Thursday 21 March 1963

This week's Hancock (The Writer) is another from the pen of Terry Nation, but it's nowhere near the quality of the last episode of his featured here, The Night Out.  In fact, it's probably the weakest I've seen from this series, its only real interest coming from speculating how much of it was inspired by Nation's own experience of being a TV comedy writer.

The episode begins with Hancock entering a pub and failing for some time to get served.  By the time he manages to alert the stony-faced landlord (Stuart Saunders) to his presence, he's managed to smash all the empties he's brought back.

"It's what you might describe as a smashing experience"

Hancock peruses the wine list and examines a bottle of Chateau Latour ("you've got to hand it to those Italians, they do know how to make a decent bit of plonk.  It's something to do with the feet, I suppose") - then hands it back and orders a small brown ale.  After a horribly laboured and overlong bit where Hancock delivers  a monologue to camera celebrating the joys of the English pub, intercut with shots that contradict him (e.g. "...to sit beside the warmth of a beckoning log fire" - cue shot of a grimy electric fire), he retires to the lounge to watch TV.

On the box is a variety show compered by Pete Murray, with special guest Jerry Spring, the biggest comedian on TV (John Junkin).  Jerry's a typical smarmy early 60s comedian complete with mid-Atlantic accent, and Hancock doesn't hold back in his scorn for the man and his ancient jokes: "Bob Hope, 1945, word for word!" What our hero hasn't realised is that the two men he's loudly disturbed in the lounge are Jerry himself and his manager (Francis Matthews).

On discovering the identity of his companions Hancock clumsily backtracks in characteristic style and makes out he's actually Jerry's biggest fan ("I can't understand this, a minute ago you were there on the screen, and now you're here!").  Given how this Hancock series has gone down in the annals of TV history there's an uncomfortable irony in hearing our hero tell the comedian "they're not writing for you properly".  Jerry, who's used to being surrounded by yes-men like Matthews, is interested to hear Hancock's new ideas for his act.  Predictably enough, these are even worse than his current material, with Hancock especially insistent on the importance of a funny walk ("It's only the first step, of course - you'll need funny hats, new jokes, dramatic recitations...")

"The penguin"

Jerry's inspired, and hires Hancock as his new writer - "Well, I was going to write a novel on Monday.  I could leave that to the evening, though."

Hancock's first day on the job sees him donning a ridiculous new outfit and the same quasi-American accent as Jerry and his crew.  For no apparent reason he launches into a rendition of "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" and then unleashes the full awfulness of his ideas: "These 31 elephants come rushing out on to the stage..."

Later, at home, Hancock (in Noel Coward mode) attempts to pull a script together.  The main problem is that he's unable to think of a single joke.

He finally hits on a foolproof plan when he remembers he's got a box of Christmas crackers in the cupboard.

Next morning Jerry comes to read the script, which is terrible apart from one funny bit - Hancock's spelling of trousers.  Despite Hancock's attempts to convince him there are plenty more great ideas (standing on his head's a big one), Jerry decides to dispense with the aspiring writer's services.

"A-powder your face with sunshine, a-give us a great big smile..."

A disappointed Hancock returns to the pub, where he goes back to his routine of heckling the TV set - this time the object of his scorn is the really rather dashing wrestler Frikki Alberti.  It looks like things aren't going to work out well for Hancock, but personally I'd be happy for Frikki to put me in a body hold any day.

The fatal problem with The Writer is that Nation's own material here isn't actually any better than what he's mocking.  It's a particularly frustrating episode as, more than any of the others I've seen from the ATV series, it feels like the sad ghost of a Galton and Simpson episode.  The dialogue seems too much of a conscious effort to ape their style, and while it edges close to being funny, it never quite gets there.  Hancock seems to be flagging by this stage too - it's truly shocking how much he's aged even since the first episode of the series - and he's not able to rescue the dodgier lines with his usually exquisite timing.  There's one more ATV episode after The Writer, but this is the last one I've got.  It's been a wildly uneven series, and this feels a pretty sad way to leave it.  Next for Hancock would be the indifference that greeted the release of The Punch and Judy Man, and a tragic journey downhill from there.

