“It goes without saying that you, the Drama Department, are one of the great assets of the BBC. I’m afraid I don’t yet know any of you personally, although many are of course familiar. I can see some very distinguished faces here this morning. I hope very much that you will throw yourselves behind me and help us to lead BBC2 into a new era.” Again he paused, but no response. He realised that the sea of faces was waiting for something more informative than bullshit. Time to offer them something concrete; he departed from his notes, putting them behind his back, and strolled a few paces from side to side.
“One of the most frustrating things I’ve encountered as a documentary producer is waiting for an answer further up the line.” He glanced sideways at the assembly and saw a few heads nodding at last. “You’ve got a fantastic idea no-one else has picked up on yet, you’ve done the research, worked out a rough budget – and you’re stuck in your office waiting for the green light. Every day that goes by endangers your project from rival companies picking up on it, participants getting cold feet, or maybe the issue will lose its topicality if the programme isn’t made as soon as possible. What you need is a quick decision. And they tend to be a rare species in the BBC. Well, not in my office! I guarantee you a prompt yes, no or maybe. None of your proposals will sit on a shelf wasting time. And that’s a promise.”
This went down well, the crowd shifted a little, relaxing. Heads turned toward each other, eyebrows rose and fell, one or two fresh young faces were eager to answer his call. Now he could move on, taking them with him. At that moment a drill started up in the middle distance. He refused to let it put him off his stride.
“BBC2’s record in drama is very strong, and I mean to build on that. I shall be extremely clear about what our needs are, and I look forward to working with you to develop the right shows.” A look of slight bewilderment flitted across the group. “I also mean to build in new technologies which will radically reduce costs over the next few years, provided we’re prepared to work with them. We mustn’t be afraid to try new ways of doing things.” Frowns began to appear, eyes met briefly and looked back to the front.
Chris felt a little nervous now. He was losing the tenuous grip he had barely established, and he wasn’t sure why. Why would new technology be considered controversial? He gripped his notes.
“I’m going to give you a broad outline of what I’m looking for next, for the 95/6 season. I think it’s very important that you know the way I see the channel working, and I want you to feel that you can discuss it with me. I’ll take questions at the end.” He paused for people to fidget, and recommenced when pens and notepads were at the ready, speaking as loudly as he could without shouting because there were now two drills competing with him.
“Firstly, a classic serial: I must say I thoroughly enjoyed The Old Curiosity Shop. Is Donald Mountjoy here?”
Donald waved cheerily from somewhere in the middle of the room.
“Donald.” Chris indicated his respect by fixing eye contact and nodding with conviction. “Of course, I would like another along those lines. Secondly I would like a contemporary serial: a cutting edge, state-of-the-nation piece from a leading writer. Thirdly I would like a long-running series of contemporary adult drama which will make a real impact on the nation – I don’t see why the Americans should wield a monopoly on cult hits!” He glanced up and was encouraged to see some of the younger faces near the front looking excited.
“I expect to develop projects at a rate of three to one for the slots, and I shall be able to give you specific slot requirements in a few weeks, along with guideline prices. I look forward very much to receiving your ideas. Now, does anyone have any questions?”
Chris slipped his notes into the inside pocket of his dark grey suit and took a drink of water. The atmosphere was not good. In fact, the word to describe it was consternation. The audience looked serious; some frowned, others examined their fingernails minutely. His armpits prickled and he loosened his tie, which he would have removed except that he knew the DG believed that senior executives should look the part at all times. The builders, wherever they were, abandoned their tools and silence fell suddenly on the crowd. Chris tried to look relaxed but felt like a giant panda newly arrived at London Zoo for mating purposes. There was confusion and tension in the room. What should he do about it? He saw the Head of Drama, Peter Maxwell at the end of the second row and caught his eye: would he like to say a few words? Peter rose to his feet, adjusted his belt and lightly brushed his hand over the top of his head, smiling in a generally inclusive manner.
“Thank you Chris, for a most welcome frankness. I think it’s taken us all somewhat by surprise!” The group united in agreement.
“If I may, I… rather think one or two of your remarks may have come across in a slightly ambiguous way. Perhaps we could clarify a few points.”
“Of course.” Chris was all attention. Peter’s reputation was sound: not a difficult man to deal with, and a fine track record.
“I think you may have said you were looking at developing drama for the 95/6 season, when you meant 96/7; of course we have to work a year ahead of other departments because it takes so much longer to make drama.”
“Absolutely.” Chris nodded sagely, masking his concern. He’d forgotten to take that into account, damn it. But he didn’t intend to wait a whole year before making his mark. He would not automatically accept the shows his predecessor had chosen. However, he didn’t want to go into this until he’d had time to think about it further.
“Sorry about that, everyone – slip of the tongue! Anything else?” He hoped he hadn’t made any other blunders. “I’d be most grateful if you would say your name before putting a question.”
A hand waved from the very back, on the window side, and Chris moved sideways to get the best view. A dark-haired man with large features and an open-necked denim shirt lifted his head as high as he could.
