use it as a reference book whenever I want to remember something.’

He added: ‘You know, the one fact that I needed recently that wasn’t in it was the date of my second marriage. Neither my wife nor I could remember it, and in the end we had to prise her wedding ring off and look at the inscription. Now we’ve found out the date, we can celebrate it.’

At 65, Eric Maschwitz, executive producer special projects, is endearingly mild, humorous and vague. His eye for a pretty girl is as keen as ever it was when he ‘launched’ Jean Carson in ‘Love from Judy’, the West End musical. His career, which appears to have been as undisciplined as a Mongolian lamb rug and as colourful as a Persian carpet, has provided him with an unending stream of amusing stories. He sheds anecdotes among his listeners as easily as other people scatter crumbs to pigeons.

He is the writer of several musicals and more than 300 lyrics, including ‘These Foolish Things’ and ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’. (‘I feel a great joy whenever I hear them being played at the thought that they’re still earning me money,’ he says). As director of variety for BBC sound, he originated ‘In Town Tonight’, still going strong. In Hollywood he wrote the screen version of ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips’. In his five years as head of BBC television’s light entertainment from 1958, he started up ‘The Black and White Minstrel Show’, ‘Juke Box Jury’, ‘Compact’, ‘Steptoe’ and many other series.

Joining Rediffusion in 1963 ‘at the request of my old friend John McMillan’, his first production was ‘Our Man at St. Mark’s’.

Later he brought Stella Richman into the company and with Cyril Coke devised ‘The Rat Catchers’.

Moreover, this brief outline mentions nothing of his exciting wartime career – during which a certain Major John McMillan was under his command – nor of his two marriages, the first to comedy star Hermione Gingold.

With a man like this, where does one begin when asked, as I have been by the editor of Fusion, to write a ‘short profile’?

In fact, I began by reading Eric’s autobiography, published in 1959, and called ‘No Chip on my Shoulder’. It is a fascinating book crammed with well-known names, entertaining stories and, incidentally, too many exclamation marks!

It seemed that the best way to give readers an idea of the adventures in Eric’s life would be to print – with his permission – some extracts from the book, along with a potted biography. Born in Birmingham, Eric went to Repton School with a classical scholarship, then to Caius College, Cambridge, where he read modern languages. At Repton he wrote his first lyrics for a school operetta and at Cambridge he became a ‘leading lady’, playing Vittoria Corombona in ‘The White Divel’ for the Marlowe Society.

After this he tried several careers-journalist, novelist, repertory actor, peanut vendor in a french travelling circus, waiter in a French café, and principal of a correspondence course in short-story writing. During this time – he packed a lot into five years – he married Hermione Gingold.

When he was literally down to his last pair of shoes – dancing shoes – Eric joined the BBC at Savoy Hill, where for six months his job as assistant director of outside broadcasting brought him in £300 a year [£15,500 in today’s money, allowing for inflation – Ed]. Specialisation seems to have been unheard of then and he mucked in on everything from writing to broadcasting himself.

From this, he became editor of the ‘Radio Times’, one of his assistants being Val Gielgud. In his seven years as editor he found time to take up writing for radio drama, beginning with an adaptation of Compton Mackenzie’s novel ‘Carnival’, for which, in spite of many revivals, he never received a penny extra.

Soon after this he was introduced to George Posford, a jazz enthusiast who had graduated from the Royal College of Music, and together they wrote ‘Good Night, Vienna’, for the radio. Film rights were bought by Herbert Wilcox for a mere £200 [£12,000], and it was made into one of the first ‘talkies’ in this country, with Jack Buchanan and Anna Neagle starring.

In 1933, Eric Maschwitz was offered the post of variety director for the BBC with the job of doubling the output of ‘light’ programmes. ‘In Town Tonight’ was thought up by him as a means for filling one of the ‘peak’ hours – 6.30 pm on Saturday.

‘With a little fast talking I got the title accepted by the planners, though I had in truth only the sketchiest notion as to what form the feature would eventually take,’ he recalls. ‘There was no script until on the morning of the first performance I sat down at the typewriter and hastily thought up “the roar of London’s traffic” and the flower-girl murmuring “sweet violets”to be interrupted by the stentorian shout of “Stop”.’

The words for ‘These Foolish Things’ were written one Sunday morning when Eric, pyjama-clad, unshaven and suffering from lack of rest, was sipping coffee and vodka.

By lunchtime the words had been dictated over the telephone to Jack Strachey, and that evening a melody had been composed.

‘I was, I must shyly confess, bitterly disappointed in it,’ reveals Eric. ‘Nor did Jack care for the title; he wanted to call the song “These Little Things”.’

Surprisingly, the song aroused no special interest. ‘No publisher would oblige (even the firm of Keith Prowse, to which I was under contract at the time, gladly gave me a letter releasing it). We put it into a West End revue; still it failed to set the musical Thames on fire.’ However, one day Leslie Hutchinson (‘Hutch’), the West Indian singer, found the manuscript on top of Eric’s office piano, played it, liked it and recorded it. The song was an immediate success, and so was Eric. He was interviewed in New York, in his column Walter Winchell reproduced the lyrics in full, and ‘the pretty ladies with whom I danced wanted alas! no more of me than that I should breathe those lyrics into their shell-like ears!’ The song has earned Eric altogether more than £30,000 [£480,000], he estimates.

Two amusing tales from his days as variety director point up Eric’s inventiveness. Asked to be the commentator for the arrival of Amy Johnson, on her return from her recordbreaking flight to Australia, Eric was faced with 40 empty minutes, because the aeroplane was delayed. ‘I filled up the time by giving the listeners a Short History of Flying, taken from a sixpenny booklet which somebody had thoughtfully purchased from the airport bookstall!’

On the night of the Jubilee Ball from the Albert Hall, the BBC had ‘elected to broadcast the first half-hour of just the sort of occasion at which the majority of the guests arrive late’. When Eric got to the hall it was completely empty, except for the orchestra. He could find no trace of the OB official who was supposed to be in charge. So, with the broadcast ‘hooked up’ to all parts of the Empire, something had to be done. ‘As the red light began to blink, I gathered together the waiters who had been hanging around the edges of the floor and made them waltz with each other so that we might have at least the sound of dancing feet.’ The orchestra played and Eric drew upon his considerable imagination to describe a vivid scene of princes, potentates and famous beauties arriving at the ball.

Even the award to Eric of the OBE in recognition of his services to broadcasting, was not quite straightforward. For although he was in one of the first Honours Lists after the death of King George V, he did not actually receive his decoration until after the Abdication. The document starts, therefore: ‘We Edward the Eighth etc.’ At the investiture, Eric, having neglected to wear gloves, had to borrow a cotton pair ‘slightly disfigured by iron-mould’ from one of the Royal Servants. But he was elated when the King, with whom 17 years before he had made up a four at tennis a few times, remarked: ‘It seems a long time since we used to play tennis together at Cambridge!’ Returning from the Palace, Eric learned that the musical spectacular play ‘Balalaika’, which he had written and produced, had been bought by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer for a six-figure sum. This led to an offer of a writing contract with the company, and in 1937 Eric joined the Hollywood studios at £350 a week [£20,000].

In spite of the money, the climate, and a Mexican-style bungalow in Beverly Hills, in spite of parties galore, Eric was dissatisfied. There was no work for him to do. Although he had been engaged primarily to work on the screen version of ‘Balalaika’, three other writers were assigned to it instead. (The result of their work Eric describes as ‘a piece of cheese’, but adds ‘it made a fortune’).

He decided to return to London. ‘So far the studio had paid me over $30,000 for doing almost precisely nothing; only madmen, I thought, would wish to keep me there any longer.’ But the studios, he found, liked to keep talent in reserve, and it was not so easy to escape. When he became really restless, he was asked to re-write someone else’s screen version of ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips’. This he did, enjoying the work, but trying nevertheless to complete it by the time his six months’ contract expired, and before his option could be renewed. He managed it – with a few hours to spare.

When the 1939 war came, Eric volunteered, and eventually found himself with M.I.6, working from a suite in the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool.

‘Our “cover” in the hotel was that my colleagues were interested in the production of a new revue of which I was to be the writer; to lend colour to this perhaps improbable story they gave one theatrical party after another. To add plausibility to the set-up I actually began to write a revue.’ The result was the hit show ‘New Faces’ in which Judy Campbell introduced ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ to a delighted audience.

At a later stage in the war he was appointed liaison officer between the War Office and Broadcasting House to ensure that radio programmes heard by the troops were morale-boosting.

Eric’s book tells of many of his other wartime exploits – which included a period in New York with the military staff of ‘British Security Co-ordination’ and a mission to Lisbon, as well as the production of several more musicals. He also, while in the Broadcasting Section of Army Welfare, devised a scheme for making recorded programmes in London and shipping them out to stations overseas to be heard by British troops.

This brought into existence the ORBS (Overseas Recorded Broadcasting Service) in which the Navy and the Air Force also helped.

It was while with the Psychological Warfare Branch of SHAEF [Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force] that Eric obtained a divorce and married Phyllis Gordon, his present wife, a girl he had known for 10 years. Eric, as a lieutenant-colonel, renewed a prewar acquaintance with John McMillan when he took charge of broadcasting for the War Office.

‘My new job was a very interesting one. With the armies as they fought their way towards Germany went three mobile radio-transmitters from which programmes were broadcast to the troops. This Field Broadcasting Unit was under the command of Major “Johnny” McMillan, a taciturn, poker-faced Australian whom I had known as a producer for commercial radio before the war. He ruled a rather turbulent assembly of broadcasters and technicians with a rod of iron.’

As part of his task of setting up a British Forces Network in Germany – it was obvious that the enemy would soon surrender and entertainment was needed for British troops who would no longer be occupied with fighting – he drove with John McMillan into Hamburg. There they requisitioned the Musikhalle, a vast concert hall, as a new headquarters. A transmitter was taken over at Norden; an entire staff of German technicians recruited; and ‘within a few days the admirable McMillan who possessed a miraculous gift for getting things done, had the German post office engineers busy linking our new station with Hamburg by land-line’. Events moved quickly and soon test programmes were being transmitted.

‘Once more in Brussels where I had gone to listen to the tests and incidentally catch up with the paper-work in my office, I was alarmed to receive a signal from Hamburg to the effect that in view of the excellent performance of the transmitter it was proposed to put a regular programme service into operation as from the next day. On learning of this the Brigadier, who had all along been a little doubtful of our enthusiasm, dictated a signal ordering Major McMillan to postpone his intentions until such time as proper consideration could be given to them. This ukase [Russian: a proclamation by the Tzar] went astray or was conveniently “lost” at the receiving end; the following morning when we tuned in as usual to the tests, we were greeted by the voice of one of our sergeant-announcers proudly proclaiming the birth of the British Forces Network in Germany! The transmission was so good and official congratulation so general that nothing more was ever heard about the missing signal.’

Eric also recalls that he enjoyed staying at ‘Johnny’s mess’. The house of a Hamburg banker, it was situated just outside Osnabruck, and ‘contained bedrooms designed, it seemed, to house Madame Pompadour’ and two Bechstein concert grand pianos. ‘My resourceful subordinate,’ this chapter of the book notes, ‘had further added to the amenities of the establishment by recruiting a first-class German chef and a head waiter who, before the war, had served at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. Both cooking and service were so Lucullan that the Brigadier, upon one of his occasional visits of inspection, drew me aside with the words: “I say, don’t you think that fellow McMillan’s going a bit too far?”’ (I was amused to see that Eric has mis-spelt his present general manager’s name in every reference to him – but of course, that was in 1959, when Eric Maschwitz was still unconnected with television and able to write in his book apropos the theatre ‘And over all looms the sinister shadow of Television’!)

After the war came a revue produced on a shoestring, then ‘Carissima’ in 1948 with music by Hans May, a terrific success in spite of bad notices from the critics. While he was working on this, Val Parnell asked Eric to collaborate on a revue to be produced at the Hippodrome, ‘Starlight Roof’. In the cast was a child coloratura the then unknown Julie Andrews, who was nearly taken out of the show by the producer who called her performance ‘a circus act’.

‘Serenade’ followed, then ‘Belinda Fair’, after which Eric formed his first connection with television, writing a series of comedies called ‘Family Affairs’ for the BBC. Then there was a television version of ‘Carissima’ starring Barbara Kelly, which was ‘the most elaborate and costly musical production so far attempted by the BBC” and written in 82 scenes.

