by Nev Fountain
The sunny smile disappeared as a cloud passed over Marcus’s features. It was clear he wasn’t best pleased to be reminded of his alcohol-fuelled past. Or was he just annoyed to be reminded that he had anything in common with ‘ordinary’ people? Mervyn thought that was more likely.
‘Well I don’t remember anything about that. It was a long time ago…’
‘Not really, Marcus. Time’s different for people like us. One day or five years, it all feels like an age when you’re on the wagon. And when you fall off it feels like no time at all.’
Brian had obviously realised Marcus’s discomfort, and was starting to enjoy rubbing it in.
Robert’s shiny head popped in from the doorway. ‘Hello gents and lady, we’re ready for you. Can you make your way into the studio, please?’
CHAPTER SIX
Mervyn, Brian, Marcus and Samantha were in the recording studio clustered around the screen; headphones hanging around their necks, BBC passes dutifully pinned to lapels and shirts. They swivelled on their chairs to face Robert Mulberry, who lounged on a desk, one foot on a chair, the other dangling aimlessly beneath him.
Briefing time.
Trevor ‘Simpering’ Simpson scuttled in and handed out a crib sheet, detailing some facts about the episode they were about to see. Nothing that was new to Mervyn, but Samantha and Brian examined them like there was going to be a test later. Marcus slipped his sheet under his coffee. Robert waited until ‘Simpering’ Simpson scuttled out, and then cleared his throat.
‘Okay, thanks everybody for getting here so promptly and managing to get past the demonstration out there… I know some of you have done this before, but for the benefit of those who haven’t, I’ll just go over a few points…’
Mervyn, who had done this kind of thing many times before, tuned himself out. The others all leaned forward attentively.
‘While you’re watching the episode, try not to just describe what you’re seeing. The viewers can see what’s on the screen. Use what you see to remind yourself about the show. They want you to talk about the production, any memories, funny stories, interesting anecdotes, stuff like that. We like to keep the commentaries relaxed and informal, like people chatting in a restaurant, so keep it light and friendly.’
Mervyn didn’t feel very light and friendly at the moment. He started to tear his crib sheet into little strips.
‘Our microphones are very sensitive, and can pick up most noises in the studio, so try not to fiddle with pens or glasses…’ He looked meaningfully at Mervyn. ‘Or bits of paper…’
Mervyn stopped tearing his crib sheet into little strips.
Robert tugged at the tuft of his beard. ‘When it comes to the story, don’t worry about revealing how it’s going to end. You’re not spoiling it for the viewers because they’ve probably all seen it many, many times before. Our market research shows that most of them already own a video copy, and are buying the DVD for a better picture and for the extras.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Marcus. ‘Out of the half-dozen or so television adaptations they’ve done of my books, these days it’s always the DVDs with the most extras which sell the best.’
A little bit of Mervyn died inside him.
Robert continued. ‘But on the other hand, try not to get too far ahead of yourselves. Talk about each bit as it comes on screen. If you have something interesting to say about the last five minutes, try and wait until then.’ He looked at his notes. ‘Some commentators start to watch the show and forget to speak. It’s a very easy thing to do, but try to resist. There’s not much use in a commentary without comment.’
Samantha laughed, slightly too hysterically.
‘So keep the chat going, keep the energy up, and don’t swear or make defamatory remarks about your colleagues. You are being recorded, remember.’
Samantha put a hand up. ‘What happens if you, um, you get confused, and you think you just said something a bit silly or not very nice about someone who doesn’t deserve it?’
‘If for any reason you stumble over your words or say anything strange, we’ll stop the recording and let you take it again. The same goes if you sneeze or have any coughing fits. Just because we want spontaneity doesn’t mean all of it has to be “as live”. We might shift anecdotes around to fill up gaps in the commentary when you’re not speaking.’
* * *
Robert left the studio. Mervyn could see him through the glass, taking a seat just behind Trevor, who was obviously the sound engineer. Behind them both stood Marcus’s agent, Joanna Paine, staring intently through the glass. She had her arms folded, head jutting forward, like she was auditioning to be the Genie of the Lamp in a pantomime.
