DOCTOR WHO: DEEP BREATH Panel Discussion and Q&A, BFI

EVERYTHING MUST GO 

On Thursday 7 August at the BFI Southbank, Doctor Who went back to first principles. To my surprise and delight, possibly the most exciting and unpredictable era of my favourite TV show is about to begin.

See those eyes: Sir Peter Capaldi IS the Doctor. (Image: BBC)

Without a doubt, the BFI launch of Peter Capaldi's Doctor Who was one of the best days of my life. As I was coming out of a rough patch in my professional and personal life, I was determined not to miss the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of seeing the first story of a new Doctor on the big screen, with the man himself then invited onstage, together with Jenna Coleman (companion Clara Oswald) and Steven Moffat (executive producer), to be interviewed by the critic and columnist Boyd Hilton. After (several) drinks in the West End with friends on Wednesday night, I walked across Waterloo bridge to bed down outside the entrance to the British Film Institute on the Thames' Southbank (or, as I put it on Facebook, 'off to pass out outside the BFI.') I was first in the queue for return tickets, which in itself was a bit of a first for me

The queue, with me at the front wearing
Matt Smith's stetson. (Image: Louise Traxon)

More people arrived at 4.00. Sara (22), Roberto (21) and Chiara (22) had come all the way from Italy. They were excited but slightly bewildered, and I automatically became a bit of a mother hen, asking them if they had enough bottled water to drink - it was pretty warm, even at that time of the morning - and telling them they could buy a whole magazine about Doctor Who if they nipped over to Waterloo Station and went in WH Smiths.

As is usually case with every Doctor Who event I've been to, as more and more people arrived, they fell naturally into chatting - 'How far have you come to be here? Do you like Classic, New, or both?' - and so on. Louise Traxon (27) had caught the 6.22 from Hemel Hempstead and had fallen in love with the show watching the Jon Pertwee repeats in the 1990s; Henry Mendoza (great name, 18) had caught the tube up from Tooting and hadn't seen any of Peter Capaldi's other performances; Paul Ducker (35), a support worker in the Community Cardiac Service for the NHS, had booked the day off work specially and had grown up with Sylvester McCoy's Doctor. Beatrice Paroni (23) from America was currently studying for a Masters Degree in Time Travel and Philosophy  – honestly – and preferred her Doctors 'older and wiser.' Simeon Couter (19, up from Surrey) loved both the BFI and Capaldi, considering him 'a legend'. 

John Mouzo (52) was a delight to talk to, mainly because he was so dryly funny - 'I've been hearing about this Doctor Who thing and thought I'd give it a try' - when he had, in fact, been giving Doctor Who a try since the 1980s when he helped organise the big US conventions there. Significantly, John had liked Capaldi ever since he had featured in Local Hero (1983), also bringing along the US DVD sleeve of the actor's Oscar-winning short film Franz Kafka's It's A Wonderful Life (1995, right) for him to sign. After several hours of bonding as the London sky slowly brightened, it was heart warming that we all got to sit near other for the screening.     
 

As for 'Deep Breath' itself - no spoilers. What I can say is that the Doctor - that is, my Doctor, the moody, wise, funny, arrogant, occasionally frightening, occasionally violent Doctor I grew up with, who quoted Gertrude Stein and misquoted Karl Marx - is back. Like one of my favourite stories 'The Face of Evil', Steven Moffat's literate, funny and terrifying script has a mature philosophical theme, as it tackles the positive and negative consequences of renewal.

Not everyone will like the change of creative direction, primarily, I suspect, the audience that first came to Doctor Who when it was relaunched in 2005. At times during 'Deep Breath', you'll get the feeling that the production team is deliberately trying to alienate the audience that the BBC have spent the last ten years cultivating; all over the NFT1 auditorium, you could almost hear jaws hitting the floor at key game-changing moments. As a regeneration story, for me 'Deep Breath' is up there with 'The Power of the Daleks', 'Spearhead from Space' and 'The Eleventh Hour' and, beyond that, is already one of my favourite stories ever.

Jenna Coleman and Peter Capaldi on stage. (Image: Getty)

During the twenty minutes when questions were invited from the audience for Steven, Jenna and Peter, I asked him if, as a writer and director, he would like to get involved in that side of Doctor Who. When the audience had stopped laughing at Peter's softly spoken but emphatic 'No', he went on to explain that the series was already demanding enough without the added pressure on him of directing and writing. Rather humbly, Peter felt he was 'a dabbler' when it came to film making. With perfect comic timing, Steven Moffat followed up his leading man's comment with, 'says the man with an Oscar at home'.

Endearingly, Peter would like to see 'The Dalek Invasion of Earth' remade, which, predictably, drew an endorsing round of applause. Personally, I'm looking forward to his next spoof documentary, Cricklewood Rocks, which looks at 'rubbish British rock bands' in a sequel to Crickelwood Greats, Peter's affectionate parody of Ealing Studios and Britsh film in general.