‘Zip Goes a Million’ came next, ‘Love from Judy’ (starring Jean Carson who had been admired by Eric in ‘Starlight Roof’ and ‘pushed’ into this part by him), ‘Romance in Candlelight’ and ‘Summer Song’.

In 1958 Eric was made head of light entertainment for BBC television, rejoining the BBC fold after an absence of 19 years. On his retirement at the age of 62 came the invitation to join Rediffusion, for whom he had already produced as a freelance.

‘I had provided a package deal of script, cast and music for a 26-part adventure serial called “Destination Downing Street” for only £600 [£12,300] an episode,’ he recalls. His records show that Susan Hampshire, then unknown, was paid £14 [£285] for an appearance and Stratford Johns £21 [£430]. He also remembers casting Richard Harris for 17 guineas [£17 17s, £17.85 in decimal, £365 today], and Fenella Fielding (as a belly dancer) for £23 [£470].

What of the present? Eric is working only part-time now for the company. He also produces a monthly news bulletin about ITV for circulation in Europe and the Far East.

Ahome in Marylebone he has just produced a new version of Franz Lehar’s ‘The Count of Luxembourg’ and is in the middle of revising ‘The Chocolate Soldier’, both for performance by amateur operatic societies. (He has always taken an immense interest in the amateur societies and has made many adaptations, and even written a new work, for them.)

He is looking for a composer for the new stage musical he is working on and which he won’t talk about yet. ‘The Press are all pestering me to know about it, but I’m not saying anything.’ With the agreement of the company, he is compèring a weekly record series on the radio and he is, and has been for the past 14 years, on the Council of the Performing Rights Society. (In 1962 he won the Ivor Novello Award for his services to popular music).

With such a full life, I asked him the other day, is there anything he regrets not having done?

‘I’d like to have gone into the Church or education,’ he replied. Then, turning to his secretary June Wisden, who has been with him now for six years, he said: ‘Did I ever tell you about the time when …’

Eric was off on another of his reminiscences…

⦿ Albert Eric Maschwitz OBE was born on 10 June 1901 in Birmingham and died on 27 October 1969 in Berkshire

The post The amazing Eric Maschwitz !!! appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘Associated-Rediffusion . . . Can I help you? . . . One moment please’.

A nimble hand plugs the cord firmly into one of the 500 holes, or jacks as they are called, each representing an extension and the connection is established.

Did you know that our Private Branch Exchange handles calls at the rate of 150 an hour on average?

Supervisor Dorothy Brown and a staff of 10 telephonists work in shifts from 8.30 a.m. to the end of transmission at the eight positions into which the switchboard is divided. From 8 p.m. onwards only one operator is on duty unless an unusual influx of calls is expected.

At present we are using about 65 lines but the number will be increased to more than 100 shortly which will mean less waiting for free lines and fewer engaged signals for the outside caller.

Up to 40 telegrams a day are also handled in P.B.X.

They vary greatly in destination, language, length (up to 600 words) and cost (some telegrams cost as much as £50 [£950 in today’s money, allowing for inflation – Ed]) and as each word has to be spelled out by analogy this section of P.B.X. absorbs much time.

All routine office work connected with the running of the exchange, such as the issue of tickets for trunk calls, book keeping and checking figures with accounts department, is also done by the telephonists themselves.

The board indicators also have to be kept up to date continuously. They show where members of the staff can be contacted if out of their offices, where rehearsals are taking place and which teams are connected with them.

Many of the P.B.X. staff have been with the company since its embryonic beginnings. They will never forget those chaotic days when we first moved to Television House while the workmen still had very much the upper hand. The rusty old Air Ministry switchboard, relegated to a state of comfortable disintegration, had to be coaxed back into unaccustomed activity. This was no mean feat as some of the cords were completely useless and the rest were stiff and unmanageable.

On top of this, manual working was the rule. To the uninitiated this means that every local call had to be connected instead of members of the staff dialling their own numbers. The noise of the workmen frequently drowned the voices at the other end of the line and, as the switchboard had to be shared with ATV, a mild state of confusion was unavoidable.

To add to the telephonists’ trials and tribulations in those days, there was no internal telephone directory so it was left to their individual ingenuity and Supt. Lockhart qualities to find out where to contact the people concerned and to track them down in offices or studios, at rehearsals and committee meetings.

Those were the primitive days of hurricane lamps which had to be pumped up periodically and of walks down to Kingsway station in the interest of sanitation – the days which for some inexplicable reason, despite discomforts, none of us would have missed.

Among those who recall them in P.B.X. are:

Mrs Dorothy Brown, the supervisor, who has a son of 20 and likes to get away to her country refuge in Suffolk whenever she gets a chance. Apart from outdoor life she is very fond of opera and the ballet.

Mrs Phyllis Laycock, head telephonist, who has a boy of 15 and girl of 13 and likes to play bridge.

Mrs Ziska Branford, whose hobbies arc dancing and the theatre; Miss Barbara Knight, who loves driving and painting; Mrs Doreen Osborn, married to Ikon Osborn, one of our film camera men which accounts for her hobby: photography; Mrs Eve Tickner, who is fond of riding and Mrs Margaret Baston, mother of a 15-year-old daughter.

A very popular member of the P.B.X. staff is Pat Pullen, who lost her husband some years ago and joined the company in 1957 to help bring up her three children now aged 9, 11 and 13, and who still manages to do her own dressmaking and interior decorating.

Mrs Grace Roberts is the only grandmother in the room and a very modern one at that since she is fond of fencing and motoring.

To round off the galaxy of Associated-Rediffusion telephonists there is Winnie Perkins, mother of two teenage children, Anita Milligan who loves to watch wrestling, Pat Brazier, an ex-Queen Mary telephonist and Margaret Head who has the most appropriate hobby of all: watching TV.

Altogether they are a happy team. None of the staff has ever left for any lesser reason than to emigrate or to have babies.

The operator’s job is a thankless one for her unobtrusive efficiency is usually taken for granted while the slightest delay or – heaven forbid – a wrong connection brings her immediately into the foreground with frayed tempers and impatient criticism.

Because she does not directly contribute to any of the company’s activities the telephonist is also often placed on a somewhat lower level of importance, unfairly so, of course, since none of us could do without her and she can rightly claim to have – literally and metaphorically speaking – a hand in everything.

In addition to ordinary business calls, our P.B.X. acts as an overflow for the Duty Officer and handles many viewers’ calls, usually a comment of some sort on one of the programmes or performers, and ranging from the highest possible praise to the lowest possible abuse. Typical complaints we get from people who are apparently oblivious of the most obvious alternative at their disposal:

‘This programme was utter tripe, I demand to speak to the General Manager’. ‘My children have ruined my furniture and carpet with buckets of water and flour after seeing your slapstick comedy show!’ ‘I distinctly saw a shadow on the newscaster’s upper lip, surely he is not thinking of growing a moustache?’

Discretion, diplomacy and a good sense of humour arc high up on the list of essential requirements for all our telephonists when it comes to sorting out the constructive criticism type of complaint from the trivial, ignorant or abusive. Serious, controversial programmes generally provoke a flood of calls from viewers with strong views on the subject.

Some callers are unmistakably the worse for drink. There is a woman who rings up regularly after ‘Cool for Cats’ asking to speak to Kent Walton. There is even the occasional crank to contend with and sometimes a flood of obscene language, but our operators take it all in their stride.

Children ring up frequently to discuss some programme detail or to ask to speak to their favourite heroes such as William Tell or Robin Hood. It is not uncommon for them to sing advertising jingles to the telephone operator.

Once an obviously very young viewer asked if she could speak to Pussy Cat Willum. The operator could not get a reply from the department concerned so, rather than disappoint the child, she put on a most convincing imitation of Pussy Cat Willum much to the delight of the little girl and – I should imagine – to the astonishment of anyone unsuspectingly entering P.B.X. at the time.

What about us, I asked. How do we rate as individual subscribers in P.B.X.? Well, the telephonists’ long service record indicates that we must at least be tolerable and they had a lot of encouraging things to say about us generally but, just in case you want to brush up your ‘phone-side’ manner’, here is the expert’s idea of the perfect subscriber.

He, or she, is . . .

Considerate: He always tells P.B.X. when he moves his office, changes his extension, engages new staff.

Patient: He takes delays in his stride, taps only twice when he wants a call transferred and if he does not get an answer from the switchboard right away he does not immediately conclude that the telephonists have all conspired against him or are taking a crafty nap.

Tolerant: If he gets cut off accidentally he does not blow his top. (Incidentally, women are more temperamental than men when this happens.)

Polite: He is respectful and treats the operator as a helpmate without claiming to have a monopoly on her services. He is appreciative and does not always disguise it.

Well, what do you think your chances are to win the Associated-Rediffusion Oscar for the most considerate subscriber?

The post Nimble hands and a sense of humour appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The development team, under Mike Spooner, was led by Geoff Pryke, supervisory engineer, planning, and consisted of Bob Warren, Dave Johnson, George Jackson, Eric Ruckle, Jack Nichols, Peter Koller, Jim Beasley and Dave Skeate.

Great assistance was given by Jim Crossley and Jim Runkel throughout, and also involved of course, was mike metcalfe, engineer-in-charge, E-cam ops., the author of this article.

The concept of E-cam was born from a desire to produce high quality film programmes by television methods. If this long standing dream of programme producers could be realised, it would not only reduce production costs, but would overcome the serious technical problems associated with the international exchange of programmes for television.

The varying line standards of the television systems used throughout the world severely inhibit the free exchange of programmes, and a conversion process is necessary before material recorded in one country can be played back in a country with different line standards.

Originally the conversion process was an optical transfer, and in essence, consisted of a television camera on one standard, viewing programme material displayed on a monitor of a different standard.

Later developments have removed the optical transfer and are purely electronic with consequent gains in picture quality. The system works well for black-and-white material and can be used for live or previously recorded programmes.

The future interchange of colour programmes, however, presents an acute problem. Not only must consideration be given to the line standards of the countries concerned, but also the system of colour television employed, there being several in current use throughout the world and variants of each.

Programmes on film however, do not suffer from these technical limitations as the telecine machine used to transmit a film is already working on the required system and so the process becomes automatic.

This applies to both black-and-white and colour films – if the telecine is colour equipped of course – and removes completely the problem of conversion and colour system compatibility. Since all television stations possess telecine equipment, film has become the universal currency of programme exchange. However, film making by traditional methods can be long and expensive compared with television, and various ways have been sought to combine the best of both techniques.

The idea of coupling a television camera to a film camera in order to monitor the scene remotely and to facilitate the control of several cameras simultaneously is not new. A photo-recording system was devised in 1955 by Dumont in New York in collaboration with Arnold & Richter of Munich, and although it had limited success, it nevertheless showed the value of the concept. Since that time, several systems, using both 16 and 35 mm. film in various configurations have been developed, each having its own particular advantage. In the latest development of Electronicam the film camera used, a well tried Arriflex 35 mm., has been developed by Arnold & Richter from the original prototype system of 1955. The television channel using a Plumbicon picture tube and embodying the latest circuitry, was produced by Fernseh in collaboration with our own engineers, to a first-class broadcasting specification.

Briefly, the system works as follows. Light from the studio scene is focused by a zoom lens on to the film in the camera gate. A specially designed reflex shutter in front of the film gate has two reflecting segments. These mirrored sections allow a proportion of the available light to be reflected through a suitable system of correcting lenses into the Plumbicon camera attached to the side of the film camera.

The two mirrored sections of the shutter are of equal area, one operating during film pull-down and the other during film exposure. The shutter revolves at a constant speed of 25 frames per second, giving the two equal exposures per revolution necessary, one for each field of the television picture. The mirror segments are so arranged that the film receives full exposure at ¹⁄₅₀ sec.

The television picture, therefore, is an exact replica of the scene viewed through the film camera lens and is available to a monitor viewfinder mounted at the back of the camera. The cameraman uses this viewfinder in exactly the same way as in a television camera and has normal control of zoom, focus and framing etc. The television picture is also available to monitors in the various control rooms.