Incidentally, The Writer featured on the cover of this week's TV Times.  You can read the whole issue here

Thursday 28 February 1963

Written by Terry Nation, this week's Hancock, The Night Out, is a big improvement on the last couple of episodes I've looked at.  I'm happy to say I even laughed out loud a few times.  But while it's very funny stuff, there's also a a darker edge to it in retrospect.  Hancock's timing's as supernaturally brilliant as ever here but he looks shockingly old and tired (he was just 38 when this series was made).  Considering the episode concerns Hancock suffering from a massive hangover, though, this is probably quite appropriate - and we can even speculate that Hancock's new, short-cropped hairstyle (not in the least bit flattering) is the result of drunken decision making too.  Knowledge of Hancock's real life drink problems at the time the show was made can't fail to cast a shadow over The Night Out.

For a change, this week's episode begins not with Hancock hanging out in the street, but with him waking up, distinctly the worse for wear, in bafflingly lavish surroundings.

Unable to remember anything from the night before, a perplexed Hancock groggily explores the posh pad he's somehow fetched up in.

It's Mother Teresa.  Or ET.  You decide.

The opportune arrival of a waiter furnishes Hancock with the information that he's in the honeymoon suite at the Metropole Hotel - just making things even more confusing.  He only went out to celebrate his tobacconist's birthday.  Hancock reasons that if he's in the honeymoon suite there must be a bride (the fact that he's unaccountably wearing a high heeled shoe also helps with this conclusion), and eventually he finds a sleeping beauty he takes to be his forgotten new wife.  Especially with his newly shaved head, Hancock looks like a horror movie monster looming over her.

"Oi, Missus, wake up! Dearest? Mrs Hancock? It's hubby! Wake up!"

It swiftly turns out that the groom is not Hancock but a goofy young viscount played by Derek Nimmo, who met Hancock in a nightclub and suggested they all go back to the hotel together.  Hancock begs Derek to assure him that he didn't misbehave himself the night before.  The archetypal Hancock line "I can be a bit of a wag when I'm on the milk stout" may become a catchphrase of mine.

Despite Derek's assurances Hancock soon finds out that the previous night was not entirely free of embarrassment.  For one thing he's acquired a new outfit from one of the chaps at the Parakeets Club.

Hancock performs the "I'll Take You Home Kathleen Cha-Cha-Cha"

And what's more, he brought the club's entire cabaret troupe back to the hotel too.  He also seems to have got himself romantically involved with a gawky hotel maid (Patsy Smart, probably best remembered for giving her all to a brief role as a toothless ghoul in the Doctor Who story The Talons of Weng-Chiang).  She seems to have acquired some very peculiar notions about Hancock's identity: "The things I said and the promises I made you, they can never be, Anton... I can never go with you to your father's castle in Russia."

"Do I know you, Madam?"

Hancock starts to enjoy the high life with his new acquaintances... until it becomes clear that they're all under the impression they're his guests.  A horrified Hancock tries to convince the manager (It Ain't Half Hot, Mum's Donald Hewlett) there's been a mistake but he's expected  to pay the princely sum of £143 for 13 people staying overnight.  Hancock suggests a whipround to his guests...

... and quickly clears the room.  Hewlett's sent the heavies up and there's only one thing our hero can do...

One thing I haven't yet mentioned about Hancock's ATV series is the wonderful, jazzy, happy-go-lucky theme tune by Derek Scott.  Here's the long version released as a single, complete with interjections from the lad 'imself ("You cannot whack a bit of the old harpsichord!")

Thursday 21 February 1963

Tonight's Hancock (The Craftsman) is the second programme I've gazed on this week featuring the writing talents of Dennis Spooner.  Here he's co-writing with Richard Harris - not the film star but another writer who'd loom large in the action-adventure series boom of the later 60s.

