Spaceways – the radio play that became the first British sci fi film?

I was reading Arthur C Clarke’s Prelude to Space in the 1953 paperback when I was struck by one of the ads in the back. Spaceways (never heard of it) was “originally a radio play, broadcast by the BBC in 1952 with immense success. Later it was made into the first British science-fiction film.” As regular visitors must know by now, my doctorate is in radio drama and, as I say, I had never heard of Spaceways. As for movies, what about The Shape of Things to Come (1936)? That was science fiction, surely? It was certainly British (London Films). Anyway, I had to investigate further. Firstly I bought the book.

The cover is not as good as the Clarke paperbacks of the same era. The science is not as heavy as in Clarke, but ironically that results in it being closer to what actually happened – rockets taking off vertically in the middle of nowhere, rather than Clarke’s fancy of horizontal runways. Maine, however, is a much better novelist than Clarke. His characters not only have inner lives; they have sex lives too, something the early Clarke would never countenance. In fact Spaceways is a genre hybrid, a noir-ish murder mystery based on the eternal triangle and set on a space research facility in the Nevada desert. Oh yes, I should have mentioned that. The pseudonymous Maine was British but this is an entirely American novel.

The other thing I should mention is that the novel is not directly based on the radio play. The radio play was turned into a Hammer movie, written by Maine, which he then turned into this book. I have looked up the credits for the radio broadcast, which seems to me to use the framing device of a court trial. It lasted 75 minutes, as did the film. The protagonist of the novel, Barry Conway of the Security Division of Special Services, is not in either the radio play or the movie. The movie seems to have a different plot to either the play or the novel. The central plot device, however, remains the same.

One of the key scientists is having a torrid affair with the wife of a senior colleague. The wife has cheated on the husband before, and he has responded violently. On the morning before the launch of the first space rocket (the novel is specifically set in 1955) the husband turns up for work with a black eye. When the rocket is safely heading for orbit, from which it will never return, it is discovered that both the wife and her lover are missing. The theory is that Hills, the cuckold, has killed them and stowed their bodies aboard the rocket. On that basis he stands trial, only to cause a sensation when he offers to prove his innocence by flying the second prototype rocket and bringing back the original. This is what happens – with an almighty twist, which I won’t spoil for anyone who wants to seek out this curiosity for themselves – albeit I have as yet no idea whether it was remotely the same in either the play or the film.

And I do intend to take this further. The movie is easily available on DVD but the play will be harder to track down. In the meantime I have discovered that Maine did the same trick with other stories. Timeslip aka The Atomic Man is the movie version of his novel The Isotope Man, both of which I have already acquired.

As for the suggestion that Spaceways was the first British science fiction film, my interim theory is that whoever wrote the blurb in the back of the Pan paperback was drawing a distinction between the post-Hiroshima technology-based fiction of Clarke, Maine and their contemporaries, and the purely speculative future fiction of Wells and Verne and C S Lewis. Interestingly, directly underneath the blurb for Spaceways is an ad for The Time Machine and The Man Who Could Work Miracles (the latter a celebrated BBC radio drama of 1934, adapted by Laurence Gilliam). This describes H G Wells as, specifically, a “Pioneer of Space Fiction”.


J G Ballard – High-Rise (1975)

Reading J G Ballard’s High-Rise (1975) quickly put me in mind of Golding’s Lord of the Flies from 1954.  The resemblance goes beyond mere dystopia.  Both are about civilised man’s predilection to run wild when deprived of his creature comforts.  For both Ballard and Golding, the veneer of social cooperation is tissue-thin.

high rise

I don’t want to labour the point because there are obvious differences between the books.  Golding wafts his schoolboys off to a tropical island whereas Ballard maroons his adult male protagonists in a suburban London tower block.  To begin with at least, both locations smack of the paradisiacal.  But, just as Eden had its serpent, so Ballard’s suburbia houses an underlying menace:

The spectacular view always made Laing aware of his ambivalent feelings for this concrete landscape.  Part of its appeal lay all too clearly in the fact that this was an environment built, not for man, but for man’s absence….  The cluster of auditorium roofs, curving roadway embankments and rectilinear curtain walling formed an intriguing medley of geometrics – less a habitable architecture, he reflected, than the unconscious diagram of a mysterious psychic event. [Ballard 1975: 34-5][1]

