WILSON (sheepishly) Sir, I think perhaps you ought to read it.
MAINWARING Oh! Very well! (reads out loud) ‘Frank is starting with his chest again. He ought to be in bed. If he can’t wear his muffler he’s to come home or he will catch his death.’ (turns to Wilson) We can’t have him wearing that thing on parade! It makes the whole platoon look ludicrous!
WILSON Well, perhaps he could wear it on patrol, sir? (turns to Pike) What time do you go on?
PIKE Ten till twelve, sir.
WILSON It’ll be dark by then, sir.
MAINWARING Oh, very well.
Lowe worked his way through these line-ups with all the skill and subtlety of a seasoned comedy straight-man: he looked at the likes of Pike, Jones, Godfrey, Walker and Frazer in much the same way as Oliver Hardy looked at Stan Laurel, or Jerry Desmonde looked at Sid Field, or Jimmy James looked at Hutton Conyers, or Ernie Wise looked at Eric Morecambe, or Jack Benny looked at just about everyone – a unique mixture of bewilderment, exasperation and uncontainable curiosity. The bewilderment makes one long to move aside, the exasperation makes one long to move on, but the curiosity – against one’s better judgement, against one’s will, against all reason – makes one stay rooted firmly to the spot. Mainwaring, Lowe understood, is the kind of man who is destined to make the same mundane mistakes over and over again – forgetting, for example, not to ask Walker how he came by some welcome but rare commodity, or forgetting not to invite Jones to reminisce about that other supposedly remarkable occurrence in the Sudan, or forgetting not to urge Frazer to repeat that recently snarled remark – and so, every time it happens, he just stands there, a sad but stoical figure, and waits for the whole sorry thing to blow over.
It would not be long before Michael Mills began advising Croft and Perry to lose the device of the line-ups – ‘Don’t do any more,’ he boomed one night in the bar of the BBC Club, ‘the viewers will get bored with Arthur walking up and down inspecting the platoon. There’s a limit to the amount of laughs you can get with the same joke, you know!’15 – but the co-writers wisely took no notice; the line-up, they understood, was as useful to an ensemble as the tableau curtains were to the solitary comedian – each one, in its own special way, marked out a moment in which to shine. The happy ritual drew one in and warmed one up – it was surely one of the reasons why, as the Yorkshire Post put it, the show had already, after just three episodes, ‘become a “must” for a vast viewing public’16 – and the deft role that Arthur Lowe played within it ensured that the scene would always seem real – ‘So many comedies are all talk,’ wrote Mary Malone in the Daily Mirror. ‘Here, to say is to do.’17 Even the Morning Star, by this stage, was ready to confirm the programme’s broad appeal: ‘Well worth watching,’ Stewart Lane declared, ‘for half an hour’s respite from the day’s cares.’18
Before any further progress could be made, however, the run was interrupted the following Wednesday (21 August) when BBC1 cleared its schedules in order to respond to the dramatic breaking news of the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the forces of the Warsaw Pact. Episode 4 (‘Enemy Within the Gates’) finally arrived a week late, on 28 August, but, reassuringly, it seemed to have held on to most of its regular audience, attracting a fairly healthy 8,080,000 viewers (compared to the 8,635,500 who had seen the previous edition), and receiving a solid Reaction Index rating of 65 (exactly the same as its predecessor).19 In spite of the unexpected break, and the fact that ITV – having finally resolved its dispute with the ACTT20 – was now offering a more competitive schedule,21 Dad’s Army continued to flourish.
The series finished strongly. Episode 5 (‘The Showing Up of Corporal Jones’), broadcast on 4 September, was a spirited affair, notable in particular not only for Clive Dunn’s assured performance as the desperately keen Jack Jones (‘I’m perfectly fit, sir! I can still get the old cold steel in there, sir!’) but also for the first, fleeting, appearance by Edward Sinclair as the meddlesome caretaker of the church hall (‘If I tell the Vicar, he’ll turf you out!’). As in previous weeks, there was something agreeably ironic about the fact that this prime-time programme, broadcast in the most youth-oriented decade of the century, was inviting one to identify with the plight of a septuagenarian. Following a visit from the sinister Major Regan (Patrick Wyldeck) – ‘I think we’re going to have to watch him, Wilson. His eyes are too close together’ – Mainwaring is obliged to break some bad news to the most devoted of all his men:
MAINWARING I’ve got something to tell you, Jones.
