The post Daily Mirror spotlight on the future of television appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

Anyone who happens to be in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross Hospital at a certain hour in the morning is likely to meet a bunch of laughing young nurses, coming off night duty, piling into coaches that will take them to the Nurses’ Home at Hampstead.

‘Laughing’ is the operative word, for nurses are by nature gay people. They have to be gay in temperament; it is one of the essential attributes of their very dedicated profession.

Their lot in life brings them into such close association with suffering that they very early learn to temper sympathy with the kind of gaiety that helps to keep both patients and the relatives of the patients in the right frame of mind.

The Editor of Family Doctor, Dr. Harvey Flack, once paid open tribute to the TV series ‘Emergency — Ward 10′ as a feature that has helped millions of viewers to overcome a tendency to look on hospitals with some sort of fear — which is quite unfounded.

In the Casualty Ward of any big hospital there are many human dramas — but always in the background are the doctors and nurses, who amid the many emergencies manage to live their own lives.

Unlike those comedy films Doctor in the House and Doctor at Sea, the TV series ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ has the right approach to hospital work — and cuts out the 100 per cent flippancy.

The team who make the TV series go to enormous trouble to be right in every detail, get the right kind of background information, and make their players, whether doctors or nurses, behave like ordinary people.

To celebrate the 100th programme of the series, the TV team paid a visit to Charing Cross Hospital, where a rather unnerving thought occurred to Freddie Bartman.

‘I just hope none of the patients mistakes us for the real thing, and expects a correct diagnosis of his — or her — illness!’

Rosemary Miller and Jill Browne, on that occasion, went round the wards, talked with patients, helped with serving the meals from the trolleys, and were accepted by the patients as just part of the hospital service.

That made everybody feel pleased with themselves. It proved that Rosemary and Jill had the right feeling for their jobs in the TV series.

Rosemary Miller’s reaction was that she felt ‘terribly humble,’ and realised for the first time the responsibility of the role she has played, as Nurse Pat Roberts.

Rosemary comes from the Antipodes, and at one time she had the idea of becoming a journalist like her parents before her, but she says ‘the dramatic germ proved stronger.’

She was appearing in local theatres whenever she could, in her early teens.

She studied ballet — and then decided that it held nothing for her, though she admits ‘it helps you to put your feet in the right positions.’

Finally, she came to Britain, which seemed to offer more opportunities for aspiring actresses. But Rosemary made no particular impact on the British theatrical world until she was auditioned for ‘Emergency — Ward 10.’

In the beginning ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ was intended as a twelve-week series, devised by Tessa Diamond.

Its popularity with viewers, who kept writing to the Associated Television Network for more news of it, meant that Tessa had to call in some more scriptwriters to work out more interesting adventures for the doctors and nurses.

‘Emergency — Ward 10′ became an authors’ emergency, requiring several extra consultants.

The Casualty Department at a real hospital, King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, in London, has now become the team’s ‘trade mark,’ recognised by people who live in that part of London.

It does not mean that stories thought up by Tessa Diamond and her writing colleagues happen there. It just is a good place for taking authentic exterior pictures and good real-life shots of ambulances arriving in a hurry. These are later woven into the ‘fictitious’ parts, lending them a touch of realism.

Among the doctors in the series there is a gaggle of cheery characters: Glyn Owen, Frederick Bartman and Charles Tingwell.

Glyn comes from Carnarvon, where his Dad was a policeman. Following in Dad’s footsteps, he pounded the beat in London, joined the Flying Squad, and for four years ‘covered’ the West End of London.

But when he wasn’t pounding the beat he was treading the boards, working in his spare time with an amateur theatre group.

By hook and by crook, he managed to get himself jobs in the professional TV mediums — in ‘The Trollenberg Terror,’ and in the French Resistance series ‘Secret Mission.’

Frederick Bartman, Dr. Simon Forrester to viewers, suffers from being naturally short-sighted. During transmission, however, he removes his spectacles and trusts to luck that he won’t bump into anyone or anything on set!

