Situation Tragedy

‘Have you finished?’ asked Bob Tomlinson, returning with his cup of coffee.

‘Well, er, yes, I, er, um. .’

‘Okay, read from the top. Start the watch, girl.’

Maybe it was the inhibiting expression of boredom on the director’s face, or perhaps it was just that the script was inferior to the pilot episode, but the read-through didn’t seem very funny. Peter Lipscombe and Tilly Lake provided their usual sycophantic laughter for the first few pages, but soon faded to silence.

As the pay-off to the episode was spoken, Bob Tomlinson turned to Janie. ‘How long?’

‘Part One: 10–17, Part Two: 9-41,’ she supplied efficiently. ‘Making a total of 19–58.’

‘That’s near enough.’ Bob rose with the enthusiasm of a man about to put three coats of paint on a forty-foot wall. ‘Let’s block it.’

Peter Lipscombe raised a hand to intervene. ‘Um, just a few points before you do that. Debbi, that line you have on 1–7, where you say, “No, I’m not that sort of girl”. . could you — ’

“Ere, what is this?’ asked Bob Tomlinson, with all the anger of a barrow-boy who’d arrived at market to find someone else on his pitch. ‘I’m the Director of this show. I give the bleeding artists notes.’

Peter Lipscombe didn’t want a scene. His voice took on a mollifying tone. ‘Yes, of course, Bob, of course. I wonder if you’d mention to Debbi that I think one way — not by any means the only way, but one way of delivering that line would be to emphasise the ‘that’. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’ I think it points up the joke.’

‘All right,’ Bob Tomlinson conceded. ‘Which one of you’s Debbi? Right, on that line, could you hit the “that”? Okay, let’s get this bloody show blocked.’

‘I’ve got a point, Bob,’ said the colourless voice of Rod Tisdale.

‘And who the hell are you? Another bloody producer?’

‘No, Bob, this is our writer, Rod Tisdale.’

Bob Tomlinson glowered. ‘I don’t like writers round my rehearsal rooms.’

Rod Tisdale showed no signs of having heard this. ‘It’s Page 3 of Part Two.’

‘Oh, don’t bother me with bloody details on the script. Tell the producer.’

‘Peter,’ said Rod Tisdale obediently, ‘on that page, I think the line, “I can’t stand it any longer” would probably be better as “I can’t stick it out any longer.” You know, probably pick up the laugh on the double meaning.’

‘Yes, nice thinking, Rod. Um, Bob, Rod’s had rather a good idea, I think. On Page 3 of Part Two, wondering if we could change “I can’t stand it any longer” to “I can’t stick it out any longer”?’

‘Change it. See if I care.’

‘No, but I don’t want us to force it on you. We all want to be in agreement on things. So do say what you’d like.’

‘I’d like you and the bloody writer to clear out and let me get on with this rubbish.’

As rehearsals progressed. Charles found his respect for Bob Tomlinson increasing. He realised that the director’s manner was not just rudeness for its own sake, but a way of getting on with the job quickly. And his contempt for the material he was directing (a feeling for which Charles found in himself considerable sympathy) did not seem to make the performances any worse. Nor did it lower the morale of the production; after the agonising of Scott Newton over every comma, the more practical approach was quite a relief. The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was rather jolly.

Bob Tomlinson just got on with the job and didn’t waste time with socialising or toadying to his stars. He was an efficient organiser and ensured that every part of the production came together at the right time. He was a good example of the huge value of competence in television. Flair may have its place, but flair is not always coupled with efficiency and, given the choice between a director with flair and one with competence, many actors would opt for the security of the latter.

Certainly the cast of The Strutters didn’t seem put out by the offhand manner of their new Director. They seemed to respect his lack of obsequiousness. It made them more equal, a group of people who had come together to get on with a job of work. Aurelia Howarth, used to cosseting and cotton-woolling from generations of producers, seemed totally unworried by Bob Tomlinson’s directness and his undisguised lack of interest in the welfare of Cocky.

The atmosphere between Director and Producer remained. The fact was that Bob Tomlinson was not used to working to a Producer. For many years he had combined the roles, and his agent had ensured that the final credit read: ‘Produced and Directed by Bob Tomlinson’. It was only because of the last-minute nature of his booking on The Strutters when his other series was cancelled that he found himself in this unusual position.

But he didn’t let it worry him. He didn’t let anything worry him. The Strutters was just another three months of well-paid work, and soon he’d be on to something else. The secret of Bob Tomlinson’s success and his formidable track record in sit com was his ability not to let anything get to him. He was the first person Charles had met in that world who seemed to have an accurate estimate of the value and importance of the product.

He continued to be cheerfully rude to Peter Lipscombe and continued to allow no notes to be given directly from the Producer to the artists. So there were more conversations in which people with a common language talked through an interpreter. But Peter Lipscombe’s role, which under Scott Newton’s inexperienced regime had increased, dwindled back to grinning a lot, asking everyone if everything was okay and buying drinks. Which was, after all, what he did best.

The actual recording of Episode One (or Episode Two, if you counted the pilot) of The Strutters did not go particularly well. This was in no way due to Bob Tomlinson’s direction. There was, after all, only one way to shoot a Rod Tisdale script, and that was the way he did it. All that was wrong with the evening was that the script was slightly inferior, and after all the euphoric generalisations about new eras in comedy which had followed the pilot, anticlimax was inevitable.

After the recording, Charles overheard a conversation between the writer and Director. Rod Tisdale, in a voice that almost betrayed some emotion, asked, ‘How d’you think it went?’

Bob Tomlinson shrugged. ‘All right. How does any sit com go?’

Rod Tisdale shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I reckoned there were sixty-eight jokes in that script. We only got fifty-three laughs.’

‘It’ll look fine after the sound-dub.’

‘You mean you’ll add the laughs?’

‘You bet I will. By the time I’ve finished, you won’t be able to tell the difference between this and a really funny show.’

‘I’ve always resisted having laughs dubbed on to my shows.’

‘Sod what you’ve always resisted, son. I’m directing this show and I’ll do it my way.’

Which was of course the way it would be done.

Charles decided to go up to the bar in the lift. (Though no one actually mentioned it, the fire escape had been used much less since Sadie’s death.) He had changed with his customary rapidity out of his top half (Reg the golf club barman’s legs, after their brief airing on film, had once again retreated to proper obscurity), and reckoned only Peter Lipscombe would have beaten him to the bar. Where he could once again demonstrate his skill in buying drinks.

There was an argument going on outside the lift. A small balding man with glasses, who carried a duffle bag and wore a thin checked sports jacket and a yellow nylon shirt, was being moved on by a uniformed commissionaire.

‘No, I’m sorry, sir, show’s over. I have to clear all the audience out of the building. Now come along, please.’

‘But she will see me, she will. She always does.’

‘No, I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to clear the building. So, if you don’t mind. . If it’s an autograph you want, you’re welcome to wait outside the main door until the artists come out.’

‘I don’t want her autograph. I’ve got her autograph a thousand times over. I’ve got autographed programmes of every show she’s ever been in. I’ve collected them all.’

‘Sorry, sir, I must — ’