Woad

PS

First there was A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and then there was Woad. Hey, go big or go home, right?

I was certainly pleased with the opening song, as it kind of prefigures the way many of the upcoming Disney films would open with a scene-setting bang – things like Beauty and the Beast and The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I believe ours gives a good sense of the kind of thing the audience can expect, it allows the cast to introduce themselves in character, and the regular interruptions delay the resolution thereby giving it an accumulative tension and impact. I was very into Stephen Sondheim by now and was, like him (get me), trying to integrate the songs with the book so that they helped move the plot along rather than held things up while they merely commented on it. The unresolved ending of the Felonius/Hengista song even manages to mirror something of Sondheim’s ‘Could I Leave You’ from Follies, which puts the female protagonist firmly in the ascendant. Sondheim’s Phyllis sings “Could I leave you? Yes. Will I leave you – will I leave you? Guess!” My lot go: 

FELONIUS: Here, take my wallet, take my armour, take my life, just let me be!

HENGISTA: Okay, once I’m your wife.

FELONIUS:                                         Thank you!

HENGISTA:                                                                 (Pause) And then we’ll see!

Complete fluke in my case, but Sondheim had the genius’s gift of finding those rhymes that lock together as if they were magnetically attracted yet still make dramatic sense. Try ‘Please Hello’ from Pacific Overtures which not only manages to ape WS Gilbert at his most showy-offey (Sondheim hated Gilbert) but succeeds in finding for the British Admiral four appropriate three-syllable rhymes for each verse as he charmingly leans on the Japanese to open trade routes to the West in the 19th century: 

Her Majesty / Considers the / Arrangements to be tentative

Until we ship / A proper dip- / Lomatic representative.

We don’t foresee / That you will be / The least bit argumentative,

So please ignore / The man-of-war / We brought as a preventative. 

And this is even before the American, Dutch and Russian admirals turn up to pull off the same trick about a dozen times in all. He was a fabulous, fabulous talent.

Not that we weren’t as royally served by our own composer. I’d briefly worked with John Telfer in a few revues (he acts as well; he’s in The Archers, and played detective Willy Pettit in Bergerac for a few series) – and, like every other musical person I’ve ever met, he too managed to floor me with his skills. One evening we went over to his place expecting to collect the finished score, but he’d been so busy there was one song he hadn’t got round to. So he just sat down and wrote the music right through on the piano while we waited.

The ‘wedding of the year’ stuff was still fairly relevant, as Prince Andrew had married Fergie the previous summer so obviously we wanted to take the piss out of that. And Princess Di of course was continuing to hold the headlines in thrall every other day.

I like how meta it is:  

DIFERGIA:  Carry on with the subplot. This won’t take long. (exits USL)

FELONIUS:  What subplot?

(enter DRUID DSR)

DRUID:  This subplot… 

And we were able to get a lot of mileage out of the Roman numerals: 

DIFERGIA:  It’s been so long.

MAX:  I know, it’s been L.

DIFERGIA:  For you too?

MAX:  L minutes and XV seconds to be precise.

May I also point out one joke I’m particularly proud of?  

LASCIVIA:  We’re being married tomorrow by Uncle Julius, then you’ll be coming back to Rome with me to take up your rightful seat in the Senate. I’ve got it all figured out.

MAX:  I was afraid of that.

LASCIVIA:  You’re a loyal Roman soldier favoured by the emperor, destined for higher things, and I’m a gorgeous Roman lady who’s been brought up to expect the best. And let me tell you this, Max, I expect to get it.

MAX:  In that case I’d better try and find a space in my diary.

LASCIVIA:  That’ll be big of you.

MAX (aside) If I marry everyone I’m supposed to marry in this panto, it will be bigamy. 

It made me laugh when I wrote it because it took me by surprise and I had no idea where it came from. Perhaps it shares DNA with Kenneth Williams’ famous quip as Julius Caesar in Carry On, Cleo (1964): “Infamy, infamy, they’ve all got it infamy.” This has been voted one of the funniest lines in British comedy, and though the screenplay credit goes to Talbot Rothwell, apparently he borrowed it from an earlier – and since forgotten – script by Frank Muir and Denis Norden. No matter. In the beginning was the word, and I’m glad we didn’t lose this one.

I thought then and I still think today that Amanda Barrie in that movie ought to have been at least BAFTA-nominated for her Cleopatra, because the characterisation was so clever and knowing but with a feather-light touch. In fact, old British comedy films, in many respects, are often better than we think, not least because the scripts couldn’t be as brazen as modern comedians are allowed to be, so they had to use subtler means. I think it was in one of the St Trinian’s films that Alastair Sim, bemoaning the state of discipline in the school, says something along the lines of “There was far too much arson about last term,” which, quite apart from the subtle ‘arson/arsing’ play on words, also manages to suggest there might be a degree of arson which would be acceptable to the school authorities. What we in the business call a two-fer. A form of this line recurs, I believe, in Aardman Animations’ Wallace and Gromit movie The Case of the Were-Rabbit (2005), which only goes to show, if you’re going to steal, make sure you steal from the best.

For many people, ‘the best’ would be the famous Ealing comedies of the fifties but I have to say I personally value them more for their social documentary value these days than their humour, which tends to be too English and polite for my taste. But maybe this is to be forgiven in a nation which had just spent six years in hell. Then again, it wasn’t just Ealing that sought to paint an achingly sweet image of the victors. I mean, have you seen Genevieve (1953)? That awfully twiddly harmonica theme tune. And Dinah Sheridan being so prissy that you want to offer her a pint or two just to try and loosen her up a bit. (Kay Kendall, on the other hand, now there’s a trumpet player worth getting to know…)

And since I’m on the subject, I want to give a shout-out to another of my favourites from that era, I’m All right Jack (1959), John Boulting’s classic which isn’t cosy at all and lays about with its satire stick bashing every social class from aristocracy to worker with even-handed wrath. My favourite moment in this one is when Irene Handl is looking at a front-page picture of Ian Carmichael standing next to the fabulous Liz Fraser in a fully-filled white jumper and says, “Oo, you’ve come out lovely in this one, Cynth. I must say they do look nice together, Dad.” I know it’s probably not meant to be rude, but on the other hand, it might be, and I like being allowed the opportunity to make that call myself. I may be a smug, self-satisfied child of peace, hugely relieved never to have had to waste my youth on a war, but surely that freedom to choose what to laugh at was among the things our brave fathers and mothers had been fighting for? To make a joke – or at least to make the attempt – is for me not only a symbol of humanity but one of our most valuable faculties, and long may it be cherished and celebrated – even if it is only in a tiny little theatre in the depths of winter where no one comes to see you… At least we tried, and the effort is always worth it.