The method of operation follows closely that of a standard television studio production. Pictures from all cameras are permanently available to the director whether the film is running or not. Rehearsal takes place in the usual manner and film is only exposed for the actual transmission/take. During rehearsal when film is not being exposed, an estimate of the amount of film to be used during the subsequent take is indicated by footage counters, one for each camera, displayed on the control desk. Careful pre-planning ensures that the sequences are arranged for the most economical use of each camera’s 1,000 ft. magazine of film (approximately 10 minutes running time) and that no camera runs out of film during the take. The actual transmission/take is accomplished by pressing the appropriate button on the simple vision mixer panel which starts the film camera and switches its television picture to ‘transmission’. Cutting from one camera to another is achieved by pressing the appropriate buttons, and after a delay of approximately ⅓ second, to enable the camera motor to attain speed, the vision is automatically switched and the film exposed.

For fast cutting sequences an extra button is provided enabling the selected cameras to stay running while cutting between them, thus obviating the running-up delay. This method, of course, is wasteful of film and should only be used for short periods. As it is not possible to fade or mix between the film cameras, the vision mixer is a simple ‘cut only’ device. Opticals and other effects are added where required in the film laboratories.

Programme sound is recorded in the normal way on sprocketed magnetic tape running in synchronism with the film cameras. To facilitate the later assembly of the processed film, a cue tone, having a different frequency for each camera, is recorded on the magnetic sound tape on another track alongside the programme sound. These tones are selected automatically by the vision mixer’s cut buttons. During the assembly of the processed film, the cue tones are played back on a synchroniser to identify the camera and to serve as a guide for the assembly of the film.

To allow the lighting director to maintain consistent film exposure, the lens iris of each camera can be remotely operated from the lighting control console. Comprehensive picture and waveform monitoring facilities are available to the exposure controller and the lighting director to enable the close exposure tolerances required for successful colour filming to be maintained.

By close control of the electronics (which require a high degree of stability) the television camera can be used as an exposure meter and the high definition pictures from it give a continuous indication of what the film is recording. The system is equally capable of filming in colour or black-and-white, and it is in its colour role that its greatest virtue will become apparent. At a time when the complexity of interchanging colour programmes recorded electronically is becoming apparent, the E-cam system can be a vital link in the chain of international programme exchange.

The post E-cam appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The backbone of competitive television is the dramatic series. Study the TAM ratings (and the BBC equivalent if you can manage to microfilm it during an under-cover visit to Television Centre!) and you will find this to be incontestable.

Such ‘hero figures’ as Lockhart, Crane, Maigret, Dixon, Cork, Steed, Barlow, Burke, Kildare, Casey, Perry Mason and the Prestons have large and devoted audiences of their own. The first seven on the list are ‘tape heroes’, the remainder belong on film. The members of the former group are exclusively British, the latter dyed-in-the-wool Americans. The distinction is important and to be borne in mind.

Popular taste in ‘hero figures’ tends to change as time goes by. Not so many years ago cowboys and sheriffs had a virtual monopoly of the field: today their place has largely been taken by doctors, lawyers and increasingly eccentric minions of the law.

The reason for the popularity of dramatic series is perhaps too obvious to mention here. Their programmes, 60 minutes weekly, are ‘escapist’ and ‘action packed’. Familiarity with them breeds loyalty to the hero, to his personal methods and mannerisms, an advantage not shared by the hero of the single separate play.

From the beginning our Independent Television. following perhaps the American lead, spiced its programme pattern generously with dramatic series. Some years later the BBC ‘got the message’ – with striking results in the competitive battle.

A large proportion of series on both channels here are still American in origin. The same picture can be found in many other territories: the flowery waterways of the Far East resound nightly to the ever-successful pleading of Perry Mason and the burst of gunfire from the Sherman ranch.

The reasons for this are very easily explained. The American series, recorded exclusively on film with cinematic technique, offers fast, often spectacular entertainment, appealing to the eye as well as to the ear. Here is escapism par excellence – for the Tired Business Man and the Exhausted Coolie alike. Settings are native to a continent with scenery ranging from the Puerto Rican slums of New York to the steaming swamps of the Everglades, from Alaskan snow to the Painted Desert, a continent whose inhabitants still indulge in the sort of violent crimes and adventures that would be quite out of the question in our own sceptred isle.

There is also the little matter of costume. For a century and a half we British have been a small, crowded, orderly people condemned, as far as the male at least is concerned, to a more or less standard style of dress, i.e. the three-piece suit topped by a bowler, a boater, homberg or a cloth cap. We have Highland dress alone to match against the feathers and wampum, holsters and ten-gallon hats, and the furs of the frozen North.

Picture and story values apart, however, the outstanding advantage of the American series is its easy availability and comparative cheapness in the overseas market. The production of a television film of any real quality is an expensive business. The £20,000 [£330,000 in today’s money allowing for inflation – Ed] that it costs in this country cannot easily be recouped – not, that is, unless the producer achieves that rarest of successes, a sale to the U.S.A. As against this it is usually possible to acquire the British rights in a top-class American film for a few thousand pounds. Such films have already recovered their costs in the home market and Britain forms part of the international Tom Tiddler’s ground from which their producers are picking up so much gold.

It is no good pretending that we can do without filmed series. We need them, not only for their quality and availability, but in order that organisations with ever-strained studio facilities can occasionally ‘call it a day’ and leave the job to the chap in charge of telecine! One can imagine the harassed controller of BBC 2 sometimes wishing that his quota of foreign film material might be a little larger.

So much for the filmed series. We may admire it, we certainly make use of it, but it is really none of our business over here. We are first and foremost ‘television men’ working in television studios upon live production with electronic cameras and the skill and techniques that have grown up with them. The film is not ‘true television’, it is merely a form of ‘home movies’, no different in essence from the old feature films that we occasionally take off the shelves. The only ‘true’ television is live television which, as far as drama and light entertainment are concerned, has virtually disappeared from the transatlantic screen. It is a challenge to writer, director, actor and cameraman among many others to work more excitingly, more immediately and less expensively than the film maker. Of the 20 top-rating drama series broadcast weekly in this country are produced ‘live’, most of them continuously on VTR, two of them ‘live direct’, that is to say that they reach the audience as they are being performed.

Like others no doubt the writer has had the satisfying experience of showing British drama shows to visiting American pundits who simply could not believe that what they were seeing was ‘live’ (at the thought that it might be ‘live direct’ their imaginations boggled as they re-filled their glasses!).

Let us hope that we may be allowed to keep it this way. ‘Live’ drama may not, in general, have the gloss of its filmed counterpart: by way of compensation, however, it has an impact and an urgency that are peculiarly its own. Should it ever be entirely replaced by film there would vanish a hundred special skills which have made it an exciting entertainment form (even an art form) of its own. The planning and realisation of weekly drama series constitutes the toughest job in all ‘true’ television production. Tough because it implies the operation of an ‘assembly line’ from which is to be produced, with a maximum of six days rehearsal, a weekly drama of 60 minutes duration (as compared with the occasional 75-minute play which on the average can claim a rehearsal period of at least 14 days). Tough because from the point of view of the script editor and his team of writers it demands an incessant creativity without the freedom to branch away from a story formula and a set of characters.

And finally tough because if it should cease to figure in the Top Twenty it will be considered to have been a more or less regrettable ‘flop’. The series, once launched and established, runs the risk of being regarded as a valuable old ‘work horse’ never to be ‘put out to grass’. It receives little continuing publicity or critical interest from the Press. The boffins who distribute the budget tend to take it for granted: a request for additional finance may be received with a sense of outrage comparable to that experienced by Mr Bumble when Oliver Twist had the impertinence to ask for more.

Any such parsimony in the provision of money or facilities is not only from the policy point of view short-sighted, it further constitutes an injustice to the devoted production team involved. From the team’s point of view to be looked upon as a ‘backbone’ is a doubtful distinction. Who bothers about a backbone until it slips a disc?

The post Tape or live heroes? appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Cast your minds back to last October. In one week we had a general election, Russia dispensed with Kruschev [sic] and China exploded a bomb. On the following Monday with the Outer Hebrides result still due we were contemplating the state of the parties … the telephone rang, ‘Please’, said a breathy, secretarial voice, ‘Could you tell me if Parliament is sitting?’

Not all queries are answered quite so readily. A great deal of time is spent begging photographic agencies to send us pictures of ‘aeroplanes about to crash at night’, ‘jets taking off dramatically’ or ‘a plane in flight at an angle to match the picture I am holding in my hand of a bird in flight’. We were asked for a picture of a middle-aged man in a passionate embrace with a young girl. Having no luck, but an avalanche of suggestions, we put out an emergency call to the staff – alas all we got were middle-aged men. Aviation apart, subjects range from left-handed polo players to Zeppelins flying from left to right at night.

Checking spelling and helping with your letters to Dukes and Lords, together with those elder sons of Earls helps the day pass. There are also calls to various establishments on your behalf. One of us once rang the Tower of London, ‘Is that the Keeper of the Tower?’ ‘No,’ replied a quiet elderly voice, I’m his mother.’ We are quite accustomed to worried stage-managers asking us whether a man stabbed in the back would die with his eyes open or closed … how far would a brick have to fall to kill someone … what are the death agony symptoms of certain poisons?

The books on our shelves are a combination of standard reference and technical handbooks. As a library we are able to borrow from any public library in the London boroughs. People ask for stories they think might adapt for programmes, some we feel are not really for this purpose at all. Did you ever see a programme based on ‘The Naked Lunch’? We had fun last year trying to borrow a book for someone who was sure it was called ‘Cobbles from my Brain’ – we did, however, track down ‘Pebbles from my Skull’. We have a copy if you want to read it. Our most cherished memory of the American library dates back to 1962 … we rang to ask for any biographies of President Kennedy and still find it hard to believe they really said, ‘We don’t have any, after all, everyone knows all albout him anyway’. Among the facts we check are place and club names, and in the case of the armed services whether we are about to use an actual officer’s name in a programme. The first time we rang the Army Records Office only to be told, ‘Oh, we don’t keep records here’. We now know where to ring. Sometimes we feel like an annexe of W. H. Smith’s with more than 500 magazines passing through our hands each week in addition to the daily papers and Television Times. [sic]

Then there are quotations. It is better to check before broadcasting. The best yet; ‘Is it really, “Oh that this too too solid flesh would melt melt”?’

We have our dissatisfied customers. There was the researcher who returned the Tenniel drawings of‘Alice in Wonderland’ because they didn’t really look like Alice … or the one who wouldn’t believe that an actual photograph of Sherlock Holmes, even without pipe, didn’t exist … or the one who couldn’t understand why we were unable to obtain photographs of aboriginal houses, although our resident Aussie explained that they are ‘nomadic’ so they don’t stop anywhere long enough to build them.

Being British the weather is often the subject under discussion. When illustrating types of traffic hazards we were asked for a picture of traffic ‘in smog so thick you cannot see a thing’. Or country snowdrifts over 16 feet high (how the photographer arrived and departed was apparently his problem), buildings about to be struck by lightning or a river about to overflow its banks. We must hand a bouquet to photographic agencies; they try very hard on our behalf. Once when trying to find pictures of Chinese farm workers studying, a helpful Chinaman offered to go home and take some.

Incorporated in the library picture collection is the Weaver-Smith collection. This consists of 300,000 engravings covering the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. The designers and programme staff use them frequently and we also loan them to outside concerns. One of these once asked if they might borrow again the engraving they had had five years ago. ‘It was,’ they said, ‘one of a medieval street with a dog in the corner.’

If this article has given you the idea that working in the library can be fascinating and fun we are pleased. It is and we enjoy it even though we sometimes feel that this query is the toughest yet … until the next one comes along.

We could fill a few pages of Fusion with anecdotes but writing this article has quite satisfied any desire we had to go into print. We leave you and return wholeheartedly to the search for ‘a man on a raft alone in the middle of the ocean’, to check the spelling of Popocatepetl and the satellite ‘Early Bird’ (honestly!) and endeavour to find a photograph of‘a municipal rubbish dump’. If you should require any strange information do ring us, or come and browse through the books … as for us, we should love to hear from those of you who have ever taken an unusual picture.

Somebody is bound to want it sometime.

The post Can we help you? appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Perhaps the greatest attraction of television outside broadcasts is the excitement of being caught in the atmosphere of a particular occasion, and, although the facilities available in studios are, by comparison, the last word in technical luxury, there is a certain extra challenge when you are starting from scratch.

Since we have been on the air we have covered most kinds of outside broadcast, among the most memorable being the Opening Ceremony from the Guildhall, the Hallé Orchestra series, Princess Margaret’s Wedding, Summersong, Wimbledon, and The Derby.