Freddie was brought up in Vienna, where his parents worked. He had no theatrical background. He just wanted to act, and when he got to Britain, it was ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ that provided him with the money to pay for his digs.

‘Emergency — Ward 10,’ however, is not his only contract. He also works for various broadcasting networks, as a German announcer on overseas programmes.

One thing he has learned from his appearances in ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ is that ‘hospital is not nearly as terrifying a place as I once thought.’

The post Emergency … Ward 10 appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

Even the most severe ATV’s critics have found it difficult to say hard words about the plays. Whether ‘live’ or filmed they have maintained a very high standard throughout the first year of Commercial Television in this country. Theatre Royal and TV Playhouse were put on film with an eye on the world market for high class television drama. The parade of stars in TV Playhouse has been most impressive. Dame Edith Evans appeared in two plays – The Old Ladies and A Question of Fact – and actors and actresses of the calibre of Eric Portman, Roger Livesey, Barbara Kelly, Bernard Braden, Helen Haye, James Donald and Nora Swinburne have appeared in plays in this series.

These include many which have run successfully in London and, in some instances, on Broadway too. The Old Ladies is a classic of the contemporary stage. Dame Edith Evans created the role of Agatha Payne twenty five years ago and it was very fitting that she should play it again when the drama was televised.

Other well-seasoned theatrical successes which were filmed for television in the TV Playhouse series included, French for Love, Frolic Wind, Quay South and Shaw’s Man of Destiny in which Margaret Leighton took the part of the beautiful stranger who flitted for a brief moment into the life of the young Napoleon.

In contrast to these well-tried dramas there have been plays in the series especially written for television. Outstanding among these was The Last Reunion, starring Eric Portman. It was a new idea to present on the stage a reunion dinner for the crew of a wartime bomber that had crashed – a reunion for a party of ghosts. Another piece of original television was the telefilmed drama, The Concert, in which the Bradens proved themselves once again to be a wonderful team. The particular ‘gimmick’ of this play is the fact that the hero is not seen until the last few seconds, and it is in that one glimpse that the terrific impact of the clever plot about a blind woman and a coloured man is driven home.

Plays in the Theatre Royal series run for only half an hour each, and to tell a worth-while story within that restricted framework requires the greatest ingenuity. Writers regard these half hour teleplays as the pictorial equivalent of the short story in literature, demanding the same techniques of presentation. There is not time in these brief dramas to dissect character or probe complex relationships as there is in the full length play. A situation has to be arrived at quickly, and a denouement effected with equal speed. Yet it is amazing to see how often this has been successfully achieved.

It was inevitable that for some of these subjects the producers should turn to classic short stories from the past like The Stocking, by D. H. Lawrence; The Door, by Robert Louis Stevenson; The Death Trap, by Guy de Maupassant.

An excerpt from Charles Dickens’ Pickwick Papers furnished material for one of the most successful of the half hour teleplays. Donald Wolfit provided viewers with a superb piece of characterization with his interpretation of Sergeant Buzfuz in the Court Scene, ‘Bardell versus Pickwick’.

Other notable successes in the Theatre Royal series included Eric Portman in Mr. Betts Runs Away, a neat story based on the theory of predestination; Wendy Hiller in The Game and the Onlooker, in which a middle-aged woman’s marriage hopes are ruined by the suspicions of a malicious spinster; and The Great Healer, in which the inimitable Dora Bryan played a robust Cockney who turns up at the Golden Wedding anniversary of the man she was once engaged to. This distinguished series of taut, well-edited playlets is also being viewed by TV audiences in America where they are presented by Lilli Palmer who introduces each play to the viewers in a programme called Lilli Palmer Presents.

Live drama came to the forefront on Channels 8 and 9 when Hugh Beaumont joined Associated TeleVision as drama adviser. Mr. Beaumont is a director of H. M. Tennents who manage many of London’s theatres, and it followed that he should bring to the television screen play-successes from the West End, together with the casts who made these successes.

