I have recently spend many days in casting for a show. This is a fairly new experience for me. I've done some casting before, but this amount casting this many parts is new to me. Without dwelling on the details of the show and the people we saw, here are some comments about what the write can gain from casting - and some things to look out for.
The Joy of the Jokes
One of the most exciting things about casting is hearing dialogue read aloud by someone who knows what they're doing. A script that has been sweated over and tinkered with for weeks, months, or even years, is finally being taken for a brief test drive, by someone who at least knows how to drive, even if they're not the Formula One star you'd been hoping for. Even though you, the director or producer are reading in other parts, just hearing it read aloud is a wonderful experience. You hear some of the jokes, which is a relief, but the process also exposes hitherto hidden flaws: lengthy dry patches without jokes; lines that are funnier than was first thought; and bits that just sound wrong or confusing. After a few days of various actors reading in different parts, my writing partner and I found there were already enough issues raised to produce a new draft of the script. This made the script stronger. Rejoice.
The Refinement of the Character
Seeing and hearing a decent actor read a part will help you define the voice. Sometimes, you think a character should be played posh, but when you hear it read posh, or very posh, the character becomes insufferable and you've learnt something. Or an actor reads a part in a completely unexpected way that sounds wrong, but it's good to hear it that way because it confirms what you already thought about that character. Or opens up a new direction. This is hard to conceive because lots of writers have a very fixed idea in their head of what a character should look like and sound like - and they can expend much energy arguing for someone who most fits that brief, even if they're not the funniest or the best. In reality, another actor might breathe life into that part and make it more interesting, much as a writer would hate to admit this.
One for the Back Pocket
You often see actors who are funny and interesting but not right for the parts on the table. But you need to remember these people, because you might need them in the future. When you're writing a one-off part, or even a new character, in a future episode or a different show entirely, your writing partner or director might say "Hey, remember that actor we saw? With the odd hat? Who did that thing? They really had something about them. Could this character be right for them?" And then you're creating a part that you're pretty sure will be brilliantly executed which, in the chaotic throes of a TV series, is a useful short cut to the funny.
The Stars Are In The Sky For A Reason
Writers are drawn to unknowns. For several reasons. One is that unknowns have less experience and therefore more likely to do what they are told, and perform the show as written. (Writers like that). If/when the show does become a success, the script stands a greater chance of shining because critics are less like to attribute the success to a new actor (Writers are obsessed with critics, even though they think they're idiots). Writers are not attention seekers, and tend to think less of people who seek the limelight. Stars are very happy with attention, and writers tend to think less of them for this. But let's be clear about this. Stars are often stars because they're really good. And when they audition, they tend to sparkle. An experienced star brings more than just their name and reputation to the show. They bring so much more.
Overall, the casting process is a useful reminder to the writer that, much as they would hate to admit, comedy is a collaborative process, especially in television. An good actor brings experience and insight to this creative process which I hope, in our better moments, we would acknowledge. The best shows are usually a happy accidents of teamwork, rather that the ruthless execution of one person's vision.
Showing posts with label tv. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tv. Show all posts
Monday, 13 February 2012
Friday, 25 February 2011
In Praise of Radio
There is no doubt that TV is where it’s at. Every new sitcom that comes out is reviewed by all and sundry, generates a thousand tweets and opinions.
This happens for a few reasons. The first is that we love sitcom and, as a nation, there aren’t that many on any more. Therefore any show purporting to be the next Only Fools and Horses or Blackadder is pounced upon like a piece of ribeye steak thrown to a starved lion. Secondly, television is an arresting medium. The images are so powerful they create an enormous impact on the viewer. Then, the next day, on the radio breakfast shows, presenters talk about last night’s television and begin the national conversation.
The aspiring comedy writer, then, could be forgiven for overlooking radio. But they’d be missing out on acres of opportunities.
A Great Place to Start
Many people say that radio is a great place to learn your comedy trade, pointing to all the writers who spend many years in radio before going on to television. This is true enough. Most writers over the age of 35 have a long radio CV, which will almost certainly include the mothballed Weekending and the defunct News Huddlines.
Plenty of shows were indeed tried out on BBC or discovered there – most recently ones being Miranda, Little Britain, People Like Us and a bunch of others. Going back some time, the classics practically defined the genre there, as the nation stopped for Hancock.
Also, there are open door shows on the radio designed specifically train up writers into the discipline of gag- and sketch-writing. I myself started as Weekending was finishing – and had the occasional bit on The Way It Is, sharing a table with likes of The Thick of It’s, Simon Blackwell. And this experience gives a fledgling writer a big boost in terms of morale. There’s nothing that can beat the buzz of hearing your joke(s) going out on national radio – especially if you wrote the joke that week. And especially if the joke is actually funny.
Some time later, I had the privilege of conceiving and script editing four series, Recorded for Training Purposes (yes, I did come up with name, how sweet of you to ask), which was conceived as show to encourage and train new writers. We found plenty. Now there’s BBC7s Newsjack. These shows simply don’t exist of television.
A Great Place to Write
All above is true enough. Radio is a great place to start. But I see radio as an end in itself. It’s a great place to write. It’s interesting that a number of writers come back to radio because of the creative freedom it affords. One notable example is Andy Hamilton – who wrote the wonderful Million Pound Radio show with Nick Revell from 1985-1992. Then had his monster Channel 4 hit Drop the Dead Donkey – but comes back to radio to do Old Harry’s Game and Revolting People, two shows that couldn’t really happen on television. And even while he is writing another monster TV hit in Outnumbered, he comes back to radio again and again.
What is it about radio? The medium itself is certainly intimate. If TV is like being yelled at, radio is like a pleasant side-by-side conversation. It’s more like reading a novel, where the pictures are in your head – where the special effects are so much better, and far more memorable.
But the business of writing for radio is wonderful, especially compared to television – where there are so many people in the way. In radio, it’s mostly you, the producer and a broadcast assistant. There aren’t really any execs or suchlike floating around making your life more complicated than it needs to be. The audience of two hundred or so will keep you honest on that front. And then there’s the cast.
A note here about casting, which is so much easier for radio, since it requires comparatively little rehearsal, no make-up and no line-learning. Assembling a really good cast is comparatively easy. Through radio, I’ve had the thrill of working with some superb actors who have significant profile. Apart from that, they have real experience and talent and can really lift the script with performance.
The Script is King
But if the characters and jokes are not on the page, they won’t appear. Because the process is so pared back, the script is everything. In television, the writer can feel like a small part in a big machine – and this can tempt one into thinking that the script is only part of the process. It isn’t. The script is king. Radio teaches you that in a hurry. There’s no hiding in radio – and so as a radio sitcom writer, you learn fast. If the show misfires, it's unlikely to have been a technical fault. Most likely, it's a script-error, a string or duff jokes, a confusing plot turn or a badly defined character. ie. your fault.