On the average O.B. there is a complement of staff similar to that for a studio production – six riggers, three racks, three sound, four radio links engineers, five cameramen, a senior engineer, a director, and a P.A.

But these numbers can grow quite considerably. For one of our “spectaculars’, The Derby, we had 12 cameras, three ‘scanners’ (mobile control vans), 70 technicians, six commentators, 17 horses and a cast of approximately 500,000.

Once a site has been suggested for an O.B. the director and various senior technicians carry out an initial survey. This involves siting the cameras and microphones to the best advantage, arranging power supplies and measuring out cable runs.

The maximum distance a camera can be placed from the scanner by a cable run is 1,000 feet. This is not very far when you remember the size of most racecourses.

At Epsom for the Derby last year five of the 12 cameras had to be situated up to a mile away from the scanner. When this happens a radio link has to be used to transmit the picture back to the main scanner. From there the programme is sent by radio link or Post Office line to the transmitter via Television House.

One of the more difficult types of O.B. to produce is an advertising magazine from an exhibition hall. The advertising department has to sell time to clients months ahead of the exhibition date – before the clients have balloted for floor space.

Consequently, when the programme arrives on the director’s desk, he is committed to televising stands from all corners of the exhibition hall, probably covering a few thousand square yards. The amount of energy and thought expanded by a television crew in these circumstances is tremendous.

Many O.B.’s can only be rehearsed in a basic fashion. After deciding the best format much must be left to the moment. Rain can, for example, play havoc with the equipment. You can find yourself going on the air with only one working camera.

Fog does not help either. It was so foggy at Sandown once that it was impossible to distinguish the horses. The cameramen were trying hard and Tony Cooke was doing a brilliant commentary in the appalling conditions. Finally, he said, ‘Kings Troop is passing the post now’. But the horse we had in shot jumped a hurdle. We had been faithfully following the last horse for most of the race.

The Radio Show last year had its moments too. We had rehearsed at Earls Court for two days and managed to get in two dress rehearsals. The programme entailed a quick piece of work in moving the cameras to the stand of a television maker. All went like clockwork, but when the cameras arrived the whole stand was in darkness. Everyone had gone home. There were mad scenes (unknown to me at the time, thank heavens) as all the available staff tore-down the boards in front with seconds to spare.

About 20 of us went to Lisbon two years ago for the three-week-long Trade Fair operation, which involved about an hour’s transmission delay in Portuguese. After a fortnight one of the P.A.’s thought she had mastered the language. One morning she ordered breakfast for about six of us. It sounded most professional, but the waiter went a sickly colour and said in broken English: ‘Would you mind waiting please as we will have to re-arrange the kitchen.’ Apparently she had ordered 120 cups of coffee.

Another time I was doing my first Greyhound racing programme from Harringay Stadium. We had results from five other race meetings to transmit as well as our betting in between races, and it was all becoming fast and furious. In the midst of this an inquisitive voice from within the scanner piped up: ‘Excuse me, is the hare alive?’

All of which shows that outside broadcasts are an endless source of interest. New locations and different circumstances ensure we never get in a groove.

The post O.B. stands for Outside Bustle appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

To some, the floor manager (F.M.) is a necessary evil, someone to be tolerated. Certain directors, for example, regard the relaying of instructions to an artist through the F.M. as not only irksome, but also (and this is particularly unfortunate) superfluous. To them it is a time-wasting operation. Why not, they reason, use the ‘mic’ to talk direct to the artist? When this belief is practised excessively, that’s when the time wasting really starts. The voice booms out but the instruction is not understood. It is repeated but still not understood. This is not because the artist is particularly unreceptive, it is usually because the director lacks a ‘mic’ technique. So eventually, the F.M. has to relay the instruction himself. What should have taken perhaps 20 seconds has taken a couple of minutes, and when you are on a tight schedule (as nearly always is the case), these minutes are precious. Once I recall nearly an hour being wasted in this way during one day’s rehearsal. That hour would have given the director another run of the play.

In some ways the F.M. is the invisible man of the studio crew. If he has done his job well there is little if any indication of it to the layman when the programme is transmitted. But if he has done his job badly, how it shows. A late cue may not only leave an actor with egg on his face, it can wreck that scene and the whole play. Failing to clear an actor who has a quick move can result in a beautifully composed shot of another actor talking to an empty chair. These are ordinary examples. There are more colourful ones.

Some years ago during a live transmission of a play, the F.M. had to make four quick cues in four different parts of the studio. Unknown to him, the lead from his ‘cans’ had become partially wound round his legs. He stood by at his first cueing point and duly cued action. As he moved to his second cueing point, the ‘can’ lead wound itself more tightly around his legs. By this time he realised what was happening but had no time to do anything about it. He duly gave the second cue and then just about managed to get himself in position for the third. Having given that, he was completely unable to move. The director cued for the fourth time but there was no response from the artist. This made the director slightly hysterical. He began screaming at the F.M. who, by this time, had fallen to the floor (to cue). Gamely he picked himself up and half-jumping, half-diving, the F.M. eventually gave the cue … in shot. Discretion prevents me from saying which company was transmitting the play, although the incident occurred before 1955.

Like all members of a studio crew, the efficient F.M. can be an enormous asset to a programme, often in subtle ways that are not obvious even to the rest of the crew. For example, many people fail to realise that there are many artists who have a distrust, if not a deep hostility, towards television in general and the studio crew in particular. An incident that illustrates this occurred last year during rehearsals for a play. The F.M. (himself an ex-actor) was chatting to a member of the cast with whom he had been in rep. Turning to the F.M., the artist waved his hand in the general direction of the studio crew and asked: “Are you with them or with us?”

This problem, although not generally recognised, is a very real one. The actor who feels like this may also believe that the cameramen are cold, unemotional fish whose only aim is to offer the director artistic or exciting and unusual shots. Obviously this is only one facet of the job of a good cameraman. One reason for this attitude could be that it is only in comparatively recent years that actors have been trained in television techniques. The older artist has had to acquire a technique by trial and error.

Just consider a few of the things an artist has to remember. There are many moves, for example, from set to set, key lights, voice projection, moves in relation to other actors and the cameras. In addition, he also has to remember his lines. No wonder there is distrust sometimes. Once recently an actress had to hit 12 different marks on the floor in one short scene. And then some genius remarked that her delivery appeared to be stilted. A F.M. must smooth the way and dispel this mistrust. But this is only the start. The artists should be protected and cocooned from the cares and worries of the studio. If this is not done his performance will certainly suffer. It is also an essential part of the F.M.’s duties to maintain discipline on the studio floor. It is equally important when occasion demands, to be ready with a joke or a remark to reduce the tension on the studio floor, for any TV production produces tension. If the people on the studio floor are not mentally relaxed occasionally during rehearsals, the recording will certainly suffer. It is not only the artists who ‘tighten up’ – the entire crew does as well. The ideal F.M. should have the reactions of a racing driver, the tact of a diplomat, the astuteness of a politician, a highly developed sense of humour, two heads, four arms and four legs. With all these gifts, he would still be found wanting by some. He should be able accurately to interpret the effect of any situation on the production. Besides relaying the situation to the director, he should also offer intelligent advice. He must be able to hold at least two conversations simultaneously.

It may be that his work is mainly intangible. However, it would be nice to think that the next time a visitor to our studios asks about the F.M., he can be given a little more information than ‘he cues the actors’.

The post The invisible two-headed racing driver and diplomat appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The post Focus on faces at Wembley appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Associated-Rediffusion has made several brave attempts to find a successful technique for putting a symphony concert on the television screen, but so far has not succeeded to its satisfaction. The best attempt I remember was Cyril Coke’s in which he devoted the first half to the rehearsal and the second to the actual performance of Stravinsky’s ‘The Firebird’ by the Hallé. I remember this as an interesting and rewarding experience and by being intrigued by the musicians’ transformation from slacks and sweaters to their soup and fish.

It was with this memory in mind that I eagerly accepted an invitation to visit the Royal Festival Hall for the London Symphony Orchestra’s final rehearsal for the night’s concert.

The vast auditorium, dark, hushed in a reverent silence, contained only a handful of shadowy figures as I crept in and oozed into a seat. The stage, brilliantly lit, seemed filled by the orchestra which was already at work. The conductor, I knew, was Pierre Monteux. Short, stocky in a workmanlike grey cotton jacket, with his dark curling hair and surprising white walrus moustache, he is the principal conductor of the L.S.O. He is acknowledged, moreover, as the doyen of all conductors, being in his 88th year. Despite his age and long years with the baton, he seemed as vigorous and fiery as any young man. There is a story that when he was offered a contract with the L.S.O. in 1961 he insisted it should be a long-term one and I believe it lasts until he is 100!

Ignoring the score, Monteux, his small expressive hands gently coaxing, began guiding the orchestra through what I thought I recognised as Beethoven’s ‘Eroica’. This work had obviously been well rehearsed before with the result that only short bursts of it were played. ‘The last ten bars again, please.’ All too soon Monteux closed the score at which he had only looked to count the bars and that was that.

In the pause that followed, I realised with a jerk that I was not going to sit there and enjoy a jolly free concert. In fact, I was not going to hear a work from beginning to end. The orchestra, being composed of individual virtuosos who can read a score at sight, was only there to give the programme its final finishing touches and subtleties as required by the conductor. Nevertheless, it would be fascinating to be behind the scenes as it were.

While a shuffling of scores went on 1 gazed round at the other listeners. Two earnest young men sat, one in front of me and one way at the back, with score on lap and ballpoints at the ready. A young woman sat on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped as if in supplication beneath her chin – very intense. Behind me I saw a small girl all in blue. Blue jersey, blue skirt, blue tights and legs that stuck out straight before her, her sandalled feet turned up. As she sucked what appeared to be an ice lolly, I saw an open violin case beside her. One did not need an A level G.C.E. to guess her Dad was in the orchestra. She sat quietly, her round blue eyes fixed on the stage.

The student in front of me (an American incidentally) kindly gave me the concert items. It was not the ‘Eroica’, but I felt a bit smug to find that it was Beethoven’s ‘The Creatures of Prometheus’ from which the composer had lifted the theme for the last movement of the ‘Eroica’. To follow was the Brahms Symphony No. 2 in D.

Now Monteux tapped his baton and every bow was at the ready. I was looking forward to the Brahms and my thoughts wandered to a terrace in Sussex where I had last heard it on an appropriately hot afternoon. But in no time came that tap-tap again. Monteux, who had been leaning over the violins, swung round to the cellos behind him. He had heard a wrong note through the back of his head.

‘Non, Non,’ he said, ‘B naturelie! It goes oom-pah-pah-paah.’

Thus singing he led the players into the Allegretto. In fact he sang for the greater part of the rehearsal. Occasionally he varied OOM-Pah-PAH with Ta-Ta-Te-TEE. At one point he emphasised the singing tone of the violins by laying his baton across his left arm as though playing the instrument himself. Come to think of it, this was not so odd since he was a violinist at the age of six before becoming a conductor at 12.

The beauty of the fragments so far played of what is sometimes referred to as Brahms’ ‘Pastoral’, had soothed me into a trance. All too soon the soft, high trumpet notes of the first movement returned to warn us that the finale was at hand. And that was that.

The L.S.O. now prepared for the pièce de resistance, Berlioz’s ‘Symphonic Fantastique’. There was much tuning of strings and a viola player carefully laid a clean square-folded handkerchief under his chin. As Monteux raised his baton the concentration was so intense it was almost concrete. You could have leaned on it.

A Largo, sad and gentle, proclaimed the theme and we listeners sat back to be moved and excited by this masterpiece. Phenomenal that Berlioz, was only 27 when he composed it and only nine years before had never heard any music other than his local folk melodies. The story in the Symphony of a young musician who, in despair due to unrequited love, takes to opium, ends on the scaffold and descends to the torments of Hell, is musically something to make your spine chill and tingle. It is, I later learned, one of the works most dear to Monteux, whose understanding of his compatriot composer is said to be unrivalled.

Behind me, the small girl had now peeled a banana and was nibbling the fruit while the starfish of its skin hung round her hand.

Monteux made short work of the first movement. With a shower of chromatics, shimmering sweeps on the harp, and sustained soarings of the violins, we sped into the waltz. This, too, ended all too soon. The cor anglais began its melancholy solo starting the third movement and then was echoed by an oboe off stage.