The first of these ninety-minute ‘live’ transmissions was a very distinguished one, although its cultural content was rather more than a lot of viewers were prepared to absorb. The play was a shortened form of Hamlet, and the players, those who had just returned from showing it to the theatre-goers of Moscow. Paul Schofield as Hamlet; Alec Clunes as the King; Diana Wynyard as the Queen; Mary Ure as Ophelia; and Ernest Thesiger as Polonius were the principal performers.

This set a high standard for the programme’s sponsors to follow, and they did so with a varied list of plays which included Graham Greene’s, The Living Room, starring Dorothy Tutin; Ronald Shiner in the great success, Seagulls Over Sorrento; and the comedienne, Yvonne Arnaud, in Dear Charles. These and other plays in the series still had the West End ‘feel’ about them, for they were either currently running in London or had been until quite recently. This was truly ‘live’ television, giving viewers the impression of a visit to a London theatre, though in fact these transmissions came from the stage of the old Wood Green Empire, now a television studio.

Augmenting the programme, Douglas Fairbanks Presents, is a new series of filmed playlets bearing the name, Errol Flynn Theatre. In the twenty six plays which this comprises, leading roles are taken by Errol Flynn, Patrice Wymore, Sean Flynn, Glynis Johns, Herbert Lorn, Patricia Roc, Mai Zetterling, Paulette Goddard, Derek Farr – and a host of other ‘topliners’.

Commercial Television is certainly making full use of the talent of the British Theatre in its drama offerings. And, provided the standard remains as high as it now is, it matters not whether the drama comes to us ‘live’ or filmed. The Play is the thing!

The post The play’s the thing appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

For years the Americans have been unchallenged lords of the market in domestic-situation comedy serials. There are many reasons for this. In the first place they have a maxim in the States that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing ‘big’. This brought down to terms of fact means that Liberace had an entourage of sixty when he came to this country; Lena Horne carries with her a hairdresser, maid, a host of musicians, her bandleader husband, a manager and Messrs. X, Y and Z wherever she travels; Bob Hope employs half a dozen writers on each script, and domestic comedy teams are backed by an equally impressive host of writers.

No artiste can go on the stage and be funny without the requisite material, and even the comedians who are touched with genius cannot for ever think up their own gags. However, half a dozen writers in a humorous frame of mind are bound to produce something worthwhile between them in a week, and that is just where America scores over ourselves. Unlike many British script-writers who are expected, individually, to turn out perhaps four scripts in a week, those in the USA concentrate on producing just one script per six or so writers.

Another feature of the American comedy series is their exploitation of true-to-life situations. In this country many of us still seem to be under the misapprehension that in order to be amusing, a situation must be outlandish. But, thanks to American films like I Love Lucy we are learning better.

The basic contents of a good domestic comedy series are these: fun which the whole family can enjoy; true-to-life characterizations; good acting; and finally, and perhaps most important, good script-writing. Many series have started in this country, attempting more or less to conform to these requirements. All have been hailed as rivals to I Love Lucy or to the Burns and Allen Show. All have fallen by the wayside, with one notable exception. Joan and Leslie Randall have produced a series of delightful, simple and extremely funny programmes, containing all the ingredients listed above, and imitating none of the American shows. They have therefore provided us with not only an extremely popular form of entertainment, but also with the first domestic comedy programme to rival imports from the United States.

When Leslie Randall was interviewed before the start of his recent series he said, ‘I am a great admirer of Burns and Allen but we do not intend to imitate in any way.’ The interviewer smiled benignly, having heard the same phrase from at least half a dozen other couples. But within five minutes of the end of the first Randall programme he was ringing Leslie to offer his congratulations. The phone was engaged. Already speaking to Leslie Randall was ATV director Lew Grade, announcing that the Randalls were signed up for a further thirty one programmes, that they would appear weekly instead of fortnightly, and that the deal would be worth seven thousand pounds for them in the coming year …

Let us now take a look at the Joan and Leslie programme and see how it mixes its ingredients. There’s certainly fun for the whole family. And characterizations are invariably possible and true-to-life. Leslie plays the part of a lonely-hearts columnist and Joan the part of his actress wife. They live above Mike’s garage. Their daily help is a fine woman and is treated more as the family confidant than as a char. This is the background for the true-to-life situations.