“Stewart Walker. I am sorry, I don’t seem to be able to see you very well. For some reason they’ve set the room out in this bizarre fashion. It’s most frustrating.”
Chris steeled himself. He knew immediately that Stewart had sat there deliberately, and that Stewart knew perfectly well that Chris would have approved the seating plan. He would not let Stewart know he knew what he was up to.
“I agree,” he replied. “It’s a very strange room indeed!”
“My question is whether we can depend on you, as a former maker of factual programmes, to really support us as makers of drama.”
Chris knew a baited fish-hook when it hit him on the nose. “Isn’t that what I’ve just been saying?” he asked, disingenuously.
Stewart’s face writhed with the effort of expressing himself. “You see I’ve been making drama here for twenty-seven years, and some of those projects – I like to think the best projects – have taken three or four years to develop, and two years to produce. I would like very much to feel that you understood how we work.”
Chris received Stewart’s message loud and clear: no jumped-up kid controller was to stand in the way of Stewart’s major works of art.
“I intend, as I said, to work closely with you at every stage. I’m sure we’ll soon understand each other very well.”
Stewart nodded sagaciously. He had received Chris’ message with equal clarity: who’s the bloody controller here anyway?
Selina had turned to try and see who was speaking but she couldn’t get a good enough view. A handsome young man near the front was also craning his neck: as he turned back to face the front, concealing a distinct smirk, their eyes met full on. They held each other’s gaze a moment longer than was necessary.
Chris was glad to see another hand rise nearer the front. “Yes?”
“Penny Cruickshank, producer. Hello. Forgive me for asking this, but I’m just wondering if you intend a radical departure from your predecessor’s approach?” This was another loaded question, but coming from this large middle-aged woman with such a sweet face, it wasn’t agg
ressive.
Chris smiled warmly. “It’s hard for me to say whether it’s a radical departure or not; it’s certainly a new approach, and I think, a much clearer, simpler one.”
Penny nodded hard, adding: “For instance, you mentioned development at a rate of three projects per slot. That’s a great deal less than we currently have on our list.”
“Really?” Chris had no idea what their list had on it. “What rate do you normally maintain?” Penny looked at Peter, who looked at Fenella.
“The thing is, Chris, we don’t really look at it that way. I’d have to count them up and work it out.” Fenella had recently counted the number of projects in development as the list was getting out of hand. It came out at about fourteen to one, assuming the same number of hours of broadcast drama as last year. This was obviously not a statistic likely to impress Chris Briggs.
Another hand flapped, and Selina was glad to see that the handsome man was going to speak. He had a poise she admired; confidence in his good looks, articulate cleverness, and impeccable manners.
“Jonathan Proulx, script editor. You didn’t mention single drama: am I right in assuming Screen Two will remain unchanged?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overlook single drama. I’m still considering how best to schedule it. This is something I would like to discuss with you, Peter.” Peter looked up in surprise, and consented willingly.
“Sonia Longbow, producer. What about new writing?”
“Again, I shall give that special consideration.”
“Morag Fishman, Department Manager. Are you intending to set fixed prices, and how soon will we know?”
“Yes, and soon.” Chris pursed his lips inscrutably. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be mysterious, but it’s very early days, I’m sure you appreciate that.”
Morag did appreciate that, and a lot more besides. Quietness descended as everyone pondered the implications. Chris was about to close the meeting when another hand shot up.
“Sally Farquar-Binns, script editor on The Old Curiosity Shop. Do you mean you want another Dickens, or something different for the classic serial?”
Chris shrugged. “What have you got?” he smiled a happy smile: this was the kind of response he could work with. If only they were all like Sally. This gave him an opportunity to quit while he was ahead, so he drew the meeting to a close, promising they’d hear from him very soon. He caught Peter’s eye and mimed that he would call him, then left the room followed by Selina, who was followed by Jonathan’s eyes. As the door swung to behind her Chris heard a voice announce as if through a tannoy, “Ladies and Gentlemen: Chris Briggs has left the building”. He was annoyed but ignored it, and they returned to his office in silence.
*
That night Chris met Catherine at Covent Garden to see Cosi Fan Tutte as guests of her senior partner and his wife. The stalls were hot and stuffy, as usual, but he quite liked the music which was mercifully cheerful – a vast improvement on the Wagner they had seen last time. One great advantage of opera was that you could close your eyes, wear an expression of concentrated pleasure, and think about something entirely different without fear of giving offence or being disturbed. He had been too busy since the Drama Department conference to give it proper thought, and this was a good opportunity.
Clearly it had raised unforeseen problems, which he would have to deal with. The drama crowd as a whole were a race apart from the rest. Any television producer was serious and committed to their work, willing to walk through fire for it if necessary, guarded and sceptical of any proposed change to their work procedures. The drama lot had the reputation of acting like prima donnas but Chris had always thought this a superficial judgement; certainly they would name-drop with the best, but he had known news producers who threw outrageous tantrums, and documentary makers who would lie through their teeth in order to get their idea off the ground. The drama peoples’ egos were no bigger than anyone else’s, they just expressed themselves more vividly. What made them different?