The Craftsman has its moments (all down to Hancock's sheer brilliance as a comic performer) but for the most part it's pretty ordinary.  Like most of the other ATV episodes it begins with Hancock hanging out in the street, waiting for this week's situation to come along and entangle him.  He stops by one of those electronics shops with a bank of TVs on in the window playing all night that are so conspicuous by their absence from today's world.  The programme showing's a DIY programme, a spoof of Barry Bucknell's hugely popular BBC shows.

Hancock is, of course, unable to miss this opportunity to boast to his fellow passersby of his own skills in the field of DIY.

But as Hancock gleefully informs the world how much deeper his appreciation of the construction of a door frame is than theirs, the shadow of gloom appears over his shoulder, in the form of Brian Wilde.

Wilde's character, Stan Lovegrove, believes DIY programmes are ruining his marriage by giving his wife unrealistic expectations of what he can do around the home.  Hancock, flattered by Stan's description of him as a craftsman (he's spun a cock and bull story about how he's carving the proscenium arch for the new town hall), kindly but over-ambitiously agrees to help the poor henpecked simpleton construct a fitted wardrobe.

The best part of the episode is Hancock's visit to the hardware shop to buy the necessary items to fix up Stan's wardrobe.  His first impulse, like any child who's ever visited a DIY store, is to test out the doorbells.

This being Hancock, his second impulse is to engage in a chippy argument with the shop's proprietor (Thomas Heathcote): "I am a working man and proud of it, so don't come any of that capitalistic chat with me!" (the era when fervent left wing politics and being working class went hand-in-hand seems a long way distant now).  The extent of Hancock's exaggeration about his DIY expertise is made horribly clear when he's unable to even name the tools he requires, and has to mime them:

"One of those...

one of these...

a couple of these...

a few of those...

one of those...

...and a great big thing to bash it in with"

The inevitably sorry drama of putting up the wardrobe unfolds beneath the gaze of our old friend, Tretchikoff's Chinese Girl (probably the same print that appeared in the first episode of the series).

Hancock's keen to communicate some of his expert knowledge to his new pupil, though Stan's more awkward questions meet with the response, "there are one or two facets of my craft that must remain totally clandestine", to which there's not really any answer.

"Screwdriver! Screw-drive-er!"

"Timber, beautiful stuff, timber <sniff> 1954, I'd say"

Chaos follows, exactly as you'd expect.  It's all right, but I can't help feeling that it really should have been funnier.  Hancock's blithe indifference to the fact that he's destroying someone's house in a ridiculous attempt to show how skilled he is at something he's clearly never done before is beautifully performed, however.  And the episode ends with an especially satisfying punchline: Hancock stops again at the same shop window, this time with a gardening programme being shown.  You can see what you think for yourself, as some considerate person's uploaded The Craftsman to Youtube.

Thursday 31 January 1963

We've already seen characters in Fireball XL5 and The Avengers doing the twist, and if you need further proof that said dance craze was absolutely everywhere in 1962-3, A Musical Evening brings us the unforgettable (try as you might) image of Albert Steptoe merrily twisting the night away.  We'll get to that eventually.  The episode starts off in typically jolly fashion with an attempted patricide, Albert waking up just in time to avoid being smothered by his loving son.  Of course he'd never do it really - would he?

Harold's brought back an embarrassment of riches from the good folk of Shepherd's Bush, including a trio of paintings of Chastity, Virtue and Motherhood that Albert earmarks for his bedroom wall.  "I like big women," he drools appreciatively, appraising the pictures with a leer that makes Sid James look like Aled Jones.

There's also a multitude of shoes (which Albert also bags for himself).  Oh, and a bison's head, obviously.