Trevor started to tweak things on the dizzying array of knobs and slides arranged in front of him. None of them said anything. They exchanged uneasy smiles. For all Robert’s enthusiasm for a ‘chat in a restaurant’, it didn’t feel very friendly. More like getting ready for the first night of a play.
Robert’s voice barked out of nowhere, making them jump. ‘Just one more thing—for logistics. When the episode starts, could someone start us off? We just need someone to introduce everybody, so the viewer knows who’s talking.’
‘Marcus should definitely do that, he’s got such a lovely voice, and he is the most famous,’ gushed Samantha.
Marcus spread his hands apart in an ‘Aw, shucks’ way. ‘If you want me to…’
Robert’s voice crackled again. ‘Actually, we usually ask the senior production person. A producer. If not a producer, a director. If not a director…’
All eyes gravitated to Mervyn.
‘Me?’
‘Great,’ said Robert. ‘Thanks. No need for a script, just do it in a relaxed off-the-cuff way.’
* * *
‘Hello, this is the commentary for “The Burning Time”. I was the script editor for this show—also here is Brian Crowbridge who played Professor Dax—’
The intercom came on. Again.
Stopping them. Again.
Weariness was leaking into Robert’s voice. ‘You didn’t say your own name, Mervyn.’
‘Didn’t I? Damn. Sorry.’
Mervyn was on his fifth take. There was a barely audible sigh from the others. They’d been in the studio for ten minutes and hadn’t got past the opening credits yet. Mervyn knew this was going to happen. He didn’t do off-the-cuff very well. It was one of the many things that he never seemed to get to grips with, like being spontaneously witty when a recording device got shoved in his face. He’d managed to escape most occasions where recording devices featured by cunningly not getting married, not encouraging women to give birth to his child, and not winning any major awards. Then technology cursed him by making itself smaller and lighter. For a writer who made his name through science fiction, it was ironic that his nightmarish dystopian future had already arrived—in the form of digital cameras inside phones and laptops.
‘Marcus, perhaps you should do it,’ rumbled Brian.
Marcus raised his voice a notch, shouting to the invisible spirits that were listening in. ‘I don’t mind, really. If Mervyn doesn’t.’
‘Don’t worry about it, sorry,’ this time the voice belonged to Trevor. ‘He’s already said all the bits we need. We’ll just edit them all together later. We’ll start after the introductions. Just let the opening titles roll for a few seconds before speaking so we can slip it in at the beginning.’
The atmosphere relaxed. Mervyn let go of the desk, which he’d been gripping like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood.
The opening titles rolled; cheesy, faux-Dynasty credits, with all the exciting bits of the episodes chopped up and stuck together. It was a tapestry of fist fights, spaceships, snogging and explosions.
Remembering it was important to talk, even though he had nothing to say, Mervyn started off: ‘So, here are the titles. All very exciting and jazzy… All very 80s…’
‘Oh gosh!’ exclaimed Samantha. ‘Is that person running from that e
xplosion really me?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mervyn, suppressing a smile. ‘I think you’ll find that was our resident stuntman: Duggie “Don’t lean against that window” Fletcher. You remember.’
‘Are you sure?’ she squinted through her glasses at the screen, but the tiny clip had long gone, replaced by a cluster of hairdryers glued together and sprayed silver blowing up.
‘Oh yes, I’m quite sure. It’s verrry subtle, but if you looked at that bit again… You’d notice the muscly arms…’
‘Oh I—’
‘And the height nudging six foot four. And the five-o’clock shadow. And the broken nose. And the scar across the broken nose. And the glass eye. And the tattoo that says “Mother”.’
‘Oh yes! Him! Why was he my stuntman? He doesn’t sound much like me.’
Mervyn pulled a mock-incredulous face. ‘You mean you don’t have a tattoo that says “Mother”? And we did so much research.’ Samantha exploded with laughter, and Brian and Marcus joined in.
Mervyn looked through the glass. Robert and Trevor were also laughing. Robert caught his eye and gave two thumbs up. Mervyn sighed with relief.
The DVD commentary had begun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mervyn wasn’t sure what went wrong, exactly. It all started amiably enough.
