John hated being away from home and he did a couple of jobs where the locations upset him. The Grass Is Singing, set in Africa, was filmed in sweltering heat in the Zambian bush. More maddening than the mosquitoes was Karen Black, who played opposite John and drove him insane with her Californian gobbledygook. The three months away from home were hell, although the film earned him a rave review from Margaret Hinksman, respected film critic: ‘A superb unstinting performance’. In 1985 he went to Belfast to play the devastated father of a soldier killed by the IRA. Like me, he was poleaxed by what he saw. We’ll Support You Ever More was a superb television play by Douglas Livingstone. It was about an ordinary man trying to understand the hatreds that had led to his son’s death, so in acting it, John had to do the same. It is one of his best performances but the part affected him deeply. I could understand why he was depressed when he came home. At other times his depression seemed less explicable.
We had been married for over ten years. We had successful careers and two lovely homes, but our frequent separations were stunting the growth of our marriage. Problems got shelved rather than discussed. There was still plenty of frantic sex but very little tenderness. I was aware he was unhappy but hadn’t got time or patience to find out why. I knew we were working too hard, but in our profession you have to take it when it’s there because it often isn’t. John in particular was wretched if he was unemployed and his drive to make sure it didn’t happen was turning him into a workaholic. What I had not detected was that being away on location or alone at home was fuelling another more serious addiction.
After a run of serious roles, he was pleased to get a comedy role for a change, playing Reece Dinsdale’s father in Home to Roost by that doyen of sitcom writers, Eric Chappell. It rehearsed in London but recorded up in Leeds. When he came home shattered each week I put it down to the stress of having to work in front of a studio audience, which he found difficult. When I played the part of his wife in one episode, I discovered that there was another reason. The night before the recording, we went out for a meal with everybody and, after we had eaten, I assumed we would go back for an early night before the heavy studio day. John did not come back to the hotel with me. This was extraordinary because he knew I was nervous and was usually over-protective of me. He reeled back in the small hours of the morning, blind drunk. The next day during the show, we barely spoke. I was shocked at his shaking hands and sweating brow. He got through the show and I’m sure nobody but I noticed the state he was in. All the time I was there jokes were flying around about his capacity for the booze, so I realised this was usual. I was appalled and showed it. They thought me a miserable killjoy. I comforted myself that when the series ended so would the problem. He had always been a drinker. I liked drinkers. My dad was one, so was Alec. It did not affect his work, and this was an aberration caused by him being at a loose end in Leeds. Of course it was.
* Clare Venables. Actor, writer, inspirational teacher and opera and theatre director. One of the first women to run a theatre. Director of Lincoln Theatre Royal, Manchester Library and Forum, Theatre Royal, Stratford East, The Crucible, Sheffield. Principal of the Britt School. Director of Education, the Royal Shakespeare Company. Mentor to many of our leading directors including Stephen Pimlott, Michael Boyd and Stephen Daldry. Dearest of friends and solver of crosswords and people’s problems. Died 17 October 2003, aged sixty. Why do the good die young?
15
It Takes Patience
IN 1985 TED CHILDS was Head of Drama at Central TV. His great gift was discovering and nurturing talent. A bright young academic called Kenny McBain was keen to break into TV adult drama, having worked on the progressive children’s series Grange Hill. Ted told him to find a strong detective series set in the Central area. Kenny suggested the books by Colin Dexter, set in Oxford, which was about two feet inside the region boundary. The idea was opposed from all sides. When it was pitched to the big boys they were not at all keen. They thought Inspector Morse was a miserable old sod, and could not believe that a man who liked classical music and real ale and was a failure with women would appeal to the public. John Birt, then Director of Programmes at LWT, who had a say in all TV output and was later renowned for questionable decisions at the BBC, was vehemently against it. John too had his doubts about doing yet another policeman. Kenny, who had only seen him being crude and physical in The Sweeney, did not think he had the intellectual qualities necessary for the role. Ted fixed up a lunch between John and Kenny, they got on like a house on fire, and by the end of it, they had persuaded each other to go ahead. With John on board ‘the Suits’, as John called the bosses, reluctantly decided to give it a go.