Doesn’t every Englishman want to buy tickets for a Test Match, and haven’t many been cheated by a spiv? And isn’t it funny when a completely guileless wife double crosses that same spiv in the most delightfully naive way? Don’t we laugh when we see a couple, in trying to burglar-proof a house, make it difficult to get out of but as easy as ever to enter?

The third requirement we mentioned was good acting. Lest anyone who has only seen Leslie in Variety or in Cabaret at a London night haunt should still fail to appreciate the Randalls’ acting prowess, let us glance at the couple’s career. We shall exclude Leslie’s two appearances on the Ed Sullivan show (one of the finest of all American shows, an appearance on which is regarded as the acme of success); we shall disregard his two Palladium engagements; and we shall put aside his two cabaret successes at the Savoy, for these are all in the world of light entertainment.

Leslie’s first professional engagement earned him three guineas for four performances as Paris in Romeo and Juliet. A year later (1948) he met Joan when she was playing repertory in Darlington. There she took the part of Miranda in The Tempest. In her four years of repertory experience Joan played every possible juvenile female lead before she entered the West End. Meanwhile, Leslie was touring Germany in Opera. One has to be good when one is taking coals to Newcastle. An Englishman speaking German in Germany is not perhaps Nancy Mitford’s idea of the U thing to do in that country, but Leslie carried his part in Die Schone Galatier with a deal of success.

The Randalls are ably supported in their TV series by a varying cast in which Harry Towb (‘Mike’), and Noele Dyson (‘Mrs. Henshaw’) are the only permanent members. Noele was educated at Roedean and one of the better Parisian finishing schools – there can’t be many stage ‘chars’ who can claim such expensive education!

The last ingredient we mentioned was a really good script. For the first time in this country four writers are permanently engaged in preparing one weekly script. To Dick Sharpies, Gerald Kelsey, John Law and Bill Craig must go the credit for the excellence of the material used. Add to this the aid of producer Hugh Rennie and the suggestions from the Randalls and you have the value of at least one more script writer.

Who knows, maybe they will have to film the series soon, so that the Americans can at long last see that there is such a thing as a good British ‘situation comedy’ series.

The post Situation Comedy appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

No show book is complete without some mention of the young stars who are just beginning to hit the headlines and who will be the top names in the years to come.

Few people have a more exciting tale to tell than another Dominion born artiste, thirty-year old Australian, Vincent Ball. Vincent is the hero of thousands of children – and of a good many housewives too. To his amazement (for Vincent is a modest young man) he receives an enormous amount of fan-mail every week. The people who help him answer this mail have aptly nicknamed him ‘The Housewives’ Heart-Throb’, much to his own disgust.

During the war, Vincent was in England as a pilot in the Australian Air Force. In 1945, he returned to his native land and to his job with the Australian General Electric Company. For open-air Vincent Ball, an office was not the most congenial way to earn a living. He attempted all sorts of indoor work including accountancy after his return from the war, but none of it really suited him. Vincent felt a continual nagging for the footlights. He had even been to evening classes to study elocution. ‘My dialect was a shocking mixture of anything from Cockney (the influence of my London stay), to Canadian (learnt from my service days with the Canadians).’

He was given a special teacher of elocution all to himself. This teacher is now Doreen Ball. Between them they have produced a lovely daughter called Catherine, now aged three and a half. She couldn’t care less about seeing her Dad on TV but she does like Noddy, which he introduces.

With his improvement in diction came confidence, and the frustration of office jobs led Vincent to apply for an audition for a part in The Blue Lagoon. Back came a letter from the Rank Organisation saying, ‘We would love to have you but you are 13,000 miles away … if you are ever in our neighbourhood do please drop in and see us’.

This was good enough for Vincent. He went down to the docks and stoked his way to Europe. The trip should have taken six weeks but the Swedish ship Yarawonga wasn’t in a hurry and the journey to Sweden took the best part of six months. By the time Vincent knocked on the door of the Rank office, with his half-year old letter in his pocket, the Lagoon Company had been to Fiji on location and back, and all but a few indoor shots were in the can. However, Vincent’s tenacity was not to go unrewarded. He was allowed to stand in for Donald Houston in an underwater fight with an octopus. The first words the director, Frank Landau, said to him were, ‘Don’t let the camera see your face, you’re only a stand-in’.