The first sight they were greeted by was a scene shot on location: the stark and primitive alien planet Herath (Betchworth Quarry). The indigenous people, the primitive jabbering Ukks (extras in wigs, furs and sandals) were digging in the dirt with picks and shovels; the whole effect was an intentional echo of the great archaeological digs in 1920s Egypt.
‘Ah. On location I see. No expense spared…’ drawled Brian.
Marcus leapt in, interrupting him. ‘I suppose I first got the idea for this story when I read about the Dead Sea Scrolls…’
Brian carried on like Marcus hadn’t spoken. ‘Where did we film this, Merv? Surrey was it?’
‘I think so.’ Samantha’s voice.
‘Betchworth Quarry, I think.’ Mervyn gave a good pretence of sounding spontaneous, but he was reading from the notes.
Samantha again. ‘I remember it being very cold.’
Brian laughed, suddenly loud. ‘That’s right! Betchworth Quarry. There was a lovely little pub in Dorking, I remember, where we all stayed…’
Marcus breezed in with a typical Marcus comment: ‘I didn’t stay in the pub. I stayed in Hambley Hall, up the road. Far nicer.’
Samantha made a ‘Brrr’ noise. ‘I had two layers of thermals on and I still ended up completely blue.’
‘Still,’ Mervyn heard himself, ‘it does look good as an alien planet.’
‘What was it called?’ wondered Brian.
‘The planet Herath.’
‘No, the pub.’
‘The Dog and Duck?’
‘No, that wasn’t it…’
‘So cold.’ Samantha made another ‘Brrr’ for extra emphasis. ‘You got out of the car, and your fingers went numb in minutes.’
‘The Dog and something,’ Mervyn suggested.
‘That rings a bell.’
‘The Dog and Ferret.’
‘Hmm… No.’
‘I remember waking up in that bed and breakfast, opening up the curtains and finding ice on the inside of the windows,’ said Samantha. ‘I was so glad to get warm in a nice big stately home for a change, wake-up in those lovely sheets, and have a hot bath…’ She realised what she was saying and added quickly: ‘It was so nice you let me use your room to have a snooze and freshen up, Marcus…’
Marcus just glared at her.
‘That was it,’ said Mervyn suddenly. ‘The Dog and Monkey.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes. One of those revolting 80s novelty names. Now I remember. It was called the Millstone before. Yes, the Dog and Monkey. Nice little pub. Lovely big barmaid.’
‘Oh yes, Merv. You were very friendly with her.’
‘Well it was very cold…’
Laughter from Samantha and Brian. Marcus had seemingly switched off from the conversation.
‘Her name was Brenda, and her opening hours were—’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Brian interrupted Mervyn. He had seen something on the screen that interested him. The thing that was closest to the heart of every actor. ‘Look at me!’
Brian, in his role as Professor Daxatar, had emerged from the quarry with a box of samples and a pickaxe from the future (a pickaxe sprayed silver with redundant buttons glued on the side). He was looking very dishevelled. Not as quite as dishevelled as his photo in The Sun after he attacked the Burger King, but dishevelled enough.
Samantha laughed too. ‘I love the overalls, Brian, very fetching.’
‘I look like I’m off to work in a garage. Crikey, I look so young.’
‘That’s because you were, Brian,’ said Mervyn.
‘Do you know, I haven’t seen this since it went out, and even then I’m not sure I saw it when it did go out…’
The scene cut, not too subtly, from location to studio. ‘Professor Daxatar’ climbed into his scientific dome, laid out his samples, and started examining them.
‘Hey,’ said Marcus suddenly, loudly, excited he had something to contribute. ‘I had that thing on my mantelpiece! That thing there, right in shot! That statue of Mary!’
In among the 20th century artefacts on Daxatar’s table (a digital watch, a walkman and a running shoe) there was a small statuette of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus; an ugly, crudely painted thing, the type bought by tourists outside the Vatican, desperate to find any souvenir small enough to stick into hand luggage.
‘It got stolen last month—bloody burglars. I’ve been searching high and low for the damn thing.’
‘Why on Earth would anyone want to steal it?’ growled Brian.
‘More to the point, why on Earth would you want it back?’ quipped Mervyn.
‘Well I use…well, I use it.’