I'm very grateful for having had this education. Ten or twelve years, I was very hungry to get a sitcom on television. But now, having written 45 episodes of half-hour radio scripts, and co-written another 26 with Milton Jones, I now know how hard it is, how much work it is and what to expect. Now, to have my own solo TV show would be rather scary. Back in 1999 I was no way near scared enough.
Even better, the opportunities are there in radio, especially Radio 4 – which puts out comedy every week night at 6.30pm, and often at 11pm, and 11.30am. It’s at least 12 half hour slots a week, 52 weeks a year – to say nothing of the 200+ afternoon plays that are on every year. It’s not like television where there might be two or three sitcoms on per week across four BBC Channels, if you’re lucky. And everyone is scrapping for those slots. You're competing with Paul Whitehouse, John Sullivan and the guy who came up with Friends. On the radio, it always feels like you’re in with a chance (even though I’ve just had two shows turned down in the last Radio 4 offers round!).
A Great Place to Fail
The fact that radio is lower in profile, as we said at the start, is a good thing. And this makes it a great place to fail. We all fail as writers – and even if the scripts seem funny and the cast seem right, the show might turn out to be a bit of soupy mess. Success is all very fine and large, but failure is your friend. You learn through failure – humility as much as anything else and that is no bad thing.
A while ago, I had a nice show running on Radio 4 called Think The Unthinkable, starring Marcus Brigstocke and David Mitchell, among others. I tried to get a new show up on its feet called The Pits, set in fictional British Opera Company. It starred Paula Wilcok, Phil Cornwell, Lucy Montgomery and John Oliver (yes, that John Oliver). I thought it was okay and could have developed into something – but Radio 4 didn’t like it. The press completely ignored it and it vanished without trace. Google it. You won’t find it. It’s not even on Wikipedia. But on TV, the press, I’m sure would have torn it to shreds. But then again, it would never have happened on TV because there probably weren’t any slots.
It’s all happening in radio, my friends. It's a great place to start, to work, to learn and return to when you're rich and famous because it's a lot of fun.
This happens for a few reasons. The first is that we love sitcom and, as a nation, there aren’t that many on any more. Therefore any show purporting to be the next Only Fools and Horses or Blackadder is pounced upon like a piece of ribeye steak thrown to a starved lion. Secondly, television is an arresting medium. The images are so powerful they create an enormous impact on the viewer. Then, the next day, on the radio breakfast shows, presenters talk about last night’s television and begin the national conversation.
The aspiring comedy writer, then, could be forgiven for overlooking radio. But they’d be missing out on acres of opportunities.
A Great Place to Start
Many people say that radio is a great place to learn your comedy trade, pointing to all the writers who spend many years in radio before going on to television. This is true enough. Most writers over the age of 35 have a long radio CV, which will almost certainly include the mothballed Weekending and the defunct News Huddlines.
Plenty of shows were indeed tried out on BBC or discovered there – most recently ones being Miranda, Little Britain, People Like Us and a bunch of others. Going back some time, the classics practically defined the genre there, as the nation stopped for Hancock.
Also, there are open door shows on the radio designed specifically train up writers into the discipline of gag- and sketch-writing. I myself started as Weekending was finishing – and had the occasional bit on The Way It Is, sharing a table with likes of The Thick of It’s, Simon Blackwell. And this experience gives a fledgling writer a big boost in terms of morale. There’s nothing that can beat the buzz of hearing your joke(s) going out on national radio – especially if you wrote the joke that week. And especially if the joke is actually funny.
Some time later, I had the privilege of conceiving and script editing four series, Recorded for Training Purposes (yes, I did come up with name, how sweet of you to ask), which was conceived as show to encourage and train new writers. We found plenty. Now there’s BBC7s Newsjack. These shows simply don’t exist of television.
A Great Place to Write
All above is true enough. Radio is a great place to start. But I see radio as an end in itself. It’s a great place to write. It’s interesting that a number of writers come back to radio because of the creative freedom it affords. One notable example is Andy Hamilton – who wrote the wonderful Million Pound Radio show with Nick Revell from 1985-1992. Then had his monster Channel 4 hit Drop the Dead Donkey – but comes back to radio to do Old Harry’s Game and Revolting People, two shows that couldn’t really happen on television. And even while he is writing another monster TV hit in Outnumbered, he comes back to radio again and again.
What is it about radio? The medium itself is certainly intimate. If TV is like being yelled at, radio is like a pleasant side-by-side conversation. It’s more like reading a novel, where the pictures are in your head – where the special effects are so much better, and far more memorable.
But the business of writing for radio is wonderful, especially compared to television – where there are so many people in the way. In radio, it’s mostly you, the producer and a broadcast assistant. There aren’t really any execs or suchlike floating around making your life more complicated than it needs to be. The audience of two hundred or so will keep you honest on that front. And then there’s the cast.
A note here about casting, which is so much easier for radio, since it requires comparatively little rehearsal, no make-up and no line-learning. Assembling a really good cast is comparatively easy. Through radio, I’ve had the thrill of working with some superb actors who have significant profile. Apart from that, they have real experience and talent and can really lift the script with performance.
The Script is King
But if the characters and jokes are not on the page, they won’t appear. Because the process is so pared back, the script is everything. In television, the writer can feel like a small part in a big machine – and this can tempt one into thinking that the script is only part of the process. It isn’t. The script is king. Radio teaches you that in a hurry. There’s no hiding in radio – and so as a radio sitcom writer, you learn fast. If the show misfires, it's unlikely to have been a technical fault. Most likely, it's a script-error, a string or duff jokes, a confusing plot turn or a badly defined character. ie. your fault.
I'm very grateful for having had this education. Ten or twelve years, I was very hungry to get a sitcom on television. But now, having written 45 episodes of half-hour radio scripts, and co-written another 26 with Milton Jones, I now know how hard it is, how much work it is and what to expect. Now, to have my own solo TV show would be rather scary. Back in 1999 I was no way near scared enough.
Even better, the opportunities are there in radio, especially Radio 4 – which puts out comedy every week night at 6.30pm, and often at 11pm, and 11.30am. It’s at least 12 half hour slots a week, 52 weeks a year – to say nothing of the 200+ afternoon plays that are on every year. It’s not like television where there might be two or three sitcoms on per week across four BBC Channels, if you’re lucky. And everyone is scrapping for those slots. You're competing with Paul Whitehouse, John Sullivan and the guy who came up with Friends. On the radio, it always feels like you’re in with a chance (even though I’ve just had two shows turned down in the last Radio 4 offers round!).