But stand-in or no, it was a start. After this first film Vincent won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and a five pound a week grant. He then went from Rep. to the juvenile lead in Rain Before Seven, Barnetts’ Folly and Nitro, before making a big film. This time he had a large part as Peter Finch’s pal in A Town Like Alice.

When he had lived in Carshalton he had often amused the local kids by telling them stories about Australia. Now, when he was asked how he would fill his first nine minutes on Junior Television, he said he would tell similar stories. His powers as a raconteur have gained Vincent quite a name and a regular weekly newspaper column besides. And if you ever had the fortune to spend even a few minutes with him between one of his four weekly shows, you would realize just how bewitching a storyteller Vincent really is.

A real nice guy is Vincent Ball – just as nice as the film heroes he introduces. Success has left him completely unaffected, and this with his talent and pertinacity ensure that Vincent should be a star in his own right before many more pages of the calendar are turned.

Femininity is the keynote of bachelor girl, Noele Gordon, producer of women’s programmes. It sparkles from her large blue eyes, radiates with every movement of her restless hands, and is highlighted in the bold accessories chosen to complement her chic, simple clothes and short black hair.

Noele’s talents are not confined to producing. Her crowded week includes personal appearances in Lunch Box, a daily programme, About Homes and Gardens, Teatime with Gordon, and the new London programme, Musical Cheers.

Within minutes a conversation with Noele becomes an assured and witty chat with an ‘old friend’. Her vivid personality can charm words from the inarticulate and quips from sage speakers. Ideas tumble from her pert mouth at bewildering speed and the most placid event becomes an adventure when she lends a hand.

‘I was born,’ she says with a saucy grin, ‘at an early age in London of Scottish parents. I made my first public appearance at the age of 2½ years.’

From then on Noele seemed fated to a life in show business. She studied at RADA and made her first professional appearance in Rep. in Edinburgh. She had no lines to speak as the maid in One Hundred Years Old, but she had to give a loud scream in Act 2.

‘That,’ she says, ‘has been my reaction to show business ever since.’

But that first scream must have been executed with full dramatic vigour, for since those early Repertory days, Noele has appeared in some of London’s most successful shows.

The late George Black chose her for parts in Let’s Face It and The Lisbon Story. The late C. B. Cochrane put her into Big Ben at the Adelphi theatre.

Her thousand performances as Meg Brockie in Brigadoon at Her Majesty’s Theatre remain indelible memories and were followed in 1949 by a Royal Command Performance at the Coliseum.

The two following years saw her as the Principal Boy in the London Palladium’s Humpty Dumpty pantomime, and as Mrs. Sally Adams in Call Madam at the Coliseum and on tour.

Then, when Commercial Television became a reality, Noele joined the pioneer ranks as one of ATV’s women’s programmes producers.

‘That title,’ she admits, ‘is a little misleading. Not only have I produced, but I’ve toured the Midlands in search of programme ideas, visited Town Halls, Civic Centres, Women’s Guilds and told people what they could expect when we opened in Birmingham.’

The Midlands area is almost Noele’s second home. She played her first important role in the Theatre Royal, Birmingham.

‘It’s a wonderful thing,’ she says, ‘but do you know. Midland folk remember my performances in Cinderella and Dick Whittington at the Alexandra Theatre despite all the other shows they’ve seen. Why, when I was addressing one Women’s Guild a member said, “What became of that gorgeous ’white horse in your panto?’”

‘That was quite a while ago,’ says Noele, ‘but they remember just what I wore. That horse, by the way, was the only “artiste” I’ve ever worked with that was completely without temperament! It weighed about three tons, and every time it thundered on to the stage, the house lights went out!’

Commercial Television was not an unknown quantity to Noele before she experienced it in this country. After she left the stage she visited America to study television methods there. The technical knowledge gleaned by perseverance, determination and sheer hard work, stood her in good stead when she joined Associated TeleVision. With her experience of the slick, fast-moving American TV programmes and her love of English tradition, her judgement has become a watchword at Television House.