The man was tireless, abandoning wine-guzzling BBC liggers in the green room to spend time with the fans queued up outside the BFI waiting for autographs and photos. I never normally do this sort of thing, but I was so excited by 'Deep Breath' that I couldn't stop myself, getting him to sign the latest copy of Doctor Who Magazine. I had a very amiable chat with Mr Capaldi - 'please, call me Peter' - and two of the highlights were:

ME: 'It's good to see you're now making Doctor Who for 50+ Philip Hinchcliffe and Robert Holmes fans.'

PETER: 'Ah, well, we have had it in mind for years.'

and

ME: 'The great thing is, the Daily Mail will hate Doctor Who now more than ever.'

PETER: 'I do hope so.'

On Friday morning, I did something I hadn't done since the 1970s; I bought a cross-section of that morning's newspapers to check out the reviews. Nicola Methven, the Daily Mirror critic, said that Clara eventually came to like the new Doctor, 'but, the question is... will you?' and in The Independent, Ellen E. Jones hit the mythical nail on the head by suggesting that 'Capaldi's Doctor Who might just be the best yet.'

I realised one thing on Thursday. Everyone who's ever taken the piss out of the fans for liking - no, loving - Doctor Who is completely and utterly wrong. Talk about feeling vindicated.

Going by 'Deep Breath', it seems that the best times for the series are yet to come. Prepare yourselves. 

 

Carpet diem. (Image: Mr Ducker)

 

THE SKIDS remembered

T.V. STARS

Producing only four LPs between 1979 and 1981, Scottish post-punk band the Skids left a rich legacy of music that still sounds fresh and vital today.

 

Richard Jobson (right) and Stuart Adamson in orbit.  (Image: Junk Archive)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Scottish New Wave band the Skids - Richard Jobson (vox, guitar sometimes), Stuart Adamson (guitar), Bill Simpson (bass) and Tom Kellichan (drums) - were one of the best things about 1979. That was the year of an extremely severe winter: I remember my joy at being allowed to stay off school, stay in bed, cuddle up and read Doctor Who and the Sontaran Experiment. Then there were crippling public sector strikes (not that this seemed to affect Lowestoft that much) and ITV going off the air because of another industrial dispute. Two years earlier, I had had my 'road to Danmascus' moment and officially discovered contemporary music as I watched the Sex Pistols' video for 'Pretty Vacant' on Top of the Pops. Gone were mild flirtations with Abba and the Electric Light Orchestra (for now, at least).

In a time before digital radio, YouTube and the internet generally, a musical act was made by a successful TOTP appearance. Everyone knows about the cultural impact of seeing David Bowie put his arm around Mick Ronson as they performed 'Star Man' in 1972, but the punk and New Wave bands also seized the opportunity, granted them through TOTP, of direct access to every living room in the land.

So it was with the Skids in January 1979. For one thing, unless you were in the Stylistics or the Floaters, lead singers of bands just didn't dance. As the intro chords of 'Into the Valley’, the opening track on their debut album Scared to Dance thundered out, Jobbo the Yobo/Gentleman Rick (depending on who you talked to) didn't stop dancing. For the duration of the song, he whirled around the band's tiny stage, legs kicking towards the studio lights, while - not to be outdone - Adamson jumped and swung his guitar, arm windmilling Pete Townshend-style. I'd found My First Favourite Band.

The Skids were ahead of the game, too, something they're never given any credit for. In late 1979, they released their second LP - two in one year from the same band rarely happens now - that pretty much invented the following year's New Romantic movement. The latter's obsession with Europe was there in the title, Days in Europa, a concept album about the rise of fascism in pre-World War II Germany. Synthesiser heavy and using tape loops, thanks to the innovative production by former BeBop Deluxe maverick Bill Nelson, the Skids stood apart from the sombre seriousness of the New Romantics in their banana yellow jump suits and smart uniforms that Nelson himself designed. There was another classic TOTP appearance when the lads performed 'Charade', the first single from Days.

1980 rolled around. By now I was impersonating Jobson's kick-dancing at school discos along with my friends every time the DJ was persuaded to put a Skids record on, which was fairly often. For their third album, The Absolute Game, there was a line-up change and Rusell Webb now performed bass duties while Mike Baillie was behind the drum kit (Rusty Egan took the drum stool for the Days era). Lead single 'Circus Games' was another singalong, rabble-rousing call to arms and, suddenly, the Skids were playing at the University of East Anglia in nearby Norwich.