A Great Place to Fail
The fact that radio is lower in profile, as we said at the start, is a good thing. And this makes it a great place to fail. We all fail as writers – and even if the scripts seem funny and the cast seem right, the show might turn out to be a bit of soupy mess. Success is all very fine and large, but failure is your friend. You learn through failure – humility as much as anything else and that is no bad thing.
A while ago, I had a nice show running on Radio 4 called Think The Unthinkable, starring Marcus Brigstocke and David Mitchell, among others. I tried to get a new show up on its feet called The Pits, set in fictional British Opera Company. It starred Paula Wilcok, Phil Cornwell, Lucy Montgomery and John Oliver (yes, that John Oliver). I thought it was okay and could have developed into something – but Radio 4 didn’t like it. The press completely ignored it and it vanished without trace. Google it. You won’t find it. It’s not even on Wikipedia. But on TV, the press, I’m sure would have torn it to shreds. But then again, it would never have happened on TV because there probably weren’t any slots.It’s all happening in radio, my friends. It's a great place to start, to work, to learn and return to when you're rich and famous because it's a lot of fun.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Interest Costs Nothing
This is the last post I'm going to do about money - for now. And the reasons for that are simple: It's too painful, it doesn't get you anywhere and there's no sign of things changing. (And I've blogged on this twice before, the last of which contains an amusing and cathartic Youtube clip of Harlan Ellison here that I highly recommend.)
Let's just summarise the basic problem: scripts should be free. That's the common wisdom around in Radio, TV and Film that writers have to put up with. No matter how many 'script initiatives' that various TV channels run, the assumption is always that the initial script, the one that takes someone at least A MONTH to write, should be gratis, free and without cost. Except to the writer, of course. He'll still have to pay his rent, gas bill and all that.
I realise that these script initiatives are there to attract new talent. Even though there aren't even enough comedy slots for the existing and experienced talent according to the BBC's Head of Comedy last month. Even though this new talented writer will need a fair amount of help from old or existing talent. And the channels love the idea that somewhere out there, they'll find the next writer of Only Fools and Horses - even though the writer of Only Fools and Horses had already written sketches for The Two Ronnies, and 30 episodes of Citizen Smith.
The art of writing sitcom takes about 4-10 years to crack. Asking all-comers to do it seems about as sensible as asking someone to 'have a go at being a surgeon'. Actually, the cost of the damage (c.£1-2million) is about the same. Constantly, annually, quarterly, begging new writers to send in scripts seems to me a curious way of finding the next sitcom hit, especially when dozens of experienced writers can't even get a Comedy Lab onto Channel 4.
It's a free country. Channels and corporations are free to do whatever they like with the money at their disposal, of course. But the problem is that it is now normal to expect any writer, regardless of experience and to go without payment for at least a month, so that a script can be browsed, commented on and then, most likely, discarded - because it's cost them nothing.
When I was a real rookie, I was with a producer at an indie who mentioned that a channel was interested in a show he was developing. I was enthusiastic and said something that conveyed I was excited. He looked at me blankly and said 'Interest costs nothing.' I've never forgotten that moment.
But nothing seems to be changing. The channels and controllers seem hell-bent on assuming that some comedy genius can re-invent the sitcom from a standing start and has a month free to write a script. Or that some existing experienced comedy writer with a mortgage and two kids is going to risk repayments in order to write a script of an idea which will be thrown into a pile with 2500 other scripts.
Naturally, the experienced writer has some advantages, and can perhaps progress things further and quicker (except one sitcom idea I have in with the BBC is over two years old, and it hasn't even had a read-through yet). But even the experienced writer normally has to do weeks of work unpaid. I had a meeting with a theatre producer a while ago who said he was doing me a favour by not paying me - in case the script wasn't as hoped and he'd end up trying promote something he didn't 100% believe in. And, for a split second, like a schmuck, I believed him.
But this kind of talk gets us nowhere. Things are, senselessly, as they are. Apparently it is better to pay a development producer £56k+ (inc NI/Pension & benefits) a year to persuade 7 comedy writers to write scripts for free than it is to just pay 7 comedy writers £7-9k each to actually write 7 scripts between them.
This is why I'm not going to whine about this any more (although that felt good). I'm just going to write scripts. Dialogue, jokes and that. Characters. Write and write. That's what I do. I am good for little else. I shall stop blogging about money - and get back to the boring technicalities of comedy writing.
So, back to work, everyone.
Let's just summarise the basic problem: scripts should be free. That's the common wisdom around in Radio, TV and Film that writers have to put up with. No matter how many 'script initiatives' that various TV channels run, the assumption is always that the initial script, the one that takes someone at least A MONTH to write, should be gratis, free and without cost. Except to the writer, of course. He'll still have to pay his rent, gas bill and all that.
I realise that these script initiatives are there to attract new talent. Even though there aren't even enough comedy slots for the existing and experienced talent according to the BBC's Head of Comedy last month. Even though this new talented writer will need a fair amount of help from old or existing talent. And the channels love the idea that somewhere out there, they'll find the next writer of Only Fools and Horses - even though the writer of Only Fools and Horses had already written sketches for The Two Ronnies, and 30 episodes of Citizen Smith.
The art of writing sitcom takes about 4-10 years to crack. Asking all-comers to do it seems about as sensible as asking someone to 'have a go at being a surgeon'. Actually, the cost of the damage (c.£1-2million) is about the same. Constantly, annually, quarterly, begging new writers to send in scripts seems to me a curious way of finding the next sitcom hit, especially when dozens of experienced writers can't even get a Comedy Lab onto Channel 4.
It's a free country. Channels and corporations are free to do whatever they like with the money at their disposal, of course. But the problem is that it is now normal to expect any writer, regardless of experience and to go without payment for at least a month, so that a script can be browsed, commented on and then, most likely, discarded - because it's cost them nothing.
When I was a real rookie, I was with a producer at an indie who mentioned that a channel was interested in a show he was developing. I was enthusiastic and said something that conveyed I was excited. He looked at me blankly and said 'Interest costs nothing.' I've never forgotten that moment.
But nothing seems to be changing. The channels and controllers seem hell-bent on assuming that some comedy genius can re-invent the sitcom from a standing start and has a month free to write a script. Or that some existing experienced comedy writer with a mortgage and two kids is going to risk repayments in order to write a script of an idea which will be thrown into a pile with 2500 other scripts.
Naturally, the experienced writer has some advantages, and can perhaps progress things further and quicker (except one sitcom idea I have in with the BBC is over two years old, and it hasn't even had a read-through yet). But even the experienced writer normally has to do weeks of work unpaid. I had a meeting with a theatre producer a while ago who said he was doing me a favour by not paying me - in case the script wasn't as hoped and he'd end up trying promote something he didn't 100% believe in. And, for a split second, like a schmuck, I believed him.