JONES I’m going to get my second stripe, sir?
MAINWARING Well, no. Not exactly. I had a letter from GHQ, and, ah, they feel that, ah, well, the fact is that they feel –
JONES Yes, sir?
MAINWARING They feel that you’re over age, Jones.
JONES Over age? I’m only 70!
MAINWARING Well, that’s just the point. You see, they feel that 70 is over age.
JONES But that’s not fair! I can do anything the other blokes can do! I bet it’s that snooty major. I bet it’s him. I only wish I had ’im registered with me for meat – he’d get it, but I’d cut it off the gristle!
Thanks in part to his own determined efforts – ‘They don’t call me “up ’em Jones” for nothing, you know!’ – and in part to the cunning of others, a solution is found, and the crisis is overcome. The story, which, once again, was rooted in broad historical fact, worked well, and the humour flowed without any signs of force. More viewers than ever before – 8,837,500 – tuned in to see it, and the programme received an impressive Reaction Index rating of 70. An Audience Research Report on the episode noted that it had been ‘even more favourably received than the previous four’, appealing not only to those who had lived through the war years but also to younger viewers ‘who could apparently believe in the situation and join their elders in “one long laugh”’.22 The Guardian’s Stanley Reynolds reassured his readers that the programme ‘is played in such an easygoing natural fashion that one imagines even the most hard-bitten professional anti-patriots must find it amusing,’ and added that ‘while in a lot of comedy one can see the seams between acting and directing, in Dad’s Army things were so well balanced that no seams were visible’.23 Even the most cautious critics were coming around: Maurice Wiggin of the Sunday Times, for example, had, after the opening episode, predicted nothing more than the possibility of an ‘interesting’ series,24 but, after viewing the penultimate programme, he expressed the opinion that the show had ‘settled down well … It wasn’t too clear at first whether it was going to be weighted on the side of humour, or documentary nostalgia. Well, it is funny, and perhaps that’s the best approach after all.’25
The sixth and final episode (‘Shooting Pains’), was even more rewarding, with an effective guest appearance by Barbara Windsor (as Laura la Plaz, a small but strikingly supple sharpshooting artiste – ‘The crack shot of the pampas’ – whom Walker attempts to ‘recruit’ for an important interplatoon marksmanship contest), plenty of smart, funny dialogue, some well-honed physical business and a memorable cameo performance by Jimmy Perry. The clash of dispositions between Mainwaring and Wilson was, by this stage, a keenly anticipated highlight of each show, and, on this occasion, it was exacerbated by Wilson’s wry observation that his superior’s snug-fitting home-made pistol holder was, well, ‘a little bit unorthodox’:
MAINWARING You know, the trouble with you, Wilson, is that you have a Blimp mentality. Of course it’s unorthodox! If we’re going to beat the Hun, we’ve got to be unorthodox! Can’t get into a rut. Got to be flexible!
WILSON Yes, sir.
MAINWARING Why hasn’t that girl brought my coffee? She knows I like it at 10.30 every morning!
Perry’s contribution – as the Max Miller-ish stand-up comic Charlie Cheeseman (‘The Cheerful Chum’), whom the whole platoon watches during a visit to the local Hippodrome Variety theatre – was the co-writer’s belated, and brief, moment of glory in front of the camera (‘And brilliant he was, to
o,’ said David Croft).26 What made the scene work so well was the way in which Croft cut away from Cheeseman after each ancient joke – ‘My wife! My wife, she’s so fat! She’s so fat, I ’ave to put a bookmark in to remember where ’er mouth is!’ – in order to focus on its stony-faced reception by Mainwaring (‘I don’t think this was a very good idea, do you?’) and Wilson (‘No. I don’t think it was’).
The story, and, indeed, the series, drew to a close just at the moment when the proud platoon, having won a highly improbable victory in the shooting contest, stood to attention as the guard of honour for the very distinguished visitor. The final frames were filled with the broad back and Homburg hat of Churchill, the smart salute by Mainwaring, and the sound of Monte Ray singing ‘There’ll Always Be An England’. It was all over. ‘You have been watching … ’ the screen said, and 9,746,500 viewers27 saw the credits for Lowe, Le Mesurier, Dunn, Laurie, Beck, Ridley and Lavender roll by one last time. The trial was over, and the verdict could hardly have been more favourable.