It is only to be expected that such a vibrant personality as Noele’s would call for some ‘out of the rut’ hobbies. ‘I love bullfighting and cricket – but only as a spectator. My active hobby is under-water fishing – wonderful sport!’

One of the brightest stars on the television comedy horizon is Arthur Haynes. He is not a teen-or-twenty discovery, in fact he has been touring the variety world for many years, but suddenly through the medium of TV he has found himself a potential star of the future, and ‘I just can’t believe my good fortune,’ he says.

His first professional engagement was a booking as an entertainer in a Camden Town public house, where he was paid 5s. for singing two songs. As a troop entertainer during the war, Arthur teamed up with Charlie Chester, and the officer in charge of the fun-making was Captain George Black.

Arthur stayed with Charlie Chester for six years before branching out on his own, but no one took much notice of him. Weeks followed when he was unemployed, and finally ex-Sergeant Haynes went to visit the office of his ex-Captain. ‘What do you think of my act?’ he asked. ‘Terrible,’ said Showman Black. But Arthur was given his chance just the same.

When George and Alfred Black were presenting a brand new television series, they remembered Arthur and included him in the resident team for the series. Arthur introduced a new character to the viewers, ‘Oscar’, the little man who couldn’t help being a pest. The public loved Oscar, and the result was Arthur’s own TV series in the Midlands, where Oscar has become a household word.

Arthur lives just outside London with his wife and his vast collection of ‘mugs’. ‘I’ve got over 800 of them,’ he says, ‘in every shape and design possible. There are china mugs, pewter mugs, and every one is my favourite size – they’re all pint pots.’

When Arthur Haynes was offered a television series he expected to be ‘doing only bits and pieces – helping others out’. But Arthur and his bits and pieces, combined with his wide range of facial expressions and characterizations have made him a television favourite.

A chance to reach for stardom was given to ‘backroom boy’ David ‘Johnny’ Galbraith, a 29-year-old Canadian who lives in Birmingham, and who was a studio manager behind the TV cameras.

David had never mentioned to his colleagues that he had understudied for Mario Lanza during the filming of Because You’re Mine, or that he had toured American western states in Oklahoma. He had married Joan, an adagio skater, and now had a young son, David. His television job was nice and steady and he had reluctantly given up ideas of stardom. But he couldn’t stop singing, and one day at the studio he was heard by Noele Gordon. Noele was impressed by his fine singing voice, and invited him to appear on her own programme. Within minutes of his first appearance, viewers were telephoning the studios asking, ‘who was that man with the wonderful voice?’

Two weeks later, David was again on Noele’s show, and a recording of his voice was sent to Val Parnell. The result was an appearance on Val Parnell’s Startime.

When Noele’s daily Lunch Box programme began, she asked if David could be a regular contributor. Within a month of the first show, the mail was averaging 200 letters a day, half of which mentioned David and asked him to sing requests.

David is one of a large Canadian family. He wanted to be a singer ever since he can remember. His mother gave him every help and arranged for his voice to be trained by opera singer Madame Pauline Donalda, a great friend of the family. After several years touring the States, David visited Europe and appeared in the spectacular production of White Horse Inn on Ice, which went on tour, with the final engagement at Birmingham Hippodrome. It was then that David decided to try for a post at the nearby television studios. On March 6th, 1956, he was appointed assistant scene master, and then promoted to studio manager.

Now he had been signed up by Britain’s leading theatrical agent, and his first stage appearance was booked for October 29th, just eight months after his ‘steady’ job began.

David is an impressive looking singer, six feet tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. He is a great believer in keeping fit, and does half an hour of weight-lifting and shadow-boxing each morning.