For me, massive high-rise developments bring to mind the disastrous social experiments of the 1960s in northern cities like Sheffield and Manchester.  Streets of slums wiped away in favour of jerry-built slums in the sky.  Ballard’s London high-rise is very different.  This new-built development of a thousand apartments is for affluent buyers only; professionals at the very least (Laing, for example, is a lecturer at a medical school), preferably stockbrokers and above.  It remains a social experiment, though.  The size of the apartments, and naturally their cost, increases the higher up you go.  The architect himself, Anthony Royal, occupies the penthouse.  The utopian idea was for the residents at all level to come together in the communal areas like the shopping mall, the swimming pool, and the Royal’s rooftop sculpture garden.  In practice, even as the last of the residents moves in, the middleclass has subdivided itself into three – lower, middle, and upper – and never shall the twentieth floor, let alone the ground floor, aspire to the fortieth.  What was meant to be a single community has become an amalgam of a thousand islands.

These people were the first to master a new kind of late twentieth century life.  They thrived on the rapid turnover of acquaintances, the lack of involvement with others, and the total self-sufficiency of lives which, needing nothing, were never disappointed. [Ballard 1975: 46]

Royal has built himself a vertical kingdom, with courtiers and even courtesans.  To be able to be the top of the pile means that someone must be at the bottom, and the lower orders always have the potential to become unruly.

In many ways, the high-rise was a model of all that technology had done to make possible the expression of a truly ‘free’ psychopathology. [Ballard 1975: 47]

It begins with a fifteen-minute blackout on just three floors.  Residents isolated on the tenth floor concourse stampede.  Some are briefly marooned in the lift between floors.  Somebody, for reasons unknown, drowns a dog in the communal swimming pool.  From that point the veneer cracks, faultlines spreading from the centre like a spider’s web.  Inhibitions slip, the garbage disposal shutes become clogged, people smear dog shit, parties run on for days, a man dies.

Class turns against class, floor against floor.  People defend their territory to the death.  No one leaves the high rise.  No one calls the police.  Their world turns in on itself, becomes self-contained.

The true light of the high-rise was the metallic flash of the polaroid camera, that intermittent radiation which recorded a moment of hoped-for violence for some later voyeuristic pleasure. [Ballard 1975: 133]

A major flaw of the novel is the lack of women.  The female of the species exists only as a sexual object or sexual threat (“Uneasily, he thought; careful, Laing, or some stockbroker’s wife will unman you as expertly as she de-stones a pair of avocados.” Ballard 1975: 43]).  Ballard, of course, was famously misogynistic. For those of us who aren’t, women without purpose or personality are offensive.


The second problem is the decision to quite crudely divide the protagonist into three, each character, in consequence, inevitably lacking.  We have the sexual coward Laing, who shuts himself away when things fall apart, we have Royal the aesthete, the king without a crown, who again does nothing to protect his masterwork.  Our third protagonist is Richard Wilder, a “thick-set, pugnacious man who had once been a professional rugby-league player.”[2]  Wilder is a TV producer, something of a maverick, who lives with his unnaturally passive wife and two young sons very low down on the pecking order on the second floor but aspires much, much higher.  Wilder is a predator, a hunter-gatherer.  Combined with Laing and Royal, Wilder makes up the complete man in Ballard’s imagination, possibly the man he himself aspired to be.  When it all goes wrong in the high rise Laing and Royal hide away but Wilder goes hunting, his principal weapon a hand-held cine camera.  Every other resident undergoes complete social meltdown; Wilder sets out to make a television documentary.

Wilder ends up a naked, painted savage.  Royal dreams of flying away with the sea-birds that visit his rooftop garden.  Laing lives with his sister in an ideal sexless marriage.  In the end the contagion passes to the neighbouring high-rise.  Laing, about to feast on spit-roasted dog, watches “contentedly, ready to welcome them to their new world.”[3]

It’s a great dystopia, a thorough working out of Ballard’s thesis that “In the future, violence would clearly become a valuable form of social cement.”[4]  But we are now forty years on and violence has not become any sort of social cement.  And so we are left with the question which must be asked of all dystopian novels which haven’t come to pass – does it work as literature?  And in the case of High-Rise, given the flaws discussed above, the answer has to be Not Quite.  It’s well worth reading though.

[1] NB: The novel was originally published by Cape, London, in 1975, but I refer to the Flamingo ebook 2014.