The music trilled and charmed him as he studied the singers giving their all. They seemed to be discovering the music for the very first time: what a superb skill, he realised, to repeat the same notes, the same expression, the same actions over and over, probably a hundred times before the first night, and then perhaps a hundred more times in performance, and still make it fresh. He could never do that. He had a low boredom threshold which required him to find a new challenge every time he mastered a skill. Is that what it means to be an artist? Rejoicing in the music, the thing itself, for its own sake; living in the moment?
Drama producers want to make great art. In fact, they think they do. They see themselves following the same process as the live arts: they pick a script and spend a couple of years making it with the best actors and technicians they can find, refining it and perfecting it in the edit. Factual programme makers had an opposite approach: they would pick a subject and chase off in pursuit with a minimal crew, shooting whatever footage they could. The programme would only develop a structure and a clear message in the editing room, when the material was sorted, most of it being rejected, and the narration would be written last. The drama method was essentially about creating a vision and then realising it as closely as possible. The factual method was about discovering as you created on the hoof. There was very little imagination involved, and that explained why factual producers were easy to work with; they were up-front, pragmatic, sharp and responsive, ready to drop something instantly in favour of something better. Drama producers, in contrast, were tenacious and stubborn, refusing to allow any dilution of the purity of their work, which must flow and surprise and engage as cleverly as any novel, play or film. Most of them had started in theatre, and many no doubt aspired to make feature films. A handful of BBC films had been released to cinemas, but without notable success. There was a very strong lobby to extend into features on a commercial level, but the British film industry was in a terrible state and there was little hope of improvement under the current government, so it really couldn’t be justified on any level, as Chris saw it: they were a public broadcasting body, and as such they should make drama for broadcast to the masses, not arty films for trendy little cinemas.
In his view it was absurd to consider television as an art form on the same level as opera, theatre or film. Television was a wonderful medium for bringing all those things into peoples’ homes, but even then, the viewing figures for such programmes were always low. High art was not what the masses wanted, as The Late Show was currently proving. Set up as a five-nights-a-week arts review it was already reducing its broad canvas and would shortly be on only three or four nights a week. London’s finest arts journalists presented the show, and if they couldn’t get the public interested, who could?
Chris felt he had found the key to understanding the Drama Department. The hands-off attitude of past controllers had allowed them to believe in themselves as creators of significant art. They had let the viewing figures persuade them that millions of people sat transfixed by their shows, whereas he knew perfectly well that most families kept the telly on the same channel all night and didn’t even pay it attention; homework, ironing, cooking, eating all taking place with the telly providing a pleasant moving wallpaper and a comforting murmur in the background. The drama folk had some hard lessons coming their way. Television in the nineties was no art form: it was a medium of communication, and like the Royal Opera, it was also a business. You couldn’t put on obscure new music all the time if you wanted bums on your seats, and the government would be wrong to subsidise that policy. You had to give people what they were prepared to pay to see: a regular diet of Mozart and Bizet, with the occasional experimental piece to satisfy the opera buffs. Culture was all well and good, but the bills had to be paid. The BBC could learn a lot from the Royal Opera House and the way it was run. Maybe there was even a documentary series in it?
After the performance they said goodbye to Sir David and Lady Julia who went straight home t
o Weybridge. Catherine looked very tired and Chris proposed forgetting their plan to have a Thai meal in Soho, but she insisted that she wanted to go, so they did.
They sat at a first floor window table which gave them privacy and a view of Shaftesbury Avenue, where the theatregoers were turning into night-clubbers. After ordering and tasting the wine, Chris took Catherine’s hand and squeezed it gently.
“Anything wrong?” he asked. She was never one to make a big fuss about anything; one of the most stoical women he had ever met.
She shrugged and sighed. “I’ve got my period.”
“Ah.” They looked into each other’s eyes sadly and sympathetically. There was nothing more to say.
“It’s not the end of the world,” he said gently.
“I’m thirty-nine. Natasha’s four already. We’ve blown it.”
“Do you want to go for tests? IVF?”
Catherine sighed and shrugged again. “Not really. Yes, I do. No.” She cupped her face in both hands, trying to rub her eyes without spoiling her make-up, and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Chris was concerned. If they weren’t in a restaurant he would have given her a hug, but as it was he put his hand on her knee under the table, and rubbed it. Their starters arrived, forcing him to sit up.
“Come on, have something to eat,” he encouraged, and she picked at her spicy prawns while he embarked on his chicken and coconut soup. He felt he should be making a kind and supportive speech, but didn’t know what to say. Women’s hormones had always mystified him. He sipped his soup and watched her.
“If only I’d got pregnant again two or three years ago it would all have worked out perfectly. The family would be complete, Natasha would have a sibling, and I’d be able to concentrate on my career. We should have tried harder when the time was right.” Catherine stabbed the last prawn and bit it in two. Her deep brown eyes met his light hazel eyes in unmasked resentment. Chris looked pained.
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