Of course there’s a whole host of other names deserving more than a mention^ which we should like to include in this book. There’s Bob Monkhouse, who with Denis Goodwin hardly spends a week away from ATV screens; there’s Glen Mason – as much a part of the Jack Jackson Show as Jack himself… one could go on for ever. But books must have a limit to their size, and we’ve still a lot of ground to cover…

The post The Young Stars appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

A cheap novel, a cheap author, but a true if trite statement on page thirty-seven: ‘You got talent, you got looks but you ain’t got a gimmick … and without a gimmick you’re lost, son … go home, find yourself a gimmick.’

There are two types of success stories: the long hard grind – and overnight fame. Occasionally one follows the other. More often the gimmick leads to the second in, if we may quote the same novel, ‘a great big hurry’. Successful TV gimmick shows are the give-away programmes, audience participation games, the panel games with that extra ‘something’ which makes them click.

What is a gimmick? Johnnie Ray’s cry is a gimmick; Winifred Atwell’s other piano is a gimmick, and well – now you know what we mean. In the case of the quiz show one is led to believe that the word is an abbreviation of ‘gimme’ or ‘gimme quick’.

Having accepted the premise that a gimmick is something worth having, let us examine a few of the gimmick shows.

Pride of place must go to the fabulous The 64,000 Question, ATV first showed this programme on May 19th, 1956. The whole show was based on a lowest common multiple of sixpence. Now, a sign either of inflation or of the increasing prosperity of Independent Television the show works in multiples of a shilling. Answer eleven very hard questions accurately and you can leave the studio, after five appearances, with £3,200 in your pocket – or, if you accept the Val Parnell bonus and take the whole amount in Defence Bonds, £3,520 – and a halo of national fame gleaming over your head.

The English show is based on the world-famous American The $64,000 Question. The main differences between the two programmes are that Hal March comperes the American version and Jerry Desmonde the English one; the English show is transmitted on Saturday night and the American on Tuesday evening; and whereas our 64,000 shillings aren’t taxable, their 64,000 dollars are! In the United States they have police to guard the safe containing the money. In this country ex-Superintendent Fabian of the Yard performs the same function, and is one of the many precautions which are taken to preserve the integrity of the show.

All sorts of people can achieve fame overnight through this competition. In America, a woman doctor of psychology won 64,000 dollars by answering questions on boxing, a railway porter won a huge prize for his knowledge of astronomy, and a parson impressed the nation with his expert knowledge of – jazz! A twelve-year-old school girl (she won umpteen thousand dollars spelling ‘Antidisestablishmentarianism’), a marine captain (on cooking), a coalminer (on the Bible) – all have been big winners.

Such people are the life-blood of the show. Questions are far from easy, stakes are high and contestants cannot answer questions on a subject from which they earn their living. The publicity around the show is enormous and needless to say the winners have many lucrative offers. Viewing figures are vast – in America the sponsors can really boast that the programme stops the country’s activity for the half hour that it is on.

In the near future it is hoped that there will be a challenge competition between the winners in America and the winners in this country. A battle of giants, indeed.

A great deal of the popularity of the show can be traced to its simplicity. From the first to last questions the cash prize doubles itself. Thus in England the first question is for 64/-, the second for 128/- and so on to 64,000/-.

The first major excitement of the British version came when Vernon Goslin, a forty-two year old schoolmaster, answered six of the seven parts of the 64,000 question, only to fail at the last part. There have been a great many excitements since then. For example, there was the day when Ashley Neville Stacey, a schoolmaster from Bexley Heath, reached 64,000, with his wife and five children there to watch him, only to find the last Biblical question too difficult for him. A couple of weeks later, Albert Norman, a 65 year-old retired diamond setter from Normany, Surrey, became the first person to overcome the final hurdle and walk away from the studio with £1,760 worth of Defence Bonds in his pocket.

Shortly after this there was great excitement when the top prize was doubled and contestants began trying for £3,200.

On Saturday, 13th October, 73 year-old Miss Jane Brown staked her reputation as a Dickens scholar on winning the big prize. She won all right, and with £3,520 in Defence Bonds this gentle old Victorian lady went home to Wolverhampton, her black cat, and her organ which she bought in a jumble sale. Self-taught in shorthand, Miss Brown has thirty pupils who were, no doubt, among the millions who sighed with relief when the final question was answered.