[2] Ballard 1975: 20

[3] Ballard 1975: 207

[4] Ballard 1975: 133

A Cold War thriller from the writer of “These Foolish Things”

Red MonkeyNobody seems to remember Eric Maschwitz nowadays but back in the Thirties he was one of the biggest names in British entertainment.  He was the first editor of the Radio Times, he was Director of BBC Variety, appointed when he was only 25, he wrote the lyrics for “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” and “These Foolish Things”, and he was nominated for an Oscar for co-writing the screenplay of Goodbye, Mr Chips (1939).  In later life he even gets some credit for setting up the BBC research project which ultimately led to Doctor Who.

In amongst all that he wrote a few novels under the name Holt Marvell, some of them with his friend and colleague Val Gielgud, brother of Sir John, Maschwitz’s deputy and successor at the Radio Times, and Director of BBC Drama (Radio) from 1929 to 1963.  Their most notable success together was probably Death at Broadcasting House (1934), a frankly rubbish story but full of fascinating insider detail on BH, which had opened in 1932.  The novel was adapted into a fairly undistinguished British film the same year, starring a very young Jack Hawkins.


In 1929, as Marvell, Maschwitz made an epic radio adaptation of Compton Mackenzie’s slightly risqué novel Carnival, which Gielgud always claimed set the standard for all subsequent radio drama.

“Its production was a landmark in the history radio drama, for in its charming story of a dancer’s life in pre-war England the new medium found a subject that called into play all its new-found resources.  It was wholeheartedly a romantic radio play, produced with all the colourful atmosphere and musical embellishment its picturesque subject demanded.”*


Personally, I argue that it set the standard for all radio drama of which Gielgud approved, though I have to concede the trend continues to this day when the BBC’s penchant for adapting novels rather than commissioning new original writing has sadly never been more pronounced.


Little Red Monkey also became a movie, a 1955 Anglo-Amalgamated quota-quickie with Richard Conte grafted on, in theory to broaden transatlantic appeal.  The director was Ken Hughes, who went on to direct Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Cromwell and Sextette (1978), the latter starring eighty-five year old Mae West with Timothy Dalton (as her husband), Ringo Starr and Alice Cooper.  As with Death at Broadcasting House, and pretty much everything else he ever wrote, Maschwitz had a hand in the script.  But it is important to note that what he adapted was not the novel but his own original screenplay for the 1953 BBC TV series.  The novel is in fact a cash-in novelisation by British pulp hack Bevis Winter, about whom I can find nothing save that he may have been Australian.  Winter wrote Steve Craig thrillers and also used the name Peter Cagney, a somewhat unsubtle cobbling-together of Peter Cheyney and James Cagney.  Under another pseudonym, Gordon Shayne, Winter wrote at least two novels which sank so low that they were published not in London, New York or Cape Town, but in Burnley, Lancashire.  I should declare an interest here.  I come from Burnley.  And I am not going back.

The original TV series was in six parts, the first episode airing on January 24 1953.  This is astonishingly early; it even predates the Coronation, traditionally regarded as the event which ignited the British television boom.  It was clearly meant to be a primetime attraction, airing at 8.30 on Saturday evening.  The director was Bill Lyon-Shaw and the stars were Honor Blackman and Donald Houston.  The fabulous Billie Whitelaw had a minor part as a receptionist in Episode Four.

The novel was published to coincide with the broadcast, so we can assume it is a fairly faithful mirror of what was seen on TV.  The Four Square paperback, which I bought for the fantastic cover art, came out in 1961.  Given that 1961 was eight years after the TV serial and five after the film, you have to wonder what provoked reissue.  The first chapter explains it.  Scientists with secrets crash through the Brandenburg Gate from Soviet East Berlin to the British West.  1961, of course, is when the Wall went up.

Since the paperback is all I have (I can’t access the TV series, in the unlikely event it survives, and I really don’t want the film), that is what I have to consider here.  The writing is a little stodgy and, given that Maschwitz came up with the wonderfully witty lyric of “These Foolish Things”, I am inclined to blame Winter for this.  The story, however, is brilliant.  It is set in the immediate postwar world where the truth of what some people actually did in the war is still coming out.  One such is Colin Currie, not the playboy everyone thought he was, but a British spy.  He works for Sir Clive, one of those retired army officers who always seem to run Special Ops in the 1950s, in fact, apparently, as well as fiction.  One of the escaped scientists is killed early on – he is found with the titular monkey – and now Currie must protect the other until he can be flown to safety in Canada.  Meanwhile dodgy agents are active in London.  Maschwitz manages to keep the suspense going throughout, funnelling the denouement into one last, fog-bound night in the rural Home Counties.  The characters develop, especially Jocelyn “Jockey” Cullum, played on TV by Honor Blackman, who begins despising Colin Currie as a feckless coward and ends up loving him.  In the meantime she is pivotal to one vital element of the plot, witnesses a secondary murder, and plays a direct role in the final conclusive events.