But this kind of talk gets us nowhere. Things are, senselessly, as they are. Apparently it is better to pay a development producer £56k+ (inc NI/Pension & benefits) a year to persuade 7 comedy writers to write scripts for free than it is to just pay 7 comedy writers £7-9k each to actually write 7 scripts between them.
This is why I'm not going to whine about this any more (although that felt good). I'm just going to write scripts. Dialogue, jokes and that. Characters. Write and write. That's what I do. I am good for little else. I shall stop blogging about money - and get back to the boring technicalities of comedy writing.
So, back to work, everyone.
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Constructed Reality: The Script
A producer, writer and a TV exec are shooting the breeze and talking about TV in general after a meeting in which writer is being told that there’s no money to make his well-written, carefully observed sitcom. The Producer leaves for another meeting, while writer remains behind, unsure of protocol.
Exec leans back and stretches.
Exec: So tonight, it’s the big show.
Writer: Big show?
Exec: Masterchef.
Writer: Oh.
Exec: Not a fan?
Writer: (shrugs) I like food. And competitions. Just not sure I want to see it on television?
Exec: Ha, ha, ha. (Beat) Seriously?
Writer: Also, you can’t taste what they’ve made, so the key experience is missing. Like porn with very bad lighting.
Exec: Ha! That lighting is hard to get right.
Writer: I’m sorry?
Exec: (Cough) The point is that this is event TV. Unmissable. Insanely popular. Sitcom is all very well, but this is Reality.
Writer: Is it? But is the entire thing not total artifice? When do total strangers normally cook competitively with each other and then told off on national TV for not sufficiently devilling the kidneys?
Exec: Okay, fair enough. But the people are genuine.
Writer: They are, but they’re carefully chosen.
Exec: Yeah, and it’s really important that the casting is right.
Writer: You just called it casting.
Exec: No I didn’t. Beside, everyone know it’s not real reality. But some kind of…
Writer: Fake reality?
Exec: It’s not fake. Anymore. A lot of my close personal friends had to resign over that. Some of them were out of work for several weeks.
Writer: Sorry.
Exec: It’s called Constructed Reality.
Writer: Ha. It’s funny what TV does to you, isn’t it? I mean, it makes you say things like ‘Constructed Reality’ without laughing straight away afterwards.
Exec: (Beat) Why would you laugh?
Writer: Well,… because… No reason.
Exec: The other trick is spending enough on promoting the thing.
Writer: Really?
Exec: Hell, yeah. They really have to make it count because it’s not cheap to make. These celeb judges cost a fortune, and you should see the riders these people insist on. Plus the bespoke tense music. That’s pricey. And then the advertising.
Writer: Advertising?
Exec: Yeah. If you’re shelling out that kind of money, you have to make sure you’re getting bums and eyeballs.
Writer: I thought you said it was insanely popular.
Exec: It is. It is. It’s just sometimes you have to remind people how popular it is.
Writer: I see that.
Exec: Plus you have to get it all on the first showing and the cheap spin-off discussion show afterwards. You can’t repeat this stuff, or sell it on DVD. You get peanuts for re-runs on UK Food 3: Leftovers. We tried ‘Masterchef: Reheated’ but it just didn’t fly. It’s not like you can show it again and again forever like Blackadder or the Vicar of Dibley or those, you know…
Writer: Sitcoms?
Exec: Yeah, whatever. Listen, I have to go. It’s a celeb restaurant opening. I’ll try and steal you some bread rolls.
Exeunt. (Exec via door. Writer via 4th floor window)
Dissolve to several months later. BBC4 shows comedy biopic of sitcom writer who jumps from 4th floor window.
Exec leans back and stretches.
Exec: So tonight, it’s the big show.
Writer: Big show?
Exec: Masterchef.
Writer: Oh.
Exec: Not a fan?
Writer: (shrugs) I like food. And competitions. Just not sure I want to see it on television?
Exec: Ha, ha, ha. (Beat) Seriously?
Writer: Also, you can’t taste what they’ve made, so the key experience is missing. Like porn with very bad lighting.
Exec: Ha! That lighting is hard to get right.
Writer: I’m sorry?
Exec: (Cough) The point is that this is event TV. Unmissable. Insanely popular. Sitcom is all very well, but this is Reality.
Writer: Is it? But is the entire thing not total artifice? When do total strangers normally cook competitively with each other and then told off on national TV for not sufficiently devilling the kidneys?
Exec: Okay, fair enough. But the people are genuine.
Writer: They are, but they’re carefully chosen.
Exec: Yeah, and it’s really important that the casting is right.
Writer: You just called it casting.
Exec: No I didn’t. Beside, everyone know it’s not real reality. But some kind of…
Writer: Fake reality?
Exec: It’s not fake. Anymore. A lot of my close personal friends had to resign over that. Some of them were out of work for several weeks.
Writer: Sorry.
Exec: It’s called Constructed Reality.
Writer: Ha. It’s funny what TV does to you, isn’t it? I mean, it makes you say things like ‘Constructed Reality’ without laughing straight away afterwards.
Exec: (Beat) Why would you laugh?
Writer: Well,… because… No reason.
Exec: The other trick is spending enough on promoting the thing.
Writer: Really?
Exec: Hell, yeah. They really have to make it count because it’s not cheap to make. These celeb judges cost a fortune, and you should see the riders these people insist on. Plus the bespoke tense music. That’s pricey. And then the advertising.
Writer: Advertising?
Exec: Yeah. If you’re shelling out that kind of money, you have to make sure you’re getting bums and eyeballs.
Writer: I thought you said it was insanely popular.
Exec: It is. It is. It’s just sometimes you have to remind people how popular it is.
Writer: I see that.
Exec: Plus you have to get it all on the first showing and the cheap spin-off discussion show afterwards. You can’t repeat this stuff, or sell it on DVD. You get peanuts for re-runs on UK Food 3: Leftovers. We tried ‘Masterchef: Reheated’ but it just didn’t fly. It’s not like you can show it again and again forever like Blackadder or the Vicar of Dibley or those, you know…
Writer: Sitcoms?
Exec: Yeah, whatever. Listen, I have to go. It’s a celeb restaurant opening. I’ll try and steal you some bread rolls.
Exeunt. (Exec via door. Writer via 4th floor window)
Dissolve to several months later. BBC4 shows comedy biopic of sitcom writer who jumps from 4th floor window.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
My Advice: Take Advice
The problem is with comedy - or one of the problems - is that everyone has an opinion. Because our great sitcoms are cherished so deeply, and our sitcom heroes are national icons, everyone feels that they can 'give notes'. This is a good and bad thing. Mainly bad.