Many of the contestants in this country become singularly attached to the show, and it is not unusual to see half a dozen or more ex-competitors appear on the screen when producer John Irwin turns the cameras to spotlight audience reaction.

Another exciting money game is Beat the Clock, which features regularly in Sunday Night at the London Palladium. It is compered by the breezy comedian, Tommy Trinder, and relies for its impact on the participants being willing to undertake some pretty gruelling ordeals. Bursting balloons by sitting on them (blindfold, to make matters more difficult) is one of them. Another involves running six laps of the stage, eating a roll at the end of the first lap, drinking a glass of milk at the end of the second, playing hoopla at the end of the third, bursting a balloon with a dart, riding a hobby-horse and so on – all six laps to be completed within a minute.

Viewers have been amazed at the variety and ingenuity of the actual problems posed in this game. They find themselves asking what kind of diabolical mind would think of asking contestants wearing divers’ boots to burst balloons by jumping on them; what kind of sadist would expect his victims to stack cups of tea with their hands encased in boxing gloves. The answer to these questions is producer David Main, who selects the ordeals from among those used for the same game in the United States.

At any time during the fourteen minutes’ duration of Beat the Clock a bell may ring – the bell which means it’s jackpot time! All contestants immediately stop their efforts to win television sets, refrigerators, washing machines and motor cycles and concentrate on winning some hard cash with an even more difficult problem than dancing on balloons with leaden boots. The jackpot question often involves real skill; bouncing four balls into four boxes placed one above the other on a pole, for example. The jackpot has been won at varying values. On two of the first three occasions the prizes of £1,100 and £1,300 were the highest ever to have been awarded on British television. The lucky winners? A honeymoon couple and a sailor on leave with his wife.

Hit the Limit is a show which began life from Midlands transmitters only, but because of its popularity was soon being relayed from London as well. Announcer Peter Cockburn got his lucky break in this programme when its M.C. Jerry Desmonde, vacated the star-role to make a film with Norman Wisdom.

Hit the Limit is not really an intelligence test, for the questions are simple and the whole atmosphere is that of a brisk fairground. The basic idea is that competitors throw a dart at a revolving wheel which contains a V-shaped ‘jackpot section’ – total area 95 square inches, or one-twelfth of the board. According to which section the dart sticks in, questions are asked and cash prizes awarded. The value of the jackpot increases by £50 each week.

If ever a show had a gimmick it is the highly controversial Yakity Yak – The Dizzy Show. Why controversial? You should just see the mail that pours into ATV. It would appear that half the viewers want to send the girls who participate to the Siberian salt mines, and the rest would like to see them enthroned on pedestals of gold for having achieved the ultimate in feminine pulchritude.

This programme was based on an observation which Michael Pertwee made almost every time he met a woman. ‘They never admit they are ignorant of any particular fact,’ he told Leslie Goldberg, the executive producer, one day. Out of these ten little words came one of the most genuinely funny shows seen on television.

The recipe was simple enough. Choose four beautiful girls, put them on a panel, add one MacDonald Hobley if the programme is to be seen in London, or one Michael Pertwee if it is broadcast to the Midlands. Select ten or so words which sound as though they might mean something they don’t and ask the girls to explain them. The girls must give an answer, and it must never be, ‘I don’t know’.

The result has sent shivers up and down the spines of the erudite gentlemen who compile the Oxford English Dictionary; has made viewers incredulous that even a very dumb blonde could think a toupee was an abbreviated two-piece, or a Bombay Duck a duck with an extra long leg; and has caused a great many people the heartiest of belly laughs. And of course it has given the Press the chance to publish even more pictures of girls with trim figures and cute faces.

John Irwin who produces the show added another gimmick. At the end of each programme the girls were asked to discuss a debatable topic. This resulted in brain machinery working overtime. The girls produced such classic remarks as: ‘Men are so stupid – whenever I want to read what’s going on in Cyprus they are reading the sports page. That’s why I hate travelling in Undergrounds…”

A last word on the gimmick. If you can think of one which ATV could use, send it to them, they’re always looking out for fresh ideas.

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