‘Gosh. Whatever for?’ said Samantha, and gave a huge laugh.
Marcus didn’t laugh at all. ‘Novelty paperweight…’ he mumbled.
There was a pause, during which someone in Marcus’s headphones asked him if he could avoid swearing during the commentary.
‘Oh, okay…’ Marcus’s mumbled, to the unseen voice. ‘Sorry.’
‘Hmm. Marcus—you call your wife Cheryl your “Little Mary”, don’t you?’ said Brian, slyly. ‘I recall you mentioned it once… During one of our AA meetings.’
That was uncalled for, thought Mervyn.
‘Yes I do, thank you Brian,’ seethed Marcus through a fixed grin. ‘It’s because she once rode on this mangy old donkey during a holiday in Greece, and I thought she looked just like—’
‘Oh my gosh, look!’ shrieked Samantha.
There was an explosion of laughter. On screen, Maggie Styles made her entrance, waddling through an opulent spaceship, and as usual her hugely affected style of acting reduced everyone to giggles.
‘What has Maggie got on her head?’ said Samantha, gulping and fighting to breathe.
‘A sort of traffic light meets plant pot ensemble,’ Mervyn suggested.
‘Probably was a plant pot, knowing costume,’ muttered Brian. Then, realising he was being recorded, he tried to cover himself. ‘Sorry costume, if you’re listening! They did wonders, didn’t they?’
‘Oh yeah, definitely,’ said Samantha. ‘I was very grateful to the costume people for my outfits.’
‘We all were,’ quipped Mervyn. More giggles.
‘It’s a great get-up,’ said Brian, directing his attention once more to Maggie’s outrageous costume.
‘It’s what all the best-dressed high priestesses were wearing that year,’ said Mervyn. More laughter. ‘Dear old Maggie. She loved doing this part,’ added Mervyn, trying to find something nice to say.
‘She didn’t seem to like it at the time,’ muttered Brian. ‘Always saying the script was a load of rubbish.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ said Marcus, in an unsteady voice.
‘I’m really not surprised she said that,’ Mervyn continued. ‘All actresses of the old school used to say that kind of thing when they did telly. It’s their way of saying to the director that they’re used to better, and they’d like to be kept in mind for “proper work”. It was the mature actresses’ way of touting for business.’
‘And what did immature actresses do to tout for business?’ Brian piped up, wickedly.
‘I’d rather not say. Can you remember, Samantha?’
More gales of laughter.
‘Oh, stop it you two!’ said Samantha, choking on a giggle.
Mervyn was becoming increasingly aware that Marcus was very quiet. He tried to calm everything down and bring him back into the group. ‘Perhaps we’d better talk about the story a bit. Marcus how did you go about writing “The Burning Time”?’
‘Quite right, good question,’ said Marcus, with an edge in his voice. ‘Yes, my story was inspired by the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Council of Nicaea and all that jazz. Well before Dan Brown came along. I’d read The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, read about all those bits that were chucked out of the Bible. It amazed me how bits of a religion, a disciple’s entire role in events, could just get negotiated into oblivion.’
‘Hmm…’ Mervyn said, with the merest flavour of irritation. ‘ I think, for the record, it actually all started when the producer and I read The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail and wanted to explore the Vixens’ religion, which we’d already featured in quite a few episodes—in a minor way, granted—and we approached you to see if you wanted to do it…’
‘Oh absolutely, Mervyn. Of course. And I used that vague brief as a springboard for my own ideas…’
‘This is all very talky,’ said Samantha, plaintively, directing her comments at the episode. Marcus’s face stretched in outrage as he briefly thought Samantha was referring to him.
‘Well it had to be,’ said Brian. ‘In those days, TV was practically made like theatre. Rehearse, rehearse, run-through and record in the evening. It was an absolute nightmare some evenings. I mean, look here, we’ve been on this two-shot for what, for more than a minute? It seems like it, anyway. Multi-camera studio, you see, so not a lot of movement, no big effects. These days it’s all far easier, but very choppy. I find it very hard to watch a lot of telly drama these days. All that hacking away at the scenes with extreme close-ups. Not to mention all that wobbly documentary-style stuff they do.’