Situation Tragedy Read Free Page A

dum-de-dum-de-dum – and cue!’
    â€˜Hey, Fred,’ said the First Removal Man looking at a cut-glass decanter with a gummed label on it, ‘What does F-R-A-G-I-L-E mean?’
    But before the Second Removal Man could say, ‘I don’t know. Chuck it over here and I’ll have a look’, a new figure bounced on to the studio floor, and, with a cheery cry, ensured that they had to start again.
    It was Peter Lipscombe, the show’s boyish producer. ‘Hello, everyone.’ he said. ‘Everything okay?’
    In spite of their earlier anxiety, they completed the Dress Run in good time. One of the reasons why Rod Tisdale made so much money out of his scripts was that they were always very simple technically. Scott Newton, as a new young director with aspirations, had planned all kinds of clever shots over shoulders, through flower vases and looking down from cranes, but as rehearsals progressed, it had become clear that there was only one way to shoot a Rod Tisdale script, and that was to follow the predictability of the jokes. So the camera script had become a sequence of three linked shots – MCU (Mid-Close-Up) of Character A setting up joke, MCU of Character B delivering pay-off, CU (Close-Up) of reaction from Character A to milk audience laughter. Very little else was needed.
    So they finished at five to six, having played their show to the sycophantic laughter of the Producer, the Casting Director (a dramatic ex-actress called Tilly Lake) and the warm-up man, a minor comedian called Charlie Hook, whom Charles Paris remembered, though with little warmth, from a previous pilot he had made for West End Television,
The New Barber and Pole Show
.
    Scott Newton bustled out of the Production Control at five to six, with Sadie Wainwright in tow, and Jane Lewis punctiliously following her. ‘Right, a few notes,’ he said rather feebly.
    He didn’t look well. The day was proving a strain and he patently wasn’t getting the moral support a director can usually count on from his PA. He had only been freelance for about six months, having left a cosy niche in BBC Schools Department for the higher earning potential of the commercial world. Like many others of his age in television, he had recently been divorced, and was finding that the demands of maintenance payments inhibited the glamorous life-style he thought appropriate to a young television director.
    The Strutters
was his first big show, and he didn’t appear to be enjoying it. ‘A few notes,’ he repeated with even less conviction.
    â€˜Okay, boys and girls,’ Robin Laughton bellowed, as if testing a famous, but distant, echo. ‘We are in a note-giving situation. Could all artists assemble in the Sitting Room set.’
    Damn. Charles Paris had been half way out of the studio door on his way to the Gents. Reluctantly, he came back. The pressure on his bladder was almost intolerable.
    The cast assembled with indifferent grace in the Sitting Room set. ‘Right now, notes,’ said Scott Newton slowly.
    â€˜Come on, hurry up,’ urged Sadie. ‘I’ve got a lot to do. And we’ll have to get out of the studio when they start the Line-up at six.’
    â€˜Okay, okay, sure. Now, notes. George and Aurelia, in that first scene –’
    Peter Lipscombe bounced up again, Tigger-like. ‘Hello, everything okay?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, fine, thank you, Peter. Just giving a few notes. Er, George and Aurelia, in that –’
    â€˜Sorry, love,’ interrupted Robin Laughton. ‘Can we release cameras and sound? Sound Supervisor just asked me. They’ve got this union meeting.’
    â€˜Yes, sure. Um, George and Aurelia, could you . . .’
    â€˜Oh, I can’t wait while you dither around,’ snapped Sadie. ‘I’ve got to go and give Telecine all the revised cues. Here are the notes.’ She thrust a clipboard at Scott and marched off.
    Charles saw his