Monteux tapped for silence and the oboeist popped his head surprisingly round a curtain at the side of the auditorium close by the stage.

‘A leetle louder, please’ said Monteux. ‘The pooblic here (sweeping his arm over the auditorium) will not hear you so far away. Come a leetle closer (the oboeist moved until he was a bulge in the curtain) and now louder – ta-ta-ta-tee-TEE.’

Beautiful as the third movement is, I was impatient for the poignant March to the Scaffold. Inevitably one waits for the crash of the orchestra as it brings down the guillotine and snaps off the theme played so wistfully on the clarinet. I was not to hear it. There was a light touch on my arm.

‘Would you take me to the toilet, please?’ asked the small girl in blue.

Hand in hand we climbed the long flight of stall’s and, thank heaven, in the lobby outside found the ‘Ladies’. She assured me she could manage by herself and all was achieved satisfactorily.

Now that I saw her in the light I realised what an attractive child she was. Her fair but not golden hair waved to her head like a helmet and her eyes were of a striking blue.

‘What’s your name and how old are you?’

I enquired.

‘I’m Joanna and I’m five. What’s your name and how old are you?’

‘I’m Sally,’ I replied nothing daunted, ‘and I’m ninety’.

‘Oh,’ she answered in complete acceptance. We started back to our seats and on the way I learned that her Daddy was in the orchestra; she had a little sister called Tina; she was learning the piano; she often came to rehearsals but never to the concert at night; and wasn’t it a pity I had no little girls or boys of my own.

Joanna returned to her seat and busied herself with paper and pencil.

By this time Monteux and the L.S.O. were going hammer and tongs at the ‘Nightmare of the Witches’ Sabbath’. In the midst of a really menacing section the conductor stopped.

‘A leetle more on the snarl, please. Anngrrrr’ he illustrated with gritted teeth and the orchestra laughed. ‘He is among the beasts now. Better you should be too loud than no one should hear you. Again.’

Now a trombone (I think) tore off a series of snarls so fierce as to frighten the wits out of anyone. The finale got into its stride with trumpets braying, fiddles ‘sawing away regardless’, the drums and timpani going double forte and everyone doing his utmost to a tempestuous finish.

It was all over. Spectators and players burst into applause, shouting ‘bravo’ to the conductor. He modestly bowed and thanked the gentlemen of the orchestra.

As I was about to leave, there was another touch on my arm. I turned to meet the orchestra leader, Erich Gruenberg, in his gay red pullover.

“Thank you for taking care of my little girl’ he said.

‘It was a pleasure’ I answered. ‘She is very charming.’

‘I know. That is perhaps why I was a bit alarmed when I saw you take her out of the hall.’

‘You saw? In the middle of the Symphony?’ I was astounded. I couldn’t believe that anything could have broken that concentration.

‘Oh yes. However I didn’t worry. The bass player gave me a sign that it was all right.’ The bass player too. Evidently he knew Joanna’s shortcomings better than her father. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that all 80 members of the L.S.O. witnessed my exit with Joanna.

She now approached me with two pieces of paper.

‘Look’, she said, ‘I did these for you’.

I thanked her and admired some youthful drawings and a sheet of writing that told me the numbers from 1 to 20 and that each member of her family by name was OUT.

I left the Royal Festival Hall wishing with all my heart that somehow someone could find the formula that would bring these fine players and the enjoyment I had experienced to our millions of viewers.

The post Oom-pah-PAH and Joanna appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Going, going, gone – and the Granville Theatre (Studio 6) is no longer with us. That’s just a bit sad.

All right – so it was in many ways hell to work in. The steeply-raked stage made tracking cameras something of an exhausting adventure – and the scenery leaned drunkenly forward; the control room was a minor Black Hole of Calcutta in which you were roasted alive; the building was murderously expensive to run. All sorts of things made the place rather white-elephantine.

But I loved it. There was an atmosphere about it which you felt the moment you passed through the stage-door. Those of us who have been brought up in the theatre tend to go much too far in sentimentality about the atmosphere and tradition of what, to more rational beings, is merely a heap of bricks and mortar. So, when I arrived to do my first television show at the Granville it was quite an occasion for me.

Then came the shocks. (In those days I had not yet become accustomed to a steady diet of at least 20 shocks a day.) I sniffed. Where was it – that indefinable aromatic amalgam of size, accumulated dust, the corporeal exudations of generations of playgoers, the staled tobacco of millions of stubbed cigarettes and the faint leaven of reluctantly applied disinfectant?

Associated-Rediffusion had cleaned the place up. In fact, Fred Pacey, that lovable and quite unforgettable character who was manager there, told me that, setting aside any rubble the builders ejected in the course of converting the theatre into a television studio, no less than six tons of sheer dirt were carted away.

Associated-Rediffusion had also removed the stalls, whose seats either pierced or numbed your bottom. Instead there was a shiny black floor which rose precipitously when you got to the rake I mentioned earlier. But they had left the tiled proscenium, cleaned the ceramic frescos – which were hideous in terms of pure art but rather beautiful in their setting – and the list of composers in the ceiling. Suddenly it all became very romantic; the live theatre of yesterday transformed into the electronic theatre of today.

But not even Associated-Rediffusion could remove the tradition of the Granville. In that endearing little auditorium audiences had laughed, clapped and cheered a fabulous list of names since 1898. I hate lists, but this one is a little staggering: Dan Leno (one of the original directors), Marie Lloyd, Gus Elen, Charles Coburn, Tom Costello, Harry Champion, Gertie Gitana, Nellie Wallace, Little Tich, George Robey, Billy Bennett, Charlie Chaplin, Marie Loftus, Vesta Victoria, Willie Bard, Naughton and Gold, Grade Fields – it seems to go on for ever.

By the way, in 1909 the management must have had a fit of pre-vision. For in that year, when I was born, they decided to feature the Bioscope – that early form of moving pictures – and one of the main offerings was an epic entitled ‘The Butcher’s Boy’.

By the ’fifties, things had become somewhat phrenetic. There were shows like ‘Nudes in the Night’, ‘Red, Hot and Saucy’, ‘Nude, Neat and Naughty’. And in 1955 Associated-Rediffusion cleaned the Granville up.

I was so happy there. I’m referring to 1955-6, when Maurice Browning and I were doing the ‘Granville Melodramas’ – a most unique set-up. We were a private little television world of our own. There was a permanent nucleus of players: Helen Shingler, Hattie Jacques, Victoria Grayson, Erik Chitty and John Bailey. (We gathered various other amiable souls to our bosom as we went along.) There was Bill Turner, floor-managing for us, Marie Holme, my P.A. and Penny Drummond, a stage-manager of vast experience with a gimlet eye for any artist who might be tempted to play the fool.

Our world also included Juan Cortez, who performed miracles in adapting these long melodramas into half-hour programmes; Henry Federer, who gave us the most wonderful scenery at practically no cost at all; and Ruth Pearl and Peter Moffat, who formed what we billed as ‘The Granville Ensemble’. And there we were.

We rehearsed at the Coleherne, a splendid hostelry in Old Brompton Road, which ever since has been my ‘local’ no matter where I happen to be living – and we performed at the Granville. Wembley was a place we had vaguely heard about, but we were not too sure of its exact location.

Visitors from there were treated with the old-world courtesy and guarded incredulity which the Edwardians extended to anyone coming from outside the British Isles – ‘Foreign fellers – don’t you know’.

Television House was an unattractive necessity, to be kept away from as much as possible. Our brave veterans may remember that this was a time when all members of the start had their own private pneumatic drills working alongside them and brick walls were falling on poor Tania Lieven with monotonous regularity. No, it was a place with only one possible thing to recommend it – and that was the privilege it had of paying us our money.

Even that was a fraught matter from time to time. Our artists were contracted on a weekly basis on the assumption that the Melodramas went on once a fortnight. Then we were suddenly put on weekly and the day of the week was altered the moment we got ourselves nicely re-adjusted. Sorting that out in terms of £.s.d. was a hideous problem. Perhaps that is why our financial colleagues were the first to develop that shade of complexion, which can only be described as Television House Green.

But left to ourselves we were perfectly happy – a small band, all brought up in the tradition that nothing mattered as long as the show went on – and we didn’t care how hard we worked to make that happen. That also went for Fred, Harry and Joe at the Granville.

Our permanent cast was unique in television. We tried to spread the leading parts around as evenly as possible. Sometimes, of course, the result was a little surprising – such as when Hattie Jacques played the constantly fainting heroine in ‘The Chain of Guilt’.

It was arduous enough for John Vere (playing her brother) to refer to the supine Hattie as ‘poor fragile flower’, but we were stopped in our tracks by a stage direction which said: ‘He picks her up and carries her, fainting, into the night’. ‘He’, the villain, was played by Erik Chitty, five-foot-seven, according to Spotlight. At this point Hattie looked at us squarely and said in her most glacial voice: ‘That is not possible’.

But in the main we treated these fine old plays very seriously and played them for all they were worth. Certainly there were some magnificent performances, such as John Bailey’s in ‘The Silver King’ and Helen Shingler’s in ‘East Lynne’.

I held my breath as she came to the famous line: ‘Dead, dead – and never called me Mother’ – wondering what our live audience, encouraged to laugh, cheer and boo, would do to us. But so poignant was Helen that you could have heard a pin drop.

Perhaps that is why people still remember us. And perhaps we added a small something to the tradition of the Granville.

The post The Granville has been sold appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

One of the cynical legends from the Hollywood stables concerns a script-writer whose midnight oil burned for a serious drama about the Air Force: when his film was finished he missed the premiere because it was now a musical called ‘Up Periscope’. Recalling this I was not surprised when Robert Everett revealed to us that an elaborate outside broadcast, planned around an aircraft-carrier would now be re-cast as an Army show, a battle to be fought on the hills of Wiltshire. To all of us who worked on it the programme was simply ‘Robert’s War’. For transmission it became ‘Battle at Chalkdown’.

It was to be a highly complex technical operation, both for us and for the Army which was to provide two forces, ‘attackers’ and ‘enemy’, to deploy tanks, artillery and infantry in such ways that a ‘battle’ could be started and finished over the entire ground, and to a given time. In short, a military operation had to be conducted to specifications laid down by a television company. That it was done is a remarkable tribute to the liaison which developed during weeks of planning between soldiers and television technicians. The ‘built’ OB is always a headache because all its component parts must be precisely planned. You cannot plan a Cup Final because 22 footballers were never intended to play on cues.

The problem for Chalkdown was to plan a battle in such a way that its essential components could be covered by eight television camera positions. This seemed straightforward enough, in theory, until we saw what had to be covered.

Robert Everett, Grahame Turner, who directed, and I went down to Warminster to watch a 40-minute all arms tactics wing demonstration set up by the School of Infantry. The cast involved an armoured squadron of Centurion tanks, a company of infantry in armoured personnel carriers, artillery, antitank guns, blank and live ammunition. There was a lot of noise and smoke.

Grahame and I agreed that the terrain presented camera problems. Could the Army shift the whole operation about a mile down the way and handle a similar demonstration in roughly 264 minutes? It is interesting to observe the face of a man who is trying not to say ** ****.

The Army agreed to shift the terrain and we started measuring ground. It is interesting to walk over muddy, tank-chewed ground and measure estimated timings.

On the basis of the sequence of events we had seen happen in a demonstration I put up a timed-in-the-mind draft script with pictures attached. The idea was to give us all an impression of what we would see and for approximately how long over any given part of the battle. At this stage the School of Infantry, in the person of Colonel Wallace, noted our requests, had a think, and agreed. This called for a second batch of pictures and a lot of consultation with Grahame Turner. And there was a snag. In order to get the kind of close-up effect of tanks and turrets and guns and machine-gunners and explosions and artillery and more tanks and turrets and so on … we had run out of cameras.

Somewhere along the line Robert Everett suggested that a central area, covered by two cameras, could be created, in which the necessary inserts could be achieved. The idea was this: to take main action on the battle itself, but to take close-up action on what came to be known as an ‘FX Circus’. The ‘Circus’ was to contain all those closeups which could not be adequately handled in long shot or medium shot.

This involved special problems for the Army. They meant, for instance, that a certain tank under radio instruction would have to start moving from position X towards position Y at pre-fixed times which would coincide with the action required by the script. All this had to be rehearsed over ground which became increasingly choppy.