When you're starting out, you get friends to read the scripts, because they're the people you know. But TV scripts are hard to read. It's not like reading a novel. Scripts are in an unfamiliar format and unless you do it regularly, it's hard to know what you're looking for. It's even harder to pinpoint why a script doesn't work. And let's face it - if it's your first script it probably doesn't work. (Most first draft of any script don't really work, no matter how experienced you are) Then, there's the business of honest feedback. Is a friend really going to give you that? And if they do, will they even be right?
Once you progress from the bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed stage and end up in the bleary-eyed-and-cynical stage, it can be easy to treat all notes and feedback as an imposition, or as stupid, ill-conceived or predictable. There are lots of stories by writers like Rob Long who extract great comedy from the notes on scripts they are given by network executives who've never actually made a show of their own, and always want the show to be bland or resemble their last hit show or whatever.
But one might be making a mistake if one treats this is as the norm. Just as it's a mistake to treat all advice as equally good, it's just as much a mistake to treat it all as equally bad. Once writers get a bit of success and begin to progress, they/we start to think they really know what's going on and how to write and that no-one can improve on their script but them.
It's worth remembering that the path to success is not pursuing one's own creative vision without listening to advice - but listening to the right advicel listening to advice that makes your work better. And we should take such advice from wherever it comes.
I was reminded of this the other day when I had a meeting with someone fairly important in comedy at a major broadcasting corporation. Before the meeting, I braced myself for some comment or note that would either indicate the executive wanted to turn the show into a different show (one that I really didn't want to write) or that he would make a comment that I would have to take on board that would make the show worse in some way. Or worse, he would betray the fact that he hadn't even read the script.
But my prejudice was ill-founded. The humble exec in question kept himself to making one very good overall point about my script, and explained why he thought what he thought. And I had to admit to myself - "Darn it, you're right". Of course I'd be an idiot to ignore his advice because he's important and I want the show to progress and I kind of have to do what he says. But in actual fact, I should do what he's says because he's correct, and if I do it, the show will be better and an improved version of the show I'd like to write.
It pays to listen to advice. It takes discernment and experience to sift out good advice from bad, but when you find a good piece of advice, don't be too stubborn to take it.
When you're starting out, you get friends to read the scripts, because they're the people you know. But TV scripts are hard to read. It's not like reading a novel. Scripts are in an unfamiliar format and unless you do it regularly, it's hard to know what you're looking for. It's even harder to pinpoint why a script doesn't work. And let's face it - if it's your first script it probably doesn't work. (Most first draft of any script don't really work, no matter how experienced you are) Then, there's the business of honest feedback. Is a friend really going to give you that? And if they do, will they even be right?
Once you progress from the bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed stage and end up in the bleary-eyed-and-cynical stage, it can be easy to treat all notes and feedback as an imposition, or as stupid, ill-conceived or predictable. There are lots of stories by writers like Rob Long who extract great comedy from the notes on scripts they are given by network executives who've never actually made a show of their own, and always want the show to be bland or resemble their last hit show or whatever.
But one might be making a mistake if one treats this is as the norm. Just as it's a mistake to treat all advice as equally good, it's just as much a mistake to treat it all as equally bad. Once writers get a bit of success and begin to progress, they/we start to think they really know what's going on and how to write and that no-one can improve on their script but them.
It's worth remembering that the path to success is not pursuing one's own creative vision without listening to advice - but listening to the right advicel listening to advice that makes your work better. And we should take such advice from wherever it comes.
I was reminded of this the other day when I had a meeting with someone fairly important in comedy at a major broadcasting corporation. Before the meeting, I braced myself for some comment or note that would either indicate the executive wanted to turn the show into a different show (one that I really didn't want to write) or that he would make a comment that I would have to take on board that would make the show worse in some way. Or worse, he would betray the fact that he hadn't even read the script.
But my prejudice was ill-founded. The humble exec in question kept himself to making one very good overall point about my script, and explained why he thought what he thought. And I had to admit to myself - "Darn it, you're right". Of course I'd be an idiot to ignore his advice because he's important and I want the show to progress and I kind of have to do what he says. But in actual fact, I should do what he's says because he's correct, and if I do it, the show will be better and an improved version of the show I'd like to write.
It pays to listen to advice. It takes discernment and experience to sift out good advice from bad, but when you find a good piece of advice, don't be too stubborn to take it.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Getting your script read
There may be some folk reading this blog who wonder just what happens when they send their script to the BBC. Here's what, according to BBC Writers Room.
Naturally the BBC need a system to cope with the thousands of scripts they are sent everywhere. Being a licence funded system, there has to be transparency, feedback and all that.
My advice would be to send your work to a producer who makes programmes that you like. Actually like. Not pretend to like. Someone that you think would 'get' what you're doing. (If that producer is Armando Ianucci or Chris Morris, I wouldn't bother. They're pretty busy.) But take a show you like, find the producer's name at the end, and send it to them, with a covering letter (correctly spelled and politely written) and show that you appreciate your work and that they might possibly appreciate yours. They have to be fairly hard hearted to toss your script in the bin without looking (as is their right).
Then all you have to do then is make sure the first five pages are sparkling and really demonstrate what the show is and why its funny. Not just people saying funny things. Characters being funny. Then make sure the rest is also funny, well put-together and original.
If there is the smallest shred if talent there, they may well invite you in for a meeting. My advice then is: Turn up and don't be weird. The odds are you'll end up putting the script you've written to one side for a variety of reason, but you know have a link, and it's a start. I think that's more likely to succeed than lobbing your script onto a pile of 7000 other scripts. But the choice, of course, is yours.
Friday, 26 March 2010
The Sound of Laughter
My friend Dan alerted me to yet another ill-conceived piece of journalism about comedy, this time on the Guardian blog here. Why a decent publication like the Guardian sees fit to give e-space to a poorly argued piece of opinion (which amounts to "I hate the sound of human laughter") is rather bewildering.
The blogger somewhat shows his hand when he describes one of the most successful and acclaimed comedies of all time, Friends, as a "a production-line comedy". Friends was not as overtly quirky as Seinfeld, but to imply Friends was merely churned out is a serious misjudgment. He suggests that Blackadder and Frasier would be better with the laugh-track taken off. Richard Curtis must be kicking himself as it seems so obvious where he went wrong. Thanks blogger, we'll re-call and re-cut all the DVDs.
The comments underneath the article are, as you would hope, better informed and less prejudiced. Newmediamark helpfully guides us to David Baddiel's more thoughtful piece in The Times from Nov 09 here quoting this bit:
I would add to this that reviewing TV is a lonely business, and attracts people who are happy to spend lots of time alone watching television. An audience laughter track implies that a whole bunch of people are having a good time, which some people find alienating or annoying, especially if they are all laughing at jokes that don't seem all that funny. Audience comedy has a 'togetherness' to it that some find irritating, tacky, corny or naff, and are therefore predisposed to like the so-called laugh track.