But for Harold the star acquisition is a job lot of gramophone records.  As they belonged to a now-deceased doctor, he reasons there must be some classy stuff in there to add to his Classical music collection.  And sure enough, in amongst Bobby's Girl and The Teddy Bears' Picnic he finds the first disc of Stravinsky's "Firebird Suit": though his attempt at losing himself in the music is hampered by Albert's impromptu cobbling:

A row follows, escalating into an orgy of destruction as the pair set to smashing up each others' most cherished possessions.  Finally, Albert locks up Harold's record cabinet and flings the key out into the yard.  Unfortunately it was on the same ring as the keys to the stable, the yard and the safe, so father and son are stuck until they can find it again.

Surprisingly for Galton and Simpson, the characterisation in A Musical Evening feels a bit off.  Particularly during the search for the keys Albert behaves like a complete idiot, good for a couple of cheap laughs but miles away from his usual cunning self.  Sample exchange:

Harold (holding up a stone to represent the keys): These are the keys.
Albert (brightly): Oh, have you found them?

He also attempts to use a metal detector to find the keys among the primarily metal items in the scrapyard.  Harold, meanwhile, temporarily turns boffin as he attempts to scientifically work out the exact trajectory of the keys as they flew from Albert's hand.

Fortunately Albert recovers his usual craftiness in time to find the keys, then squat over the drain like a malevolent gargoyle, threatening to drop them in unless Harold lets him keep the ancient gramophone he's found (in order that he can play "twist records").

The episode ends with Harold locked out in the yard while Albert twists away to his heart's content (but not his hip's) indoors.

Here's A Musical Evening for you to enjoy in the comfort of your own home:

On the other side, this week's Hancock (The Man on the Corner) is the first episode I've seen that goes some way to justifying the ATV series' poor reputation.

Presumably as part of Hancock's quest for greater truth in comedy, this week we find him pointing guns left, right and centre and smashing a spy ring.  It all rings a bit hollow, sadly, although the guest cast is as top-drawer as ever.  Appearing this week: Wilfrid Lawson, Geoffrey Keen, The TV Lark's Tenniel Evans, Moyra Fraser, John Bluthal (voice of Zoonie the Lazoon) and, best of all, one of my favourite actors, the immensely tall, immensely posh James Villiers, playing a character called (believe it or not) Captain Mainwaring.

Situation of the Week features Hancock regularly hanging around on a street corner, watching the world go by ("like trainspotting, only with people"), giving passersby the benefit of his wisdom regarding the weather ("it's the bomb") and arousing the suspicion of the local police.  When he sees a shady character (Evans) whom he's convinced is a spy, people are unsurprisingly reluctant to believe him.

Nevertheless, he somehow manages to get an appointment with the secret service (represented by Keen and Villiers).

Patient Colonel Beresford (Keen) allows Hancock to think he's been engaged as a secret agent, though the contact number he gives him is in fact that of the canteen, staffed by bored dinner ladies who have great fun teasing the bewildered Hancock when he calls in to report ("What orders do you have?" "Plaice and chips twice, steak and kidney pud twice, one spaghetti on toast").

Eventually they get rid of Hancock by telling him to go round and arrest the spy.  Shady Evans does indeed turn out to be a foreign agent, and the sight of Tony Hancock threatening him with a gun is one of the stranger ones I've seen since starting this blog.

The masterspy turns out to be Fireball XL5 voice actor John Bluthal, who Hancock also apprehends, becoming a hero in the process.

There are Galton and Simpson-scripted Hancocks with storylines as ridiculous as this (particularly in the radio version of the show), but The Man on the Corner's writer, Godfrey Harrison, is no Galton and Simpson and despite the odd moment there's an air of desperation about the whole endeavour that doesn't bode well for the future.  In an earlier  episode Hancock might have had a Walter Mittyish fantasy of being a secret agent tracking down dastardly Soviets, but the fun would have come from how the misunderstanding came about.  Perhaps Harrison imagined making the spies real would be a good twist, but it all ends up feeling totally wrong.