There was no way I wasn't going. I can't quite remember how it happened, but I organised a trip of Skids fans to the UEA - hired a minibus, collected the money, sent off for the tickets. It was my first gig and I still remember the date - 2 October - and the band were brilliant. Live, 'Animation' became what Jobson called "Skids heavy metal", 'Out of Town', the b-side I had frequently jumped around to in my room, was electrifying as the second song and the closing majesty of 'Into the Valley' was even more more special, beginning and ending with 'Sloop John B'. Naturally, 'Masquerade' was the encore. I was also tangentially excited that the new Doctor Who Peter Davison had clearly taken his fashion cues - cricket jumper, summer colours, white shoes - from the haute couture favoured by the Skids on the Game tour. How good is that?

It couldn't last. In 1981 the boys' featured slot on BBC2's Rock Goes to College was disappointing - underpowered and unfocused. Before the year was out, Adamson had left and shortly afterwards Baille walked, leaving Jobson and Webb to the folk-rock experiments of the band's fourth and last LP, ironically titled Joy. Over time, Jobbo beacme a respected film maker while Adamson, after an even more successful music career with Big Country, sadly took his own life.

I've liked and loved a lot of other bands since the Skids but I always go back to them, marvelling at how fresh the music still sounds, playing their albums very loud on rotation for about a week. Pride of my collection is Skids Live: Masquerade Masquerade (Virgin, CDV 3027), recorded at the Hammersmith Odeon on the same tour I saw them on. Listen to it and you're left in no doubt that Jobson, Adamson and co. were one of the top live bands - if not the top live band - in the UK at the time.

With their punky optimism, instantly recognisable guitar riffs - yes, they do sound like bagpipes in places - and swaggering, nothing's-gonna-stand-in-our-way image, the Skids were the perfect soundtrack for a teenager whose horizons were rapidly widening.

Charles got a job in a factory,
Drilling sheet metal from 6 til 3.
Worked extra hours for a better wage,
Lost in his task quite needlessly.

'Charles', The Skids (1978) 
 

DEATH AND BRIGHT WATER and THE INNOCENT BYSTANDERS book review

COLD WARRIORS
After thirty years, two classic thriller novels from Callan creator James Mitchell are back in print.

Callan (Edward Woodward) and Lonely (Russell Hunter).
(Image: FremantleMedia)

 

Why is it that Ian Fleming, Len Deighton and John Le Carre's books have stayed in print from the year they were first published, while James Mitchell's equally effective and more authentically downbeat spy thrillers featuring Department K agent John Craig (The Man Who Sold Death, Die Rich, Die Happy, The Money That Money Can't Buy and The Innocent Bystanders), as well as TV's popular executioner from the 1960s and 1970s, David Callan (A Magnum for Schneider, Russian Roulette, Death and Bright Water and Smear Job  –  Bonfire Night was a late entry in 2002) have been out of print for thirty-plus years?

Who knows, but Ostara Publishing should be highly praised for putting this state of affairs to rights. Last year, they released Callan's debut A Magnum for Schneider (based on the original Armchair Theatre TV play featuring the character) and its sequel Russian Roulette as a pair. This June there’s added value in the publication of the third Callan novel Death and Bright Water  –  the first to take Callan and company abroad  –  and John Craig's bleak swansong, The Innocent Bystanders.

In their day, Mitchell's books were as successful as anything by Le Carre, Deighton or Fleming, selling particularly well in America. When Mitchell died in 2002, The New York Times critic Newgate Callendar noted: 'We have had a lot of tough operatives in our day, but Callan makes most of them, from James Bond on, look like prep-school classics teachers. Callan, who is a British intelligence gent licensed to kill, is so lethal that a glance from him makes the strongest of men quail.'

So it is with Death and Bright Water. Callan is paid £10,000 by Helena Kollonaki's mother to rescue her daughter from, as this Ostara edition helpfully informs the reader, 'the junta of anti-communist Army Colonels' who ruled Greece between 1967 and 1974 (when the book is set). Callan plays a double game, as the Section  – the beyond-top-secret division of British intelligence he works for  –  order him to take the job for their own, characteristically pragmatic reasons. 

The great thing about Mitchell's writing, apart from his talent for intricate plotting which comes into its own in Death and Bright Water, is his lean, descriptive prose and terse, sardonic dialogue; comparisons with Raymond Chandler certainly aren't misplaced. The Section personnel  –  the tough, working-class-but-educated Callan, his petty thief sidekick Lonely (infamous for his appalling body odour), ex-public school bully Toby Meres, implacable Section chief Hunter and his glacial secretary Liz  – live and breathe as if you were watching the characters in the Callan television series. In the third book, the novels develop away from the TV format as Callan and Lonely emabark on an international assignment, an idea partly inspired by the desire to make Death and Bright Water into a feature film.

The Innocent Bystanders was the fourth and last John Craig novel and was published in 1970. The series began in 1965 to huge sales and acclaim, and its success was partly the reason why the Callan series was commissioned. By now, Craig is in a very bad place: he was tortured to the point of insanity in The Money That Money Can't Buy and only just completed his mission. The Innocent Bystanders sees his ruthless boss Loomis, head of Department K, plotting to dispose of his once top agent in a plot involving the agricultural scientist Kaplan, who escapes from a Russian gulag and flees to the West.