One can only commend the likes of AA Gill who is at least honest about the prejudice behind his loathing of audience laughter - and laughing out loud in general. I shall never forget his review of Jack Dee's Lead Balloon in the Sunday Times in October 2006, which said this:
Given his hatred of the physical act of laughing, turning to him for fair criticism of comedy is rather like asking a vicar for reviews of pornography - don't bother asking because he thinks the whole thing is disgusting.
Some comedy/tv critics could simply not be any further away from the sentiments of their readers. Some are merely interested in demonstrating that they would write a much better, wittier, cleverer a comedy if only they had the time and the opportunity. It's all rather sad - a form of bullying, in essence - and it makes the job of producing decent, popular comedy even harder than it already is. Still we continue to try.
The blogger somewhat shows his hand when he describes one of the most successful and acclaimed comedies of all time, Friends, as a "a production-line comedy". Friends was not as overtly quirky as Seinfeld, but to imply Friends was merely churned out is a serious misjudgment. He suggests that Blackadder and Frasier would be better with the laugh-track taken off. Richard Curtis must be kicking himself as it seems so obvious where he went wrong. Thanks blogger, we'll re-call and re-cut all the DVDs.
The comments underneath the article are, as you would hope, better informed and less prejudiced. Newmediamark helpfully guides us to David Baddiel's more thoughtful piece in The Times from Nov 09 here quoting this bit:
The reason critics don't like sitcoms shot in front of audiences is that it takes away their power. A theatre critic who hates a play that the rest of the audience loved can always tell you it bombed; but a TV critic cannot say that about a sitcom that is storming it. Which leaves him or her with two choices - be sneering about the response of the audience (always a trifle unlovely) or assume it's canned. Which - have I said this before? - it won't be.
I would add to this that reviewing TV is a lonely business, and attracts people who are happy to spend lots of time alone watching television. An audience laughter track implies that a whole bunch of people are having a good time, which some people find alienating or annoying, especially if they are all laughing at jokes that don't seem all that funny. Audience comedy has a 'togetherness' to it that some find irritating, tacky, corny or naff, and are therefore predisposed to like the so-called laugh track.
One can only commend the likes of AA Gill who is at least honest about the prejudice behind his loathing of audience laughter - and laughing out loud in general. I shall never forget his review of Jack Dee's Lead Balloon in the Sunday Times in October 2006, which said this:
This series is part of a new trend of comedy shows that don't make you laugh; you just nod your head and mutter, "That's really funny." It's a Darwinian improvement on the tyranny of the set-up-gag guffaw, and I approve of it. Laughter is ugly and common.
Given his hatred of the physical act of laughing, turning to him for fair criticism of comedy is rather like asking a vicar for reviews of pornography - don't bother asking because he thinks the whole thing is disgusting.
Some comedy/tv critics could simply not be any further away from the sentiments of their readers. Some are merely interested in demonstrating that they would write a much better, wittier, cleverer a comedy if only they had the time and the opportunity. It's all rather sad - a form of bullying, in essence - and it makes the job of producing decent, popular comedy even harder than it already is. Still we continue to try.
Friday, 19 February 2010
I Don't Know When To Be Happy For You
I've managed to watch every episode of The Persuasionists. As you might have guessed, I've been disappointed. I blogged that I rather liked the show - based mainly on Episode 2, which did make me laugh a lot. Clearly I haven't been as disappointed as the BBC who buried the show after Newsnight and dumped the last episode on a Saturday night. This is, I guess, their right. The show will have cost them over a £1 million so they can do whatever they like with it.
I've been trying to work out why it hasn't come together as a show. Failure was not inevitable as some like to suggest. People like to say things like 'I could have told them at the start why the show was never going to work'. The fact is, for me at least, Episode 2 did work quite well. Failure is not always predictably inevitable.
So here's one thought about that particular show - suggested by the title of this blog post. I didn't know when to be happy for to the characters, because their terms of success were very unclear. For example:
The last episode featured the boss wanting to make the office 'more australian', which is a funny enough idea in principle. But what did he mean by that? There seemed know way of knowing when this was the case - we didn't know how well the characters were succeeding at any given time because the boss did not give terms.
In another episode (maybe the fifth), the boss told the characters to 'be more creative' or prove their creativity. And a threat was issued. Setting challenges is always a good start in an audience sitcom - that is, if we know what success looks like. And threats are good too to discourage failure and keep the characters keen. But we have to know what constitutes failure and success. In that episode, the next thing we knew, two of the characters went to buy ultra-cool trainers - for no particular reason. It then transpired that they simply wanted to look creative. It was rather nebulous. I was left wondering 'What's going on, and what the characters trying to do?'
Here's the thing. If I, the viewer, don't know what success for the characters looks like, I don't know if they're winning or losing at any point in the show. If I don't know what they're trying to achieve, then I don't if they're winning or losing. Confusion is the enemy of a laughter. And audience that is baffled can't laugh. I've learned this from experience. I've written a few sitcom episodes for Radio which sounded terribly clever and complex, but the audience just didn't know what was happening, so the laughs dried up.
THis is not to say there is no place for randomness or bizarre events in show. A show can have random beats and moments and unexpected events of course, but they happen within a context. if that context is confusion, and chaos reigns,
When storylining Miranda with, er, Miranda Hart and Richard Hurst, I came up with a term that we used quite a lot. It was 'Clear TOSS'. It was an abbreviation for 'CLEARly defininable Terms Of suceSS'. That is to say, when the character has succeeded, it is obvious, and demonstrated with a single gesture or object. Of course it's contrived and real life isn't usually like that. But this ia s sitcom. It is, by its very nature, a contrivance. The audience know that people aren't that funny in real life. They are suspending of disbelief. They are offering you their hand. You have to take that hand and guide them. And you blindfold them and send them spinning at your peril.
Incidentally, this is why dumb characters are useful. The characters get to explain what's happening to them. They sit there looking vacant and someone says "Look, if we don't sell all these watermelons by 5pm, we're all fired" or "Hey, don't drop that painting or you'll owe Mr Peterson £5million". You get the idea. Hooray for idiots. They really do make life easier for the rest of us.
I've been trying to work out why it hasn't come together as a show. Failure was not inevitable as some like to suggest. People like to say things like 'I could have told them at the start why the show was never going to work'. The fact is, for me at least, Episode 2 did work quite well. Failure is not always predictably inevitable.