‘I’m very sorry,’ wrote one reviewer, ‘to see the last (for the time being) of Dad’s Army. It was that rare article, an excellent idea splendidly carried out. You can’t say more for any programme than that.’28 The sentiment, in fact, turned out to be a common one, as the critics queued up to celebrate the six episodes that they had seen. On 16 September, five days after the run had ended, Keith Smith, BBC TV’s Chief Publicity Officer, sent another batch of clippings to David Croft, along with the following note: ‘More newspaper reviews for you. Just for the record there has been no comedy series in the last twelve months which has attracted anywhere near the number of reviews Dad’s Army has. Nor has any comedy series received this kind of universal praise.’29
Now, surely, there was no reason left to doubt it: Dad’s Army was no ordinary situation-comedy. Dad’s Army was something special.
CHAPTER VI
Success
A comedy show is an organic thing.
DENNIS MAIN WILSON1
Creating a show is a very symbiotic relationship. You create this thing, and then it starts creating you. Then it becomes like wrestling. You kind of roll around on the floor together. Sometimes it’s on top, sometimes you’re on top.
JERRY SEINFELD2
‘You know,’ John Laurie remarked to Jimmy Perry early on in the life of the show, ‘I have played every major Shakespearean role in the theatre and I’m considered the finest speaker of verse in the country, and I end up becoming famous doing this crap!’3 Perry was not remotely offended by this observation, because by this stage in their relationship he understood that it was merely Laurie’s own peculiar way of acknowledging something positive: Dad’s Army had indeed become a very successful situation-comedy. The first five-year period of its existence was one of uninterrupted progress: the audience kept getting larger (rising from an average of around 8.2 million in 1968 to one of around 16.3 million by the end of 1972)4 and the applause kept getting louder. David Croft won a BAFTA5 award in 1971 for the Best Light Entertainment Production and Direction, Jimmy Perry won an Ivor Novello award in the same year for the best theme from any film, television or stage show, and both of them won Writers’ Guild of Great Britain awards (in 1969, 1970 and 1971) for the best comedy script; and the entire cast was honoured in 1971 by the Variety Club.
The show seemed to be everywhere – on television (not only in its regular slot, but also in ‘guest spots’ on BBC1’s annual Christmas Night With the Stars,6 a one-off Royal Television Gala Performance7 and an edition of The Morecambe & Wise Show: ‘Do you think this is wise?’ asked Eric. ‘No,’ answered Arthur, ‘this is Wise – the one with the short, fat, hairy legs!’),8 in the cinema (a feature-length movie version was released in 1971),9 in comic strips (featured each week from 1970 in Look In magazine), in the market place (colouring, dot-to-dot and ‘activity’ books, board games, a bubble bath, a set of sweet cigarette cards, a souvenir magazine and a series of annuals),10 in an increasing number of countries overseas (beginning in 1970 with New Zealand, Australia, Holland, Belgium, Sweden, Spain, Malta, Finland, Sri Lanka and Tanzania),11 and the show would be adapted for BBC Radio 4 in 1974. The cast seemed equally omnipresent. Arthur Lowe, for example, provided voiceovers for Spam, Lyons pie mix and Gold Blend coffee commercials, acted in a succession of Lindsay Anderson movies, stole the show as a drunkenly anarchic butler in Peter Medak’s satirical farce, The Ruling Class (1971), costarred with Ian Lavender and Bill Pertwee in the BBC Radio 2 situation-comedy Parsley Sidings,12 and selected his favourite recordings for BBC Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs;13 John Le Mesurier supplied the reassuring voice behind both the Homepride (‘Because graded grains make finer flour’) and Kattomeat (with Arthur the sure-pawed cat) commercials, chose his own Desert Island Discs and contributed a BAFTA-winning performance to Dennis Potter’s 1971 BBC1 play Traitor;14 while Clive Dunn outdid them both during 1971 alone in terms of prime-time ubiquity by appearing as the subject of Desert Island Discs, This Is Your Life and his own BBC1 special, An Hour With Clive Dunn, as well as spending three weeks at number one in the charts with his novelty single ‘Grandad’.15 The success was infectious – which was just as well, because, as Clive Dunn acknowledged, so was the insecurity: ‘We were always expecting to be told that the joy ride was over and that they had decided to stop “while we were winning” or some such nonsense.’16