On first try-out the Major commanding the squadron of tanks reported that the operation would run 40 minutes. Colonel Wallace suggested that it would run about 264 minutes. This caused a situation.

Unbeknown to the Army, who were now working things out in language we could never transmit, our situation in London was rendered delicate by a re-timing determined by network considerations. Rumour had it that we were going to run about 35 minutes and not 264.

On this basis I drove a mean average between what we might want and what the Army said it could do, and settled, temporarily, for the 264-minute version which tank major said would run to 40. It looked as if we might average out.

Unbeknown to us tank major had been doing some dawn-work on the Wiltshire hills and was soon able to report that his original estimate of 40 minutes would now, and he could prove it, because he did, work out well at an overall timing of 21 minutes.

At this stage Grahame and I began to have misgivings about the programme’s timing. Here, both Army and Associated-Rediffusion Ltd now engaged in a para-military device known as compromise. Every sequence was re-examined; many were re-timed and rehearsed again.

Came the dawn. We were all ready. The last of many conferences was over. In perfect light Grahame tried a ‘take’.

The tanks moved, the explosions began, the smoke drifted. It was an adequate rehearsal, and no one was satisfied. All agreed to go again next day and hope for weather. When we woke it was raining. A sea of mud, cables embedded in mud, men dressed in mud, teacups full of mud.

On the basis of the last under-run we repaired for lunch to Imber Court, a derelict mansion dripping with echoes of ‘Journey’s End’, where beer was served with strange pies. Colonel Wallace passed a weary hand across a weary sandwich. Orders were recast – for the ‘FX circus’, for the voices off, for the artillery, for the tanks.

Just before the final ‘take’ the sun came out and condensation started on some lenses. I heard Grahame say something in the scanner but decided to forget exactly what it was.

The tanks moved, the explosions began (some special ‘bangs’ had been reserved for the final take). Grahame gave his instructions to cameras. Working just ahead of him our army controller gave his instructions. Bren gunners fired on cue. Explosions went off on cue. Enemy soldiers ‘died’ on cue. (One soldier rushed up to a camera position and asked, ‘what shot are we on next?’) Chalkdown was finally taken, with the assistance of some 60 soaked technicians and seven punctures.

Someone asked me why we had made a programme which actually suggested that the Army is pretty good. I have to admit that as I was wet through at the time and in no state to justify the existence of the Armed Services, I rushed to a Wombat, took careful aim, and fired.

The post The day TV ran the army appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

THE notice on the wall at Casablanca police station was in bold, black Arabic. From above a “rogues’ gallery” picture of a hunted criminal glared the Moroccan equivalent of WANTED.

Mr. Henry Federer, senior designer of the Crane series (Mondays), knew this was the kind of minute detail he had crossed the Straits of Gibraltar to record.

He focused his camera on the poster, knowing that he might need a Moroccan “wanted” notice once filming moved back to London.

No sooner had Mr. Federer clicked the shutter than an inquisitive Moroccan policeman tapped him on the shoulder. Four hours later he finally managed to convince the authorities that he was really quite harmless.

This escapade, one of many, was necessary. For Crane‘s Moorish atmosphere and its accuracy is part and parcel of the success of the series.

Mr. Federer, a genial Austrian, has taken 3,000 pictures in Morocco, which now form a kind of Moroccan reference library—a huge pictorial aid to memory.

He photographed Moroccan life in detail. His camera recorded the inside of houses, the shape of arches, the style in furniture, the patterns on tiles.

“It was difficult,” recalled Henry “because the Moroccan, although tremendously hospitable, would rarely invite you to his home. I just had to go into houses, shoot a picture and apologise for coming to the wrong address.”

The Moroccan instinctive mistrust of the camera was also an obstacle. “One day I tried to photograph some women who were queueing for milk,” said Henry.

“I turned away from them while I adjusted my camera. But when I turned round to shoot all of them had quietly slipped away. It was quite uncanny.”

The result of this photographic safari was a wealth of accurate detail on which Mr. Federer can draw when he is designing the sets at Wembley studios.

A good example of his camera technique are the mosaic floors. A genuine Moroccan pattern square is copied from one of Mr. Federer’s photographs. The pattern is cut into a paint roller. Then the mosaic is painted into the floor of the set with the pattern squares repeating themselves.

In the bazaars, Mr. Federer played the national Moroccan sport — bartering — to get props like camel saddles, colourful pottery, bead curtains and crazy metal pots and pans.

But surprisingly enough most of the Moroccan atmosphere of Crane could be caught with genuine Moorish props hired from one of four firms in this country.

Property master Mr. David Lusby told me: “I reckon we could do the Kasbah from Putney.”

Very little on the Crane set has to be made specially. Said David: “When Cleopatra was being made at Pinewood, Moroccan props suddenly became terribly scarce. Today it is the reverse. A lot of the stuff used in Lawrence of Arabia has come into Britain.”

The biggest headache for the property buyers is trying to match for studio takes items used during location in Morocco.

One of the most difficult during the Crane series was trying to find a left-hand drive 1954 black Ford Mercury. Buyer Mr. Len Fraser told me: “It was just impossible. We couldn’t get one anywhere.

“Then one day I was driving along and I saw a green lefthand-drive Ford Mercury in front of me. I tailed it for three miles.

“It turned out to be a 1955 model. I could hardly believe my luck. All we had to do was to take it to the studio and paint it black.”

Many of the traditional costumes for Crane were specially brought back from Morocco. But when a garment has to be made, details come from Mr. Federer’s photographs or from the Moroccan Embassy library.

As Mr. Ernest Hewitt of costume design said: “We take tremendous care to see that costumes are accurate in every possible detail.”

When the series first went out a VIP delegation from the Moroccan Embassy visited Wembley to make sure that there were no gaffes. They went away satisfied.

A Moroccan Embassy spokesman told me: “We have been surprised and pleased with Crane’s accuracy when dealing with details of Moroccan life. It’s a good show.”

The post Wanted for Crane appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘The tension was built up ingeniously with the suspense evenly distributed amongst the various subjects so that one remained entirely in the dark until the end.’

The Times on ‘Someone We Know’.

‘It is difficult after all these years of television plays to imagine anything more amateur than last night’s TV Playhouse production of “Someone We Know” … nothing rang true … It came as no surprise when Thomas Harris came out as the murderer.’

Daily Mail

‘Pleas send us two of your free photo bookie and address from your Company, because we wanted to join your Company. Try to write our names on your Company book.

‘We will send you monkey skin, parrot feathers and old stamps.’

Letter from two schoolboys in Ghana.

‘Whilst reading my paper this morning something set me thinking. It is the everlasting brickbats thrown at the programmes televised by commercial television. As a humble housewife may I give some praise for the many, many evenings of pleasure afforded to me on television. I am not a TV Zombie, because some shows I do dislike, but I realise that everyone has his own taste.

‘We have only had a television now for less than a year but I shall always be grateful for the many hours of pleasure it has given me, in an otherwise rather drab life.

‘Good luck to you and all who make it possible.’

Letter front an Eltham viewer.

GALA

‘As compilations of bits and pieces of culture go, this was a distinctly superior compilation.’

Philip Purser, News Chronicle.

‘As a job of offering culture to the mass audience without appearing to use force, Associated-Rediffusion’s Gala, a concert programme by leading international artists, deserves encouragement.’

Peter Black, Daily Mail.

‘My mind boggles at the thought of what ITV must have paid out to get together last night’s amazing array of international talent for Gala, the first programme in a new musical series … I had to settle for that discredited old adjective “fabulous”.’

Phil Diack, Daily Herald.

‘I am eighty years old and practically an invalid. I find the ITV programmes so varied. They certainly make my life (I live alone) 100 per cent more interesting.

‘I love the African series and the television games, “Green”, “Miles” and others, the plays and films. But please don’t have too much sport, education and such. The BBC have that in abundance and it makes me tired. Your programmes arc so right and friendly. I speak not only for myself, but many who visit me.’

Letter from Mr A. M. Wilce, Bridgwater, Somerset.

‘All the same, I believe the common man has a perfect right to enjoy himself in his own way. If superior persons dislike his tastes (and they do), then they must lump it.

‘More than that: they had better stop going on and on and on with their wailings against TV. For they have become a bore.

‘The fact is that most people, grown-ups and kids alike, watch the telly, on the whole, for fun.

‘They want to be entertained. It does not corrupt them, or debase them either. Nor do they take it as solemnly as the superior persons suppose.

‘For the common man with all his limitations, has a large supply of horse-sense. So has his wife. And they are perfectly capable of taking care of their own kids.’

Charles Curran, Empire News.

The post They Say… December 1959 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘What is D. & I? I’ve never heard of it.’ Thus spake the frilly young thing. Sic transit gloria.

We members of D. & I. have become accustomed to this greeting when our section heading is used as the reply to an interrogative: ‘Where are you from?’ or ‘Who shall I send it to?’ Our particular work and resources are probably a little vague to the non-technical sections that we come into contact with infrequently. Remember, not all the engineers come from ‘engineering’ section.

Personnel-wise the section supports and is supported by: one section head, two assistant heads, one manager, nine engineers (one supervisory), four draughtsmen (mechanical + electrical + construction), three prototype electronics wiremen, two instrument mechanics, two typists/secretaries.

Total technical qualifications of these members amounts to: one Ph.D., two M.Sc., one A.M.I.E.E., three Grad. I.E.E., one Grad. Brit. I.E.R.E., seven B.Sc., one City and Guilds Diploma Electrical Engineering (Communications), two H.N.C. (Communications), one City and Guilds Certificate (Telecommunications), five O.N.C. (Engineering and Drawing). Because of the nature of our work the body as a whole is rarely gathered en masse. More likely the operatives will be found, singly or in twos, labouring behind a maze of wire and cable (which has just been uprooted from one of the bays in a studio control room) on a Friday night, after production has ceased, with a deadline for the equipment to be working efficiently on the Monday morning following and the added facilities, or modified, or renewed equipment, tested and working. Or they might be standing predominantly and obviously midwife-like in charge of a 16 mm. telerecording machine which they have cared for since conception, improving, rebuilding, improvising and improving again for the last two years and bringing it to fruition, the end of the process giving results which make it compatible with those from any other similar machine, even in the BBC’s cornucopia of technicians and equipment.

Through the section passes all capital technical equipment which the company purchases, ranging from O.B. vans to zoom lenses, from Image Orthicon cameras to camera pedestals to microphones for sound section.

All these items are obtained after liaison and consultation with the sections involved in their usage; engineering, who will be required to operate and maintain it, and the sections who will be required to operate it where this is not an engineering task.

We are responsible for the purchase, testing and installation of all studio sound and vision equipment, all cabling and wiring involved in fitting in or taking out equipment, videotape recording machines, telerecording machines, film section equipment – film cameras, sound equipment dubbing suites, transcription suites. All work is carried out normally in our own workshops at Television House or Wembley but sometimes at site, usually at week-ends in those periods where there is no production. This means that it may take longer to carry out a seemingly short job than it first appears because, no matter how far the engineer gets with the work, he has to remember that perhaps the equipment he is working on will be required the next day, therefore he can carry out just so much work without interfering with the normal function of the equipment. Temporary arrangements have to be made to enable the equipment to continue working, even in the throes of major alterations.

We are in the process of or intend to carry out: (a) Installation of four new VTR machines at Wembley; (b) Development and installation of a new project, known as Electronic-Camera – E-Cam for short – which will enable a production to be filmed at normal TV production speed using film cameras equipped with electronic viewfinders; (c) Installation of new cameras in Studios 2, 4 and 9 (Marconi Mk V transistorised); (d) Preparatory planning for new O.B. vans; (e) Overhaul and replacement of film section sound recording machines; (f) Investigation into the use of colour in television broadcasting; (g) Installation of two VTR machines for use in colour programmes.

We have at present some 28 projects in hand ranging in size from minor wiring modification of various units to a complete studio refit, all of which are being worked on concurrently. These projects are in various stages of completion ranging from, (a) quotations from manufacturers against our specifications, (b) equipment ordered but on long delivery, (c) equipment on the premises being tested and modified for acceptance to our broadcasting standards to (d) last minute tests and finished diagrams.

Since January, 1965, we have completed 29 projects. Since the beginning of 1964 we have carried out the first, second and third instalments of the first phase of the company’s re-equipment programme, this latter work having been carried out side by side with the normal project list.