So here's one thought about that particular show - suggested by the title of this blog post. I didn't know when to be happy for to the characters, because their terms of success were very unclear. For example:
The last episode featured the boss wanting to make the office 'more australian', which is a funny enough idea in principle. But what did he mean by that? There seemed know way of knowing when this was the case - we didn't know how well the characters were succeeding at any given time because the boss did not give terms.
In another episode (maybe the fifth), the boss told the characters to 'be more creative' or prove their creativity. And a threat was issued. Setting challenges is always a good start in an audience sitcom - that is, if we know what success looks like. And threats are good too to discourage failure and keep the characters keen. But we have to know what constitutes failure and success. In that episode, the next thing we knew, two of the characters went to buy ultra-cool trainers - for no particular reason. It then transpired that they simply wanted to look creative. It was rather nebulous. I was left wondering 'What's going on, and what the characters trying to do?'
Here's the thing. If I, the viewer, don't know what success for the characters looks like, I don't know if they're winning or losing at any point in the show. If I don't know what they're trying to achieve, then I don't if they're winning or losing. Confusion is the enemy of a laughter. And audience that is baffled can't laugh. I've learned this from experience. I've written a few sitcom episodes for Radio which sounded terribly clever and complex, but the audience just didn't know what was happening, so the laughs dried up.
THis is not to say there is no place for randomness or bizarre events in show. A show can have random beats and moments and unexpected events of course, but they happen within a context. if that context is confusion, and chaos reigns,
When storylining Miranda with, er, Miranda Hart and Richard Hurst, I came up with a term that we used quite a lot. It was 'Clear TOSS'. It was an abbreviation for 'CLEARly defininable Terms Of suceSS'. That is to say, when the character has succeeded, it is obvious, and demonstrated with a single gesture or object. Of course it's contrived and real life isn't usually like that. But this ia s sitcom. It is, by its very nature, a contrivance. The audience know that people aren't that funny in real life. They are suspending of disbelief. They are offering you their hand. You have to take that hand and guide them. And you blindfold them and send them spinning at your peril.
Incidentally, this is why dumb characters are useful. The characters get to explain what's happening to them. They sit there looking vacant and someone says "Look, if we don't sell all these watermelons by 5pm, we're all fired" or "Hey, don't drop that painting or you'll owe Mr Peterson £5million". You get the idea. Hooray for idiots. They really do make life easier for the rest of us.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
The Persuasionists
Here’s the short version: I rather like it.
Here’s the longer version:
The problem with launching a new sitcom is that most viewers compare your Episode 1 against their favourite episode of their favourite sitcom. We all have our favourites - and we love those characters as if they were members of our own family. Frankly, I would like to hug 30 Rock’s Liz Lemon and tell her everything’s going to be okay. Or we’d like to smack the characters because they’re making the same mistake week after week. Seinfeld said their rules were No Hugging and No Learning - but pretty much every sitcom has that second part. Sitcom characters don’t learn. Mainwaring and Hancock are pompous, always. David Brent thinks he’s funny every week. And so on. And so usually we find ourselves chuckling before they’ve even done the joke. Sitcoms that are up and running have a crucial momentum that keeps us laughing.
And so getting a new sitcom off the ground is like launching a rocket. Once the thing is moving and orbiting the earth, you just need to nudge it the right direction. But getting the darn thing of the ground, that takes a lot of energy.
Why am I saying this? You may well be ahead of me. I’ll fess up and say that I didn’t really like episode 1 of The Persuasionists, and some of this is because of the reasons above. I just didn’t know the characters. There are other reasons, which I’ll mention in a moment. But I did like episode 2. I’ve watched some scenes several times over and laughed a lot. And I’m looking forward to seeing episode 3. Put it this way: I watched Episodes 1 and 2 on iPlayer. But for episode 3, I’ll try and make an appointment to view - or at least tape it on my PVR and watch it within 24 hours (high praise in my house).
Why did I like it? I liked it because it was a big silly sitcom with jokes in it. It sounds rather daft to say that, but I do worry, sometimes, that some people think jokes are beneath them or just too obviou, or that a show is all character and story, and the laughs are simply organic. In one sense, they are. But you need them all the same. It’s another reason why writing sitcoms is so hard. You need to create characters, relationships, a situation, a story that hangs together - and then write about a hundred jokes that make a roomful of 200-300 people laugh out loud. Oh and three million people at home, give or take. That’s why the money is quite good when you get it right.
The Persuasionists is, then, a knock-about comedy set in the world of advertising. Are the characters believable? In a sense, but they’re obviously larger than life. And they’re clearly meant to be that way. And as with most office sitcoms, and audience shows, you tend not to believe that any actual work goes on in the office in question - but nobody minds that. It’s a sitcom. The audience understand that real life isn’t that funny. And that an office of 25 people tends to have more than 5 people who actually talk to each other. Sitcom is a contrived format by its very nature. But it works.
Clearly, the recipe for this particular show didn’t work for some people. The reviews and comments were almost entirely negative. It’s all rather sad. Reviewers, bloggers, and tweeters single out comedy for the vilest of comments. In a way that shows they care about comedy. It also shows that people are prepared to hide behind the internet to say horrible things that they would never say in real life. But the relentless stream of twitters say “Worst show ever” and “I’ll never get that half hour back” is pretty depressing. Apart from anything else, most TV is dreadful. Even successful shows. But we digress from the matter in hand.
Here’s my main worry about the show - the mix of characters. There are five characters, all with fairly strong traits. And since the show is set in the world of advertising, most of the characters are, what tv execs call ‘unsympathetic’. They shout and rant and are generally mean to each other. The exception is the Adam Buxton character - who is the optimist and nice-guy. The other characters are more grotesque, which is fine, but it makes them less believable. And so every single line those characters say has to be really funny. If it isn’t, we’ll stop laughing and think to ourselves “I don’t buy this”. Occasionally, you need a character to say things like “Hey, we have to get this done in time, or else” or “I hope my mum doesn’t die” or something that they have to mean. We all know it’s made up, but if the we don’t even believe that the characters believe in anything, the whole thing falls apart into a deconstructed heap on the floor.
I’ve run into this phenomenon writing Hut 33, which is a sitcom for Radio 4 set in Bletchley Park in World War Two. One character is called Minka, played by Olivia Colman. Minka is a psychopath who believes that violence is the solution to all problems. And she’s very handy and has all manner of weapons secreted about her person. She’s a preposterous character, keeping weapons in places where they couldn’t possibly fit, but it works - as long as she’s not carrying lines of exposition or doing what the other characters do. The problem comes when you have a whole show of those big characters. They have to gag their way in and out of every situation, and if one joke misfires, it can fall apart. If two jokes misfire, it hurts.