Whilst we always know who is responsible for the murders – the monkey is red for a self-explanatory reason – we don’t discover until the very end who actually carried them out.  The clues are there from the start but the revelation is a true jaw-dropper.  Maschwitz plays fair with us – the monkey is the biggest clue of all.

Red Monkey

Returning, finally, to the cover: the artwork is not credited, they never were in those days.  But look at the way the complementary green makes the red pop out; the swirly pattern of the background contrasting with the black angularity of the table and the stark simplicity of the figure.  Tilt the cover 90 degrees clockwise and check out the truly dead expression on the corpse’s face.  Then there’s the white watch, surely above and beyond the epitome of cool in 1961.


* Radio Times no: 526 p. 34 [ accessed 2.3.15]

** I have in mind the fiction of William Haggard and the real-life intelligence mandarins involved with Chapman Pincher in the D Notice Affair of 1967.

Louis MacNeice: Enter Caesar

julius caesar

Enter Caesar, broadcast in the BBC Home Service on September 20 1946, is the first text in the chronologically ordered Persons from Porlock and other plays for radio (BBC 1969), but it is not and never was a play.

BBC Home Service September 30 1946, produced by MacNeice, music by Elisabeth Lutyens, conductor Warwick Braithwaite.

Centurion, Ivor Barnard; Schoolmaster, Duncan McIntyre; Sulla, Esme Percy; Apollonius, Malcolm Graeme; Crassus, Cyril Gardner; Pompey, Laidman Browne; Catulus, Ernest Thesiger; Bibulus, Alexander Sarner; Cisalpine Gaul, Harry Hutchinson; Gabinus, Roger Snowden; Cicero, Cecil Trouncer; Cato, Mark Dignam; Clodia, Grizelda Hervey; Clodius, John Chandos; Milo, Howard Marion-Crawford; and members of the BBC Repertory Company

Enter Caesar, broadcast in the BBC Home Service on September 20 1946, is the first text in the chronologically ordered Persons from Porlock and other plays for radio (BBC 1969), but it is not and never was a play. It is a feature. The BBC definition of a feature was always complex and has changed over the decades. Today it is a documentary, in the 1950s and ‘60s it was probably most noticeably the Radio Ballads, but originally it developed from the work of the Programme Research Department set up in the wake of the dismissal of the first, experimental Head of Drama, R E Jeffrey, in 1928. The purpose of the department was stated in the memo announcing its creation:[i]

“Its primary function will be creative work in every direction, the only routine responsibility at present being the conduct of the weekly ‘Surprise Item’. It will be particularly concerned with such matters as special feature programmes with or without reference to particular dates.”

Because the Programme Research Department included Jeffrey’s closest and most experimental associates –Lance Sieveking, whose sound and verse Kaleidoscope (1928) was ‘played’ on the Dramatic Control Panel (DCP) at Savoy Hill, and Archie Harding, who brought Ezra Pound’s ‘hobo’ opera The Testament of François Villon to the airwaves in1931 – the outcome was always likely to be both radical and drama-based. Having been rusticated to Manchester, Harding collaborated with Geoffrey Bridson to develop the form, and Bridson’s March of the ’45 (1936) became one of the most influential and widely-heard radio plays of all time – without actually being a play. Bridson wrote plays – his Aaron’s Field (1939) was the first radio play broadcast by the BBC after the outbreak of war – but he specialised in features, finding artistic freedom by combining his gift for declamatory verse with the technological potential of the DCP (Manchester was the only regional station to have one) and the technique of local actors and performers such as Jimmie Miller (Ewan McColl).

The feature was such an amorphous form that definition defied even those in charge of it. Val Gielgud, who headed the joint Drama and Features Department from 1929 to 1945, declared in 1947, “a Feature Programme is any programme item – other