The industry of the two co-writers during this period was particularly prodigious. As if the task of producing one script after another for a high-profile situation-comedy such as Dad’s Army was not considered to be sufficiently stressful in itself, both men also busied themselves with a variety of other challenging personal projects. Jimmy Perry, for example, wrote two more situation-comedies on his own: The Gnomes of Dulwich (BBC1, 1969) and Lollipop Loves Mr Mole (ATV, 1971–2).17 David Croft produced and directed the first series of Up Pompeii! (BBC1, 1970) and the pilot episode of a situation-comedy (starring James Beck and Ronald Fraser) called Born Every Minute (BBC1, 1972), in addition to assisting (along with Richard Stone, Ray Cooney, John Chapman and Martin Shute) in the establishment of a new production company called Not Now Films and also producing and co-writing (with Jeremy Lloyd) yet another situation-comedy, Are You Being Served? (BBC1, 1972–85).18 ‘I think all of that [other activity] actually helped Dad’s Army,’ said Croft. ‘It certainly helped as far as I was concerned, because with Are You Being Served?, for example, I had Jeremy Lloyd, a different writer, and a different cast, a different atmosphere, so it was like a sort of holiday in a way. It kept you fresh.’19
The BBC’s attitude to the Croft – Perry partnership was one of enlightened indulgence. ‘We had total control of everything,’ Jimmy Perry recalled. ‘We were trusted. There was such an air of confidence about the BBC in those days. You know, every now and again [an executive] might come over to us in the canteen and say, “What are you chaps up to?” And we’d tell him and he’d just sort of say, “Well, good luck with it!” And that would be that. Such a wonderful atmosphere in which to work.’20 It helped, of course, that one of the writers also happened to be the show’s producer-director – and a very canny producer-director at that. ‘One never invited interference,’ David Croft confessed. ‘As far as I was able to arrange it, I wouldn’t let anything – scripts, tapes, whatever – out of the office. Of course, if they were called for then you had to let them out, but there were still ways of dealing with that. I mean, if someone had ever asked me, “Can we see some scripts?” I would have said, “Oh, yes, of course, no problem at all”, and then I would have got my secretary to wrap them up in several envelopes, put sellotape round them, you know – so they’d take a quarter of an hour to open. One could always resort to that sort of thing – gentle discouragement. I got away with it, fortunately, throughout my career. I had no interference at all.’21
Previous notable British situation-comedy writing partnerships – Muir and Norden, for example, or Galton and Simpson – tended to settle at the start on a
particular mode of collaboration – usually face-to-face, in an office – and then stick with it, but Croft and Perry switched from a fairly detached, businesslike approach to something far more intimate and engaged midway through the run of Dad’s Army. ‘In the early days,’ explained Perry, ‘we’d meet up, work out a couple of plots, and then go our separate ways: I’d write one programme, David would write the other. Then we’d meet up again to sort them both out.’22 Later on, he noted, they experienced a change of habit: ‘We altered our style of writing completely. We decided that the best way to do it was for me to go round to his place, where we would just sit down and face each other, taking it in turns to write things down, and do each script together, line by line. I’m not sure why this was better, but I think it was.’23 Croft believed that the success of the switch had something to do with their common background: ‘Both of us had been actors. I think that was significant. When we were writing in the same room together, we’d sort of get up and play all of the parts and spark the dialogue off between us.’24 In spite of working under pressure in such close proximity to one another over so long a period – ‘two human beings’, acknowledged Denis Norden of such a context, ‘weren’t really meant to gaze at each other for that number of hours across such a small space’25 – their efforts were seldom undermined by anything worse than the mildest of disagreements. ‘David and I never had a row in the whole time we were together,’ Perry insisted. ‘I don’t really think our relationship would have survived a row – not when you were working as closely together as we were – but no, we never had any bust-ups.’26 Each script, it seems, was constructed slowly, carefully, with each line, speech and scene slotting into place only after it had been subjected to a painstaking process of appraisal and editing. ‘We worked on it and worked on it until both of us were happy with it,’ said Perry, ‘and when we were happy with it – that was it. There was none of this “first draft, second draft, third draft” stuff. We very rarely did rewrites. In fact, we very, very, rarely changed anything.’27
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