In Episode 2 is because the jokes fired. They worked - especially the lunatic stuff Keaton said and did, and the wonderful scene in which the boss explained to the popstar why Australia wasn’t ordinary. It was great, and bits like that really carried the show. There were other lovely moments when the popstar looks at Adam Buxton from afar and he’s sniffing his hands. And then he says how boring he is saying “Even when I hear my own voice, I think ‘O God, not him again’.” Lovely. The question is whether episode 3 can pull off the same trick. I hope so. I do enjoy laughing.
Here’s the longer version:
The problem with launching a new sitcom is that most viewers compare your Episode 1 against their favourite episode of their favourite sitcom. We all have our favourites - and we love those characters as if they were members of our own family. Frankly, I would like to hug 30 Rock’s Liz Lemon and tell her everything’s going to be okay. Or we’d like to smack the characters because they’re making the same mistake week after week. Seinfeld said their rules were No Hugging and No Learning - but pretty much every sitcom has that second part. Sitcom characters don’t learn. Mainwaring and Hancock are pompous, always. David Brent thinks he’s funny every week. And so on. And so usually we find ourselves chuckling before they’ve even done the joke. Sitcoms that are up and running have a crucial momentum that keeps us laughing.
And so getting a new sitcom off the ground is like launching a rocket. Once the thing is moving and orbiting the earth, you just need to nudge it the right direction. But getting the darn thing of the ground, that takes a lot of energy.
Why am I saying this? You may well be ahead of me. I’ll fess up and say that I didn’t really like episode 1 of The Persuasionists, and some of this is because of the reasons above. I just didn’t know the characters. There are other reasons, which I’ll mention in a moment. But I did like episode 2. I’ve watched some scenes several times over and laughed a lot. And I’m looking forward to seeing episode 3. Put it this way: I watched Episodes 1 and 2 on iPlayer. But for episode 3, I’ll try and make an appointment to view - or at least tape it on my PVR and watch it within 24 hours (high praise in my house).
Why did I like it? I liked it because it was a big silly sitcom with jokes in it. It sounds rather daft to say that, but I do worry, sometimes, that some people think jokes are beneath them or just too obviou, or that a show is all character and story, and the laughs are simply organic. In one sense, they are. But you need them all the same. It’s another reason why writing sitcoms is so hard. You need to create characters, relationships, a situation, a story that hangs together - and then write about a hundred jokes that make a roomful of 200-300 people laugh out loud. Oh and three million people at home, give or take. That’s why the money is quite good when you get it right.The Persuasionists is, then, a knock-about comedy set in the world of advertising. Are the characters believable? In a sense, but they’re obviously larger than life. And they’re clearly meant to be that way. And as with most office sitcoms, and audience shows, you tend not to believe that any actual work goes on in the office in question - but nobody minds that. It’s a sitcom. The audience understand that real life isn’t that funny. And that an office of 25 people tends to have more than 5 people who actually talk to each other. Sitcom is a contrived format by its very nature. But it works.
Clearly, the recipe for this particular show didn’t work for some people. The reviews and comments were almost entirely negative. It’s all rather sad. Reviewers, bloggers, and tweeters single out comedy for the vilest of comments. In a way that shows they care about comedy. It also shows that people are prepared to hide behind the internet to say horrible things that they would never say in real life. But the relentless stream of twitters say “Worst show ever” and “I’ll never get that half hour back” is pretty depressing. Apart from anything else, most TV is dreadful. Even successful shows. But we digress from the matter in hand.
Here’s my main worry about the show - the mix of characters. There are five characters, all with fairly strong traits. And since the show is set in the world of advertising, most of the characters are, what tv execs call ‘unsympathetic’. They shout and rant and are generally mean to each other. The exception is the Adam Buxton character - who is the optimist and nice-guy. The other characters are more grotesque, which is fine, but it makes them less believable. And so every single line those characters say has to be really funny. If it isn’t, we’ll stop laughing and think to ourselves “I don’t buy this”. Occasionally, you need a character to say things like “Hey, we have to get this done in time, or else” or “I hope my mum doesn’t die” or something that they have to mean. We all know it’s made up, but if the we don’t even believe that the characters believe in anything, the whole thing falls apart into a deconstructed heap on the floor.
I’ve run into this phenomenon writing Hut 33, which is a sitcom for Radio 4 set in Bletchley Park in World War Two. One character is called Minka, played by Olivia Colman. Minka is a psychopath who believes that violence is the solution to all problems. And she’s very handy and has all manner of weapons secreted about her person. She’s a preposterous character, keeping weapons in places where they couldn’t possibly fit, but it works - as long as she’s not carrying lines of exposition or doing what the other characters do. The problem comes when you have a whole show of those big characters. They have to gag their way in and out of every situation, and if one joke misfires, it can fall apart. If two jokes misfire, it hurts.
In Episode 2 is because the jokes fired. They worked - especially the lunatic stuff Keaton said and did, and the wonderful scene in which the boss explained to the popstar why Australia wasn’t ordinary. It was great, and bits like that really carried the show. There were other lovely moments when the popstar looks at Adam Buxton from afar and he’s sniffing his hands. And then he says how boring he is saying “Even when I hear my own voice, I think ‘O God, not him again’.” Lovely. The question is whether episode 3 can pull off the same trick. I hope so. I do enjoy laughing.
What this Blog is for
This blog is about situation comedy - TV and Radio. It’s something the British take very seriously. Any new comedy, good or bad, is subject to intense scrutiny and criticism in the press and now on Twitter and various messageboards. The British are passionate about sitcom and demand the best, and therefore when anything falls slightly short, which sitcoms easily can, it is merciless clubbed to the ground and repeatedly kicked.
The Americans take their sitcom seriously too. This is partly because it’s a billion-dollar industry. Friends, alone, is billion-dollar industry. If you get it right, you’ll not just make millions but hundreds of millions of dollars. And then you can blow all that money on making movies.
Until recently, I’ve been posting comments about situation comedy in general on my Hut 33 blog - which is a blog about a sitcom that I write for BBC Radio 4. But it seems sensible to keep that blog focussed on that show, and reserve comments and thoughts about sitcom in general to a separate blog. So this is Sitcom Geek. Hello.
The Americans take their sitcom seriously too. This is partly because it’s a billion-dollar industry. Friends, alone, is billion-dollar industry. If you get it right, you’ll not just make millions but hundreds of millions of dollars. And then you can blow all that money on making movies.
Until recently, I’ve been posting comments about situation comedy in general on my Hut 33 blog - which is a blog about a sitcom that I write for BBC Radio 4. But it seems sensible to keep that blog focussed on that show, and reserve comments and thoughts about sitcom in general to a separate blog. So this is Sitcom Geek. Hello.
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