All costing and estimating for the work is carried out within the section.

Among the major projects completed in the last year were: 1, Installation of new film dubbing desk in the film dubbing theatre (carried out in one Bank holiday week-end complete with re-cabling – a major feat); 2, Installation of new film transcription desk in the film transcription suite; 3, Modifications to Item 2 to provide special and extra-ordinary facilities for the film section; 4, Installation of new vision mixing equipment in Studios 1, 2 and 4; 5, Installation and development of two Pye 16 mm. telerecording machines rebuilt to the company’s specifications; 6, Installation of complete sound recording facilities for E-Cam and telerecording; 7, Re-outfitting of the film section with new film cameras and ‘location’ sound equipment.

The post Dispel doubt and ignorance appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

‘I read in the national Press that Val Parnell and ATV are against Associated-Rediffusion’s suggestion to the ITA that the third network, if and when it comes off, be a cultural one.

‘The reason suggested for this was that AR-TV is frightened of opposition. How can it be when it made more money than any other commercial TV company last year? It has fought through and triumphed against the opposition to date. So why should a commendable suggestion to support a cultural network, sharing the costs with other companies, be interpreted as a case of “nerves”?’

Letter from a Swansea viewer.

‘Sir Ian Jacob, BBC Director-General, said in London yesterday any new television wave-band should be shared by the BBC and ITA. Both organizations should be allowed to transmit two services, giving viewers a choice of four programmes.

‘Each of us could start a new service, but it has to be something new and not a duplication of what is going on in the present services.’

Daily Telegraph – June 10, 1959

‘Both ITA and BBC should be provided with an additional service solely for educational programmes (I use the word “educational” in its broadest sense) and specialized programmes with minority appeal. Such services would make it possible to provide more programmes for minorities, covering for example opera, ballet, and classical music, apart from which there might well be distinct commercial advantages in helping to make these specialized activities financially more self-supporting. We should be willing to participate in such a service, notwithstanding that it would have to be subsidized by our existing service.’

John Spencer Wills, company chairman, Nov. 25, 1958.

‘The Age of Juliet’. . . was fascinating to watch and a great exercise for our wits.’

Nancy Spain, Daily Express.

‘Ones fears for ‘The Age of Juliet’ adapted from the French on Independent Television last night, were only too well founded.’

L.L., Daily Telegraph.

‘This is the first time I have ever commented publicly about a televised programme, but I feel I must tell you how much I appreciated, enjoyed and admired your initiative in flying over so promptly the filmed interview with Lord Montgomery by Morrow and Colinwood. In particular did I appreciate the value of this following the criticisms which appeared in the British Press by people who obviously had not seen the film, but quoted excerpts of the interview, which gave erroneous impressions.

‘It was really excellent, but if there is a next time with another interview with Lord Montgomery by two such first-class interviewers, please do try and make it earlier in the evening, as I feel many people probably missed this beneficial programme by going to bed. I like to think the advertisers would understand – !

My very sincere congratulations.’

Letter from a Beaconsfield viewer.

‘May I slap you on the back for “Motoring Club”? I do not drive, never owned a car, but you set me thinking. The whole fifteen minutes was fascinating and the script very understandable. More power to your elbow!’

Letter from a Twickenham viewer.

‘My little boy of five has been very ill since before Christmas. During his long stay home from school we bought a TV set. Believe me, the different programmes have done more to buck him up than any doctor ever could. He is not only interested in the programmes but asks no end of questions about the studios and cameras, etc. I feel that I would just like to thank you all for unknowingly giving my son a great deal of entertainment during his illness and convalescence.’

Letter from Chelmsford viewer.

‘My husband and I look forward to seeing Jim’s Inn. We both think that Jim’s Inn is the best Advertising Magazine on television. Let us hope we will be seeing Jim’s Inn for many more weeks to come.

Postcard from Fulham viewer.

The post They Say… November 1959 appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

The tenth series of ‘No Hiding Place’ with Raymond Francis in his role as Lockhart and newcomer Sean Caffrey as his sergeant is now being screened. It also has a new producer. What does it feel like to be put into the producer’s chair? How does one get a series such as this on the air? What are the problems? michael currer-briggs, the new producer, tells his story…

One day, just before Christmas, I was asked to write this article. ‘What is wanted?’ I asked. ‘Oh! something about your first series as producer,’ they said, ‘the personal point of view – a thinking piece – anecdotal – comedy – the theory and problem of taking over a long-established series and becoming a producer.’ Well, I thought I’d better oblige and so I started to think. To me this is a painful process. But I have been trying to be a producer for some months now so I should have something to say. At the time of going to press we have only just begun production and I have still got weeks of rehearsals, reactions, ratings, directors, designers, writers and artists ahead of me. There will be problems, some of which will no doubt be furry, four-footed and with fangs. There will be plenty of ‘final analyses’ and ‘critical appraisals’ and all those heart thumping terrors with which to cope. So, accepting that all this is still to come, I will now formulate my feelings and experiences as far as they go.

In the summer, while I was the other side of the Iron Curtain working for the BBC and hitting the high spots of Glasgow, I somehow felt that change was in the air. Sure enough one day I had a call from Television House. ‘We’ve got something very, very interesting we want you to do,’ they said. Well, of course my curiosity got going at double speed. ‘Producing the next series of “No Hiding Place”,’ they said. ‘Good for you and good for us.’ Well, I didn’t think long about it and I calmed down fairly soon, accepted it whole-heartedly and took the plunge.

‘Scripts,’ they said on day one. ‘Must get them in as soon as possible and you’re lucky you’ve got plenty of time. The budget’s fixed and your directors are fixed and your script editor’s fixed and the series is fixed and the new sergeant is fixed and you’re very lucky.’ They said that several times just so I wouldn’t forget.

Well, I suppose some would say I should have started by unfixing something. I should have been all difficult and talked about my creative integrity, but I decided not to – maybe I’ll prove myself to have been a fool not to have unfixed a bit, but I didn’t. I’d thought all about that on day one minus one, so it didn’t have the effect of fixing me all that much, especially as there were a hell of a lot of other things left to do. Every picture has to have a frame – old oak, heavy gold, stark modern simplicity – and I felt the frame they’d fixed for me was pretty good and plenty large and that I had so much to learn that I’d do myself a damage if I banged about trying to get a different shape or style for it.

And so we started. The first big thing was learning the series from a different point of view. ‘No Hiding Place’ is a common property to all of us. Experience on the series is part of a man’s life in Rediffusion Television. But I had to see it from an entirely new angle – the producer’s angle – and I had to ask myself a lot of questions. What could I bring to the series? What would be expected of me? What really is a producer’s function? What were his qualifications supposed to be – his attributes – his experience? Well, no one really told me very much about this and I could see I’d have to try and spring fully fledged as it were from the head of Jove.

I thought of all the producers who had produced me – the ones who were never called producers in the old days when they were heads of their section and the ones who had sprung up overnight and had acquired the title perhaps before they were dry behind the ears. Everyone according to his own experience and I to mine. I could only think of it all in terms of what I would like a producer to be and try to become that. Probably my ideas were very, very much too limited -in fact I’m sure so now after only a few weeks at it. The job involves much more than I ever imagined and even at the end of 15 episodes I know there’ll be a massive amount for me still to learn. All things to all men is a ridiculous impossibility. But it’s not far from what is demanded. Good with ideas, vivid with inspiration, profound with knowledge and experience, capable of communicating, but above all (and the one chief aim I am trying to keep before me) is the ability to make a climate in which everyone can give of their best. They should not only satisfy the audience and give it more than what is wanted and expected, but they should also satisfy the management and themselves. All seems to funnel down from above to a producer and then fan out from him to a collection of writers, directors and artists for whom the same process is being repeated. A storm of creative energy is at the heart of each episode and each one must not only be related to the others but must also be treated as if it were the only show on earth.

The writer comes first. Alun Falconer as script editor fights for his writers, trying to get the best from them and for them. Stories came and went by the dozen and a few remain in memory as a laugh. There was the one where Lockhart was supposed to have high jinks with a gay widow who hid her diamonds and kept them in the fridge while she claimed insurance as a result of a supposed theft. But she’d made one mistake and chose for her Hiding Place a certain product wrapped in a wrinkled paper. But Lockhart knew all and solved the case because, as the title told, he could tell Stork from Butter. A bright young spark sent that one in and in all fairness I honestly believe he didn’t realise that he was completely doomed to failure.

So we ploughed on and the scripts started to come in. The consultants, Amos Gibson and Colin Holder, consulted, and sometimes we were elated, sometimes depressed. Re-writes came next to get the first drafts into line with the series as a whole. There were the dangers and problems of how to avoid spoiling a good idea, how to make a weak script stronger and so on. We had a script that was promising but this and that needed doing. Conferences followed, re-writes came in. We all thought we had a disaster on our hands. On that day Alun talked about his technique, it saved my life to hear him.

‘It’s like sailing,’ he said, ‘tacking against the wind. You have to push an author to get him to change his course and off he goes right over to the other side of the river. He nearly crashes into the opposite bank and you have to be over there to push him off again. Then he shoots back to the other side. But each time he tacks he gets nearer and nearer until he gets on course and the script comes into line. You’ve got to blow just the right amount and sometimes it takes a lot of wind.’ Soon after this another script came in. That was a big worry and Alun blew quite a gentle breeze. I thought he’d gone mad, become an early Christian and was being far too kind. But the result was miraculous – straight on to course in one go. I wish they were all like that.

And so we had something to produce and all the internal processing began. Will our revered chief approve? Who shall direct? What will he say? Will it be number one? Must have a good one to start – can we bring it in within budget? What about filming, casting, designing? Bang, bang and we were off and I found another chain of reactions, some new, some expected but all vitally fresh.

This is where the directors come in. They are the next step towards exposure. They add, they give actuality, they transmit. God help a producer who doesn’t get on with them. To me the heart of this new job is seeing them for the first time. Before, when I was directing myself, I was blinkered. I never saw another director working. I was always alongside. I was in parallel at the best of times, behind or ahead most of the time, never face to face. I know already I want to direct again in the future because I can now much more clearly understand that unless a producer and a director mutually see each other’s problems as their own, they will never be united. If this principle isn’t applied in every television relationship, nothing can happen successfully, smoothly or with integrity.

There is and must be a friction and it must cause heat. Fire is needed to create but it can also destroy. I am beginning to understand that really it is best for a producer to be seen and not heard. Even his own personal ‘OOMs’ [“Official Office Memoranda” – Captain Brownrigg’s way of communicating with staff – Ed] give rise to a large range of reactions. His function must be to reconcile, balance, give form and he must live with the constant hope that his suggestions might inspire – and not be disturbed when they are rejected.

It is far better to have a good idea left untasted than to force it to be swallowed and then to see it sink undigested like a lump of solid dough to the bottom of a dyspeptic stomach. But if a producer has a reward, it is to see his suggestions chewed over and transformed into something new, fresh, vital and appropriate. Something which will need no defending, because it exists as it should and will reach the screen in a way in which even the sleepiest viewer will respond to, perhaps without even knowing why.

As a wise man once said of a producer – he must have a love-hate relationship with anyone with whom he works. He must be willing to help always but above all he must respect a man’s self-respect. A producer is with a series for the entire run but on each episode the director is the creative chief. The same applies to every relationship a producer has with every creative technician. His editor comes first, then the director and through (and only through) the latter, the rest of the company of each production.

The one real link with his old job as a director is the producer’s relations with his stars. He has to keep them happy with good scripts, good publicity, good everything. They are the ones who take the ultimate exposure and get the final praise and blame. Raymond Francis has done it all before but Sean Caffrey is taking his first plunge. We wish them both all the best of luck. At the time of writing this I haven’t got any further. I’m not going to crystal gaze into the future – it’s too dangerous. By the time this gets to the great Fusion public, they’ll know whether I’ve been able to do anything to actualise my aim. They must be the judges.

The post No Hiding Place for a producer appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

Rediffusion Television’s production of ‘The Caretaker’ earlier this year won an International Emmy award for the best entertainment programme made outside the United States. In this article director marc miller talks about the problems of production. Obvious congratulations are due to Harold Pinter for writing it, Marc Miller for directing it, Peter Willes for producing it, and Roy,Dotrice, Ian McShane and John Rees for acting in it. Congratulations are also due to all those who had a hand in the production and their names are listed at the end of the article.