Kenny recruited another academic, Anthony Minghella, to do the first TV adaptation and they were in business. Anthony insisted they needed two hours to unravel the complicated plots. This was unheard of in TV. Nobody believed the public could concentrate for so long in our sound-bite society, but they got their way. Again, one of John’s programmes was breaking new ground. Ted, as usual, made sure the production values were first class. Top writers like Julian Mitchell, Stephen Churchett, Daniel Boyle and Charles Wood were recruited to adapt Colin’s books. It was never difficult to get writers for John’s shows because he was respectful of their work. Top directors too were delighted to be on board. Many people cut their teeth on The Sweeney and Morse and then went on to film success. One of these, Danny Boyle, came from theatre. John greeted him with, ‘I hope we’re not going to do any of those bloody trust exercises you do at the Royal Court. Or throw balls around.’ They all enjoyed working with John and learned a lot from his expertise in front of the camera, acquired from years of experience.
Colin Dexter was quite happy when John suggested subtle changes in the character of Morse. John’s Morse became less sleazy and more tentative in his attitude to women than the hero of the early novels. John respected Colin’s academic background and encyclopaedic knowledge, which stood him in good stead when compiling or solving cryptic crosswords. Despite Colin’s deteriorating hearing, they enjoyed having a laugh over a drink together, although Colin could become miffed when autograph hunters pushed him aside in their quest to get at John, particularly if they were pretty young ladies.
Kenny McBain’s brilliant choice of team for the series was largely responsible for its immediate success. He had a great career ahead of him. During the fourth series he contracted a virulent strain of leukaemia and died when he was thirty-seven. John was devastated.
15 March
Jesus, I miss him. I miss the quest for the perfect cup of tea, watching EastEnders, listening to The Archers, his conviction that the experts on the Antiques Road Show deliberately value things low so that they can buy them cheap afterwards – ‘Two thousand pounds my arse’ – his blue, blue doting eyes, his silky white hair, his little stubby legs, his funny walk, his rage, his pride in me, him, him, him. His smell, the sound of his voice, his silent presence, just knowing he is there. But he never will be. ‘Never, never, never never, never.’
Kenny’s place as producer was taken by David Lascelles. It was a difficult situation for David, but he knew they were all right when the first episode under his regime was aired and he read a critic in the Observer lauding an esoteric joke about Mozart on the same day as the News of the World pronounced John TV’s Sexiest Cop. Although John’s performance was totally unlike Jack Regan and in spite of the many other roles he had played since The Sweeney ended nine years before, the critic John Walsh wrote predictably:
Old Sweeney fans wouldn’t have been alone in raising a mocking cheer at Thaw’s new identity. It didn’t or couldn’t ring true. The combination of home brew and coloratura seemed forced. The Man with no Christian Name heroics only made you wonder if he was christened Cedric, and when Thaw let himself be bested by a wimpy student carrying a rugby boot, a million disbelieving hearts must have reassured themselves that had it been Jack, he would have well flattened him.
Despite Mr Walsh’s misgivings, wi
th Inspector Morse another TV icon was created. Towards the end of the series it was revealed that the initial E, which was all that Morse would disclose of his Christian name, was not for Ernie, as we had speculated, but Endeavour. Colin explained that Morse’s parents were probably Quakers, amongst whom it would have been a usual name, as well as being what Captain Cook called his famous ship. For some people, his surname became Inspector Remorse, or Inspector Morose. Later on there was another version. When Clare Holman joined the cast, she was nervous of meeting John. She breezed into the make-up van and said, ‘Hello, John, I’m Clare.’ He replied curtly, ‘Hello, Clare, I’m John,’ after which there was silence. On the set she was confronted with a huge Range Rover to drive which, being small, she found daunting. She managed to get it on to its mark and got out, and nervously walked up to John. Looking at a piece of paper, her first line was, ‘Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me, I’m looking for . . . Inspector . . . er . . . looks like . . . Mouse.’ At the first rehearsal everyone laughed and laughed, including John, and from then on they were great mates, and he became Inspector Mouse.
