dinner … with sherry.’) They almost start to bond over their shared tragic isolation, but when she asks him too many questions, in a manner too like his own mum, Stokes spectacularly falls apart. With nothing in his social armoury between taciturn gaucheness and inarticulate rage, Stokes proves himself completely incapable of starting a life outside the suffocating maternal evenings of gin rummy and shepherd’s pie: not so much Angry Young Man as Awkward Old Boy. Osborne’s threatened men ranted with theatrical garrulousness. More appropriately for the small screen, Pinter’s Stokes agonises in silent close-up.
The mysterious, spectral characters that were Pinter’s trademark were perhaps unsuited to Armchair Theatre’s bread-’n’-scrape naturalism. (Stokes certainly shows none of the buried redeeming features a social realist anti-hero usually possesses.) But his sheepishly combative dialogue fitted perfectly with Newman’s mission statement, sketching a repressed lower-middle-class claustrophobia heightened by director Philip Saville’s endlessly burrowing cameras. For extra realism, the coffee stall where Stokes meets his workmates was John Johnson’s famous all-night concession, normally found outside the Old Vic but shifted to the studio for the occasion.76
Though it wasn’t Pinter’s greatest work, A Night Out was a solid hit, reaching 6.38 million. Three days after it aired, Pinter joined the theatrical aristocracy as The Caretaker opened to prodigious acclaim, but he calculated that the play would have to run at the Duchess Theatre until 1990 to get the exposure A Night Out caught in one go.77 As well as plays, Pinter’s subsequent TV work spanned everything from The Dick Emery Show to Pinter People, a collection of sketches animated by Sesame Street alumnus Gerald Potterton. This was for the psychedelic series NBC Experiment in Television, which gave US network time over to the imaginations of everyone from Tom Stoppard to Jim Henson.
By the end of 1960 the all-purpose avant-garde TV play had become such a part of the broadcasting landscape it was ripe for parody. The writer hero of Joan Morgan’s Square Dance toiled away at a modishly obscure drama called Ending’s No End, featuring a Greek chorus of Teddy boys and the cast turning radioactive in the final act.78 The joke relied on every viewer having at one time switched off something by Pinter or his contemporaries in confusion and disgust. What it ignored was the significant portion who kept watching.
BBC
One man, one room, twenty-five minutes – comedy stripped bare.
COMEDY HAS TWO POLES: far-out fantasy and close-up reality. Both have their problems and rewards, but only one almost guarantees critical esteem by its mere presence. Possibly because of its superficial kinship with drama, the realistic sitcom is often regarded as the superior comic format. No-one became more thoroughly wrapped up in this dogma than Tony Hancock.
On the radio, Hancock’s Half-Hour distinguished itself by playing to Hancock’s strengths as a reactive, deadpan performer, as opposed to the standard issue, wisecracking clown. Writers Ray Galton and Alan Simpson gradually moulded the programme to fit Hancock’s sullen, defeated spirit, relying less on cohort Sid James’s zany schemes and more on the mundane frustrations of real life. The less Hancock did, the funnier he got. The radio show’s zenith was the episode Sunday Afternoon at Home: the dreariness of a wet, post-war Sabbath distilled into a litany of bored sighs, circular conversations and desperate inanities. The farce of a life going off the rails was replaced by the tragicomedy of a life waiting to start.
Hancock’s television life was equally motionless. Ray Galton admitted the only concession they made to the visual was that ‘instead of saying “pick up that bucket”, we’d say “pick that up”.’79 What was new was Hancock’s face. Framed by a heavy Astrakhan collared coat and homburg hat, by turns boyishly jovial and froggishly depressed, its athletic malleability perfectly augmented Hancock’s innate sense of comic timing. For once the weather-beaten putty features of Sid James were not the centre of attention.
For his seventh (and final) BBC television series, Hancock rationalised even further, dropping Sid and moving from East Cheam to an Earl’s Court bedsitter. The new series, titled simply Hancock, was presented as a break with the old style. ‘Ah yes, it’s goodbye to all that black homburg and Astrakhan collar rubbish,’ he confided to the Radio Times. ‘Knowledge and self advancement are the things.’80 The new Hancock was introduced with the creative bar set higher than ever.
The two-hander, an entire episode featuring just two characters confined to one set, is often seen as the hallmark of sophisticated character comedy, a rite of passage for ‘quality’ sitcoms. This tradition began on ITV in October 1960. Bootsie and Snudge: A Day Off by Marty Feldman and Barry Took saw the eponymous gentleman’s club lackeys aimlessly passing the time on, again, a Sunday afternoon. (That pious ennui remains Christianity’s lasting contribution to comedy.) Despite constantly making plans, they never left their shared dormitory, encountering no-one else save a rogue pigeon. Seven months later, The Bedsitter also centred on entertainment endlessly deferred, going one better, and one fewer.
The premise was simple: Hancock, gay bachelor in bedsit-land, idles his way through a wet afternoon (weekday unspecified), tries and fails to improve himself, accidentally secures then loses a hot date, and generally mucks about. Keeping a solo Hancock funny for 25 minutes was a tall order (aside from fleeting glimpses of Michael Aspel on Tone’s dodgy telly, no-one else appears), but the mature Hancock persona was more than rich enough to fill the space – Galton and Simpson’s first draft ran twenty minutes too long.81
The logistics of filming one man alone were intricately worked out by director Duncan Wood and designer Malcolm Goulding, ensuring the cameras could follow Hancock wherever he wandered.82 Hancock himself became increasingly keen to exert his influence on the show beyond performance, and persuaded a grudging Wood to let him direct a handful of shots per show himself.83 Rehearsals were rigorous, and by the time of recording Hancock was on rare word-perfect form. From Noel Coward impersonations to an elaborate TV reception ballet, he barely put a foot wrong.
At times in his frivolous soliloquy Hancock almost – but not quite – catches the camera’s eye. There must have been a temptation to break the fourth wall in this episode, but the dedication to realism stopped it going down the Burns and Allen route (an episode of which followed Hancock at 9.25 p.m.). The early TV Half-Hours were awash with self-reference. In the very first, a couple watching Hancock’s television debut annoy him so much with their snide comments he leaves the studio and enters their front room, smashing up their set, and finding himself doing the rest of the show live from a hospital bed. It wasn’t a classic, and such gags were soon dumped.
A few episodes after The Bedsitter, a serious car accident started Hancock’s well-documented decline. Galton and Simpson went on to take the two-hander to ever greater heights with Steptoe and Son, and the minimalist format remained a sitcom goal, attained by shows as diverse as Porridge and Benson. The solo feat has never been equalled, not even by the lad himself – ATV’s lacklustre 1963 Hancock series tried to ape the formula in The Early Call, in which Hancock booked a wake-up call and fretted about it for the entire night. But the star was in the descendent and the script was second rate – in place of Tone’s epic struggle with Bertrand Russell’s