The story is depressing but compelling at the same time. Craig is attracted to Miriam, a young woman he initially takes hostage, but worries that he can't satisfy her sexually as his manhood was electrocuted to the point of impotence in the previous book; Andrew Royce, Craig's younger rival in the Department, tortures women professionally and without emotion, making him all the more terrifying. Mitchell keeps you guessing about how  –  or even if  –  Craig is going to outwit Loomis and after reading the last page, you'll want to punch the air.

At £10.99 each these novels are an absolute steal. Here's hoping that the remaining two Callan novels, together with the first three Craig books, will be on Ostara's publishing schedule very soon.

 

***** out of 5 (each).

LOWESTOFT, SUMMER 2014

IN PRAISE OF LOW STUFF

Never forget where you come from. On the weekend of 18-20 July this year, my old home town was looking its best and reviving happy memories.

Lowestoft harbour. (Image: Alistair MacFarlane)

 

Perhaps we all go through a phase of wanting to forget where we come from if we move away. I know I did. In the 1980s, when I wasn't going going back to see my family in Lowestoft (pronounced 'low stuff' if you were local) on the East Coast very often, Alexi Sayle's Stuff on BBC2 featured a sketch where the comic ranted about my innocuous home town, reserving particular ire for the Sparrow's Nest Theatre (he'd obviously endured a really bad gig there when he was starting out). From somewhere else - I can't remember where - there was a phrase associated with crap towns that suggested they were places you drove through on the way to somewhere else. For a long time, for me, that was true of Lowestoft.    

Not any more. Progressively mellowing towards fifty and with family and friends still there - sister Pam, ageing parents, growing-up niece Sian, friends Lurch and Suz - when I visit now, as I was thankfully able to do on the hottest weekend of the year when I was drawn by the promise of a cooling sea breeze, Lowestoft has a pleasant, homely feel about it. With so many dramatic changes elsewhere in the world, there's something really comforting about a place that has hardly changed since you grew up there.

Wandering around the middle of the town last Friday when the temperature was 31 degrees C, memories were scattered all over the place. Remarkably, the internal layout of Boots hasn't changed AT ALL from the times when, aged 16, I used to go in and nervously lust after Saturday girls Jane Mitson and Janet Jermyn. I half expected to see them still working there. The delightfully named hairdresser Sizzers is still on the High Street. In 1980, I went in and asked for "a punk haircut"; at school on Monday people asked me when the barber was going to finish it. Up near the police station, Panda Books, where I looked forward to buying many a Target Doctor Who novel on the weekend, staggers on. It's still owned by the same academic couple (now grey around the gills) although it's a second hand bookshop now. I picked up the 1967 film tie-in of Casino Royale for £2. Curiously appropriate, somehow.

Up at the top part of the town and a stone's throw from the beach, Sergeant Pepper's restaurant - the imagery and sounds it uses need no introduction - has been established since 1982. It's been a successful Lowestoft night spot for over thirty years, which must be a record for an eaterie based on a 1960s psychedelic concept album. I'm particularly fond of the place as my memories of The Beatles, which stem from their films being on the telly every Christmas during childhood, are mixed up in my mind with my friends and I starting to go out on the town when we were teenagers. It was a treat to go to Pepper's, particularly if you had a date: your evening could start with a Paul McCartney on toast and, if you were lucky, end with a snog on the beach in the dark.

On Saturday I experienced two different sides of Lowestoft. According to the Lowestoft Journal, there was a World War I festival on throughout Saturday, including talks, art by local school children and a service in St. Margaret's church. Sadly, nothing had been co-ordinated, which meant Saturday shoppers walked past costumed enthusiasts oblivious to what was going on. A shame, because talks by local historians in the Foyles bookshop were well worth hearing if you knew they were there. In the evening, I walked into Oulton Broad for a few refreshing drinks as it was still very hot. The conversation between four young and not-so-young women at the table next to me outside the Wine Lodge was quite an eye opener. 'I don't fall in love with any c***t,' one advised her friend, going on to say, 'When the next c***t does come along, he'll have to be a f***ing billionaire.' On the walk back to my parents' house, a very drunk man asked me if I was 'a c***t' and if I would hit him. It's heartening to see weekends in Lowestoft haven't changed that much since I left.

The seafront near the Pavilion, the tourist information centre where my sister works, is entirely fenced off at the moment due to problems with the sea wall, preventing you from getting on to the beach. The compensation is that the roar of the sea is so loud that I was able to sit back on the promenade, close my eyes and spend an enjoyable half an hour therapeutically listening to the waves.

From local history to potential grievous bodily harm, there's no place like home.