The public felt that if they sat on Morse’s shoulder he would solve the mystery for them, but at the same time they would never solve the enigma of his character. Morse was emotionally sensitive but tried not to reveal too much. Jenny Jules, an actress who worked with him later, describes a Morse scene: ‘A woman had died and there was this scene at the end, just him for a whole minute, you can see him fighting his emotion, he’s trying not to cry and he’s just listening to Mozart and you just want to cuddle him. The fact that he found it hard to show emotion: to cry, to break down, I thought that was really beautiful.’
Actual tears were always John’s last resort, in acting or in life, as the struggle to suppress them is more moving than paroxysms of grief. Instead, the audience cry for him.
16 March
Got through a whole day without sobbing. A couple sent me some Bach remedies – Star of Bethlehem and White Chestnut and Ignatius. Could they be helping? Mind you, I have a thudding dullness inside instead which is not enjoyable either.
John Madden admired the technique with which John handled all the information he had to impart in a way that sounded natural. He had a good ear for rhythm and would orchestrate any passage that could become dull in a way that kept it alive with changes of pace and pitch. Kevin Whately would find himself hanging on to John’s coat tails if he felt a scene needed a kick up the arse.
As with Regan’s relationship with Carter in The Sweeney, much of the richness of the characterisation of Morse came from his relationship with Kevin Whately as Lewis, his sidekick. John was never a man who had many close mates but with Kevin he was relaxed and trusting, as well as sharing a similar sense of humour; they became very fond of each other. On location they shared a Winnebago and at the end of a long day would chew the fat a bit, congratulating one another on ‘getting away with it’. Over his vodka John would groan, ‘That took years off me, that bloody scene.’ Morse’s exasperated cry of ‘Lew-is’ became much impersonated, but Morse had an awkward affection for him. In one episode Morse has been horrid to Lewis, then he confides he feels dreadful about someone’s death. Lewis comes out with the cliché, ‘Well, she’s at peace now,’ to which Morse snaps, ‘The glass is always half full for you, isn’t it?’
Lewis proudly quotes, ‘Well, if you can meet with triumph and disaster / And treat those two imposters just the same . . .’
Morse: ‘Kipling.’
Lewis: ‘No, All England Tennis Association. It’s above the door of the Centre Court.’
Morse: ‘So it is.’
The way John delivered that line summed up their relationship with gentle humanity.
One of John’s skills, invaluable in playing policemen, was that he was a good listener. Hard to do realistically, to really listen, not just act it. My friend Faith Brooks said: ‘John listened. He listened when conversing. He listened when acting. He listened with intensity to music. It’s good to talk, it’s even better to listen.’
This made him easy to act with, and it was why everyone wanted to be in Morse, from Sir John Gielgud onward.
17 March
I just can’t bear to sort his things. His trousers are still folded on the chair, his watch by the bed.
The beginning of the thirteen-year series was shot while John’s life was in turmoil. It was obvious from the first showing that Morse would be a huge success. So why did he continue to be so wretched? He did not get demonstrably drunk as he had in Leeds, but his moods, which once he could be jollied out of, were now becoming more frequent and impenetrable. They seemed to descend on him for no reason. He came home from work and after his first drink was usually on a high, but after going upstairs for a shower he would become uncommunicative and dour, burying himself in his script to learn the next day’s lines. Where he had been funnily cynical he became at times viciously cruel, not only to myself but to the girls, who came to resent and sometimes fear him. Never physically, but he could wound just as much with his tongue. It was incomprehensible. I tried desperately to fathom why he was like this. We would have anguished discussions, long into the night, which got nowhere. I instinctively felt it was something to do with his childhood giving him this growing hatred of women, and me in particular. I would say, ‘I’m not going whatever you do or say to me, I’m not leaving.’ There were times of blessed respite when he showered me with gifts and love. He became two different men – Jekyll and Hyde. If I tried to talk sensibly about it he claimed not to remember the things he had said. He sometimes denied them so vehemently that I began to question my own recollection and wonder if I was exaggerating. I felt completely disoriented; the rows often ended with me cravenly apologising. It was sick behaviour.