Making ‘The Caretaker’ into a television play created one or two unusual problems the solution of which added, I think, to the production’s effectiveness.

I felt that we should make no concessions towards accepted studio practice; that the play should only be broken where Pinter had originally made scenes end; that the actors must only work in one area; and that I should be able to shoot from every side of the room.

Designer Fred Pusey solved the last two problems brilliantly by splitting the four walls of the room into six trucks and putting the whole set on a 2 ft high rostrum. This created some problems concerning camera movement but it gave the cast a working area quite independent of the machinery. This independence added to the confidence of their work as they did not have to compete for floor space with pedestals, etc. Bill Lee, lighting supervisor, saw the designer’s rough plan and quietly pointed out that he could not light a 360 degree area but he would do his best to illuminate it. Bill’s concept of lighting and illumination is his own affair, but I have made a point of asking for the illumination technique several times since ‘The Caretaker’. Jeff Shepherd (senior cameraman) and Alan Evans (sound balancer) gave a qualified blessing to the early plans and the play was ready to start rehearsal.

To lessen the break caused by moving from the rehearsal room to the studio, Fred Pusey set up the entire rostrum area in the room, filling the spare space with junk to build into the play as it was needed. Michael Baldwin, costume design, arrived on the first day with cases full of old clothes which were sorted out to provide Roy Dotrice with his rags and John Rees with his doubtful, mid-forties pin-stripe suit. Ian McShane elected to provide his own wardrobe.

From here on, at the start of each day, ‘Pet’ Wilcox, stage manager, and Michael Mollan, assistant stage manager, had a full props setting job to do while Roy Dotrice and John Rees had to change into full costume. In this way each day’s work was done in the conditions of a final dress run and the transition to the studio was a natural extension of the rehearsal.

Rehearsals were watched at every stage by practically everyone who was to be concerned in the studio operation. This resulted in a complete understanding of exactly what we were trying to achieve.

All of which should indicate the sort of total unity and teamwork that backed the production. Perhaps the point could be more emphatically made by saying that the play, which ran for 92 minutes, was recorded in one take. Further the whole period of the recording had an incredible ‘first night’ feeling that I have never experienced to that extent before or since.

It is unnecessary to talk more about the play and the performances. They were seen and judged. Pinter is a great writer and Dotrice is a great actor. But these talents could not have fused without the teamwork and dedication of all concerned.

Those involved are listed below. There is no significance in the order.

Designer: Fred Pusey; production assistant; Anne Taylor; stage manager: Pet Wilcox; assistant stage manager: Michael Mollan; costume design: Michael Baldwin; casting director: Muriel Cole; senior cameraman: Jeff Shepherd; camera crew: Colin Hopkins, Sid Turrell, Peter Wickstead, Peter Bond, Andrew Vale, David Taylor, Vernon Layton; sound balancer: Alan Evans; grams operator: Tim Jaggard; sound crew: Mac McLoughlin, John Hoare, Fred Varley, Don Hawkins, Tom McIntyre; lighting director: Bill Lee; electrician chargehand: Bob Burns; console operators: Alf Lilley, Harold Titmus, Mike Sutton; vision mixer: Kaye Stromqvist; make-up: Mary McDonough, Lilia Lennox; senior engineer, control: Peter Hart; assistant engineers: Ray Nicholson, Brian Aylard; floor manager: Eric Cooper; assistant floor manager: Nigel Warwick; setting assistant: Pat Benson.

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Between June 19-23 [1967] five programmes were made at Expo ’67 in Canada. The people responsible were Grahame Turner (producer). Jim Pople (director), Ken Stapleton (manager), Frank Keating (editor, OB’s), Maggi Ricketts and Ruth Tester (PA’s) and the commentator was Barry Westwood. Here FRANK KEATING writes about his personal impressions of the trip.

‘Your first trip to Canada?’

‘My first trip to Canada.’

The 40-year-old had joined me, I suppose, because she was the only woman and I was the most likely of our little First Class group of four. The other two were businessmen who read nothing but the ‘Times’ Business Section in their waistcoats and do-it-twice-a-week bigtimery; I read Terry Coleman and Stan Reynolds and SOMERSET FOILED ON WET WICKET (Spinners Turn Slowly But Surely) and looked a First Class tourist – the only way to look if you’re a born Economy Class.

The crux of the thing was that she had joined me: I thus felt superior and didn’t grin and Smalltalk as I would have had I joined her. So I stared out of the window and felt superior and aloof. And, of course, she kept trying.

‘You’re going to the Expo?’ she drawled.

‘I’m going to Expo.’

‘I sure hope you like it. They say it’s wonderful, wonderful.’

‘Yes, They do, don’t they.’

‘I hope you’ll like we Canadians’ – she had underlined the ‘we’ so I knew I was in for the full colonial-family-tree bit. And I was:

‘Y’know, I’m a real Canadian, my family name is van Rensburg (or something) and we came over with the League of Empire Loyalists (or something) in seventeen (something) and landed at Lake Eyrie (or somewhere) and marched up to Quebec and left settlements on the way at (Godknowswhere) and the only people in the land were the Red Indians who we taught and civilised and…’ and on and on it droned, like the dear old VC10 itself, unfaltering and unspluttering and most boring, and I half-listened and thought of Frankie’s prettiness and neuroses and Turner’s cheerful narcissism and Minchin’s dapper smartness and Pople’s colourful wallcharts and Maggi’s efficiency and Gloucestershire’s need for two class batsmen and the Commander’s wit and our windowless office and Suzanne’s 21st and how we’re going to get five hours Expo programmes out of five days shooting with a hired crew and we must be mad. And then she said ‘Where are you staying?’ and I told her and she said it was the best – and then she gave up and said she was going to sleep now and ‘Enjoy your stay in Canada. It was nice talking to you’ and she turned her back on me in her super pink suit and pale blue chiffon neckscarf and I felt discarded especially as she went to sleep so soon and she wasn’t really at all bad and that bit of skin on the nape of her neck between the bottom of her expensive Boston-type hairdo and the top of the pale-blue chiffon was dark and slightly greasy which told of some encounter between a Dutch Empire Loyalist and a little Red Indian one night between seventeen something and a generation or two ago before the van Rensburgs came good through real estate or contract-hire (or something). Why hadn’t I shown more interest in her and in fact she was really damned attractive and should I ask her to share my taxi to the hotel when we get in and should I ask her straight up to my room for a drink? And then I forgot her except for the inelegant, annoying breathing by my side and got out Barry Westwood’s Expo report and had another drink and thought that the best thing to do, especially as we couldn’t move the scanners on the site, must be to highlight just five national pavilions, but which five, and had another drink and I must ring Pip Wedge when I get in…

Pip Wedge was the first man I saw next morning. In the Expo Press Lounge – all black leather and red carpets, appropriately the last word in Press Loungery – Rediffusion’s one time Manager of Music, Light Entertainment and Quiz Shows was holding a breakfast conference to put Geoffrey Hughes to shame. Except nobody ever smiled. The same type girls were there with their long hair and clipboards, the same programme editors with their whiz-kid glasses and the same type frontmen with sloppy shoes and crumpled trousers but immaculate head-and-shoulders. Nobody smiled, nobody threw croissants and the weekly slog (‘O.K. chaps, this week, the Monaco Pavilion’) was getting them down. Pip, as executive producer of CBC’s weekly Expo programme was so evidently the Boss. Canada was doing Pip Wedge the power of good: vice versa too I shouldn’t be surprised. Soon he’s off to an even classier job in Toronto; his lovely Liz, once the ‘Take Your Pick’ hostess, thrives too, as, in other necks of these very large woods, does Harry Sloan, Jack Nixon-Browne, June Byrne and Allan Erlich.

And so to Expo proper.

One of the features of the Fair as far as broadcasters are concerned is the International Broadcasting Centre. Built and manned by the CBC, it is available to broadcasters from all over the world who wish to send people to report.

There are two main TV studios, one of 7,500 square feet and one of 2,500 square feet, both equipped for colour or black-and-white; there are two fully-equipped, three-camera colour mobile units, two black-and-white units and a one-camera colour VTR cruiser. There are also six radio studios. Cost? To bona fide broadcasters, not a cent. Below-line, that is. You bring in and pay for your own talent, sets, graphics: if you want a couple of chairs, a table, and a potted plant, these they can provide. Plus a full crew – including a director and script assistant if you don’t want to send your own. Facilities are on a first come first served basis, provided that, in the opinion of the International Broadcasting Centre people, what you want to do will in some way tell the world about Expo ’67.

All the Fun of the Fair doesn’t get within an Atlantic width of Montreal; Expo ’67 is a serious business. Very serious. Seventy nations are represented by various architectural extravagances -from America’s geosidic sky-bubble gimmick to Haiti’s snack bar, Russia’s glassy railway-terminus to Germany’s superb curvaceous tent.

Oil refinery after oil refinery, hydroelectric plant after hydro-electric plant … Progress … thrusting technological advance after thrusting technological advance – then throw in a couple of Old Masters or a few twee ‘This is how it all began’ back projections, and there, folks, is our great country; we’ve got more industry, more consumer goods, better welfare facilities than anyone, although everyone else is doing pretty good too and we’re pleased about that, and here we are at this lovely international jamboree to celebrate the North American Way of Life. And the funny thing is the Russians are celebrating just that better than anyone.

Yes. Everyone’s a Good Guy at Expo – except nobody laughs at anything but a business-lunch laugh.

But there are one or two Bad Guys, and they gloriously save the day.

The Cuban pavilion is wonderful. It is a confusingly laid out, naively designed structure showing two hand-held verité films at either end of a room (!) and then a slogan walkaround (guided by the two most gorgeous girls I’ve ever seen) of captions saying, as good as, ‘YANKS GO HOME – And by the way, once you’re there, GET STUFFED’. It’s a gorgeous honest sort of Latin ‘Yaroo, you rotters, we licked you hollow’. Great stuff.

The Red Indian pavilion, too, was super. Give the suited-settlers their due, they allowed the stand to remain – but it must still be hurting them. What the Red Indians say inside their corny, wigwam structure is ‘YOU TOOK OUR LAND FROM US’. ‘LET US HAVE OUR OWN SCHOOLS AND LANGUAGE.’ ‘WE CELEBRATED NATURE BY NOT WASTING ANY OF IT – BUT LOOK AT YOU…’ It was a peaceful but strongly-felt theme, laid out by a gentle, intelligent man who felt he was on the right side but that the battle was already lost. Meanwhile, back at the petrochemicala-go-go, there is Britain’s tattered 3D Union Jack on top of Sir Basil Spence’s ugly white concrete slabs: nightly it seems to go down in the St. Lawrence’s real red colonial sunset in as bizarre a piece of unintended symbolism as ever happened.

Inside, the British pavilion has been the most popular – and, fair’s fair (as you might say) they have tried to spotlight the idea that people, not hydro-electricity makes up a nation. It starts well with an exciting Sean Kenny effort at back-projecting our history through to the Middle Ages, then flops into the ‘Our Great Heritage’ but which is no more than large hanging captions of Drake and Newton and Shakespeare and Fred Hoyle (!) and John Osborne (!) Then comes the showpiece – a large central room which attempts to show us as we really are, but doesn’t (unless you’re possibly a commuter from Surrey who only takes the ‘Evening News’ and ‘Sunday Express’ and who did his bit in the ARP). It’s the sort of thing a COI director joined the COI for; it’s a sort of ’British Is Best – But Just Look at the Competition, old boy.’ It endeavours to show our fancies and our fads, how we’re Great because of the mixture of Gilbert and Sullivan, Eton and Wood Green Primary, Elgar and the Kinks, tea and whisky, Rachman and Peabody. Dimbleby saying ‘And now Her Majesty moves up the great steps…’ and Arlott saying ‘Thompson to Broadbent and Worcester now need 62 more runs with the new ball due after tea…’

It all depressed me, until Grahame Turner came out a couple of days later and he loved it all (and even made the Canadians smile) and I thought O.K.. it wasn’t too bad really and looked forward to some really hard work and Grahame gave me a precious palmful of ‘Brute’ [sic] (the best after-shave in the world’) and I met the 40-year-old again.

So Grahame had his after-shave and I got the girl in the end.

In Canada, Rediffusion Incorporated and its subsidiaries operate a community antenna TV service in several townships in Quebec and Ontario, and background music services throughout the Province of Quebec.

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