All this time I was trying to work at the National Theatre. Ian McKellen and Edward Petherbridge formed a talented company to work together for a year on several plays. I had one of the best parts of my life in Madame Ranevskaya in The Cherry Orchard. I was also the first woman to direct a show in the biggest auditorium, the Olivier. Insanely, I decided that at the end of Sheridan’s The Critic, the whole set would fall down and catch fire around the actors. The scene is a patriotic pageant led by John Bull, with Britannia flying above on a cloud, and my idea was a metaphor for the British Empire collapsing around our ears – it seemed apposite at a time when Thatcher had declared that our absurd war in the Falklands, with 225 British and 652 Argentinians dead, had ‘put the Great back in Great Britain’. I very nearly killed Ian McKellen and several other brilliant performers at the dress rehearsal of this spectacular scenic wonder created by Bill Dudley and engineer Peter Kemp. But the worries at the theatre were nothing to what awaited me at home.
I began to dread being there with John, subjected to his Back Treatment. Sometimes his face contorted into a mask of pure loathing towards me. Jo went to Bedales as a weekly boarder. She hated leaving but she equally hated being at home, trying to mediate between us. The months dragged on in utter misery and chaos. We were on a rollercoaster. I could not believe that all that we had built up together was falling apart.
It was almost a relief when I discovered the cause. Searching for something on top of the wardrobe in the spare room, I found a half-empty bottle of whisky. I was appalled as I unearthed more and more hidden bottles. I felt grubby spying on him like that but I knew enough about drink to know that if you were secretive about it, you were in trouble. I confronted John with my discovery. His shame was terrible. I phoned Anthony Hopkins, who made no secret of having had a drink problem himself. He was not surprised to hear from me, having heard on the grapevine that there might be a problem. He wisely told me there was nothing I could do to help John, that it was up to him. The best thing was to look after myself by going to Al Anon, a twelve-step organisation for people involved with anyone with a drinking problem. It was sound advice. At my first meeting I felt such relief when I heard the other people talking of their experiences. I recognised th
at John’s behaviour was a symptom of what I came to think of as an illness, just as asthma is.
It also began to dawn on me that I was as unbalanced as him. All the men most dear to me were drinkers. It was not difficult, then, to conclude that something in my personality fitted in with that. I liked the drama, the volatility, the excitement of being with a man who was unpredictable. Maybe my wartime childhood had affected me, but I thrived on danger. I was frightened of security. I feared knowing what would happen for the rest of my life. I felt comfortable with unease. Despite all the trappings of family and home, I was averse to settling down, and these mad men suited me. Not a recipe for maturity. Or contentment.
18 March
Some of the letters make me realise how lucky I am. Women left with fearful money problems who really have no social life except as a couple, who belong to a section of society that shun widows out of embarrassment or fear that they’ll be next. People who have lost children – can’t bear to even think of that. I can only read and reply to so many letters at a time. The weight of people’s painful lives weighs heavily on me.
As a result of my help from Al Anon, John was tempted to attend an AA meeting. He came back very drunk indeed. It was not for him. Although there were many of his friends at the meeting who greeted him with warmth and support he felt the whole thing of exposing your weakness was wanky. Anyway he wasn’t like them, was he? He wasn’t an alcoholic.
I needed a break away from all this intensity so I was delighted when a project I initiated came about. I bought the rights for Jumping the Queue from Mary Wesley, and, with my mate Sally Head as producer, we all decamped to Devon to shoot it. It was Jo’s holidays so she came too, and we were both relieved to be away from John. One of the chief joys of my profession is the comradeship. The work lays you bare emotionally and you become very close, then move on. Good old propinquity. I have always said I only joined the profession for the sex and the tea breaks. I often think the abuse poured on luvvies by the press is envy because, whatever they say about us, in the rehearsal room and on the set we are like a secret society whose members cling together, and nothing can touch us. Thus it was very healing for Jo and me to be in a lovely part of the country with a kindly cast and crew fussing over us. The other two girls were keeping an eye on John. One day Abigail phoned to say she had called round to find him desperately depressed, he was monosyllabic and sunken-eyed. She had taken him to the local pub in an attempt to cheer him up and he had vomited violently in public. She got Sally to come and help and she insisted on calling the doctor. He told John that his life would be threatened if he did not give up drinking.
The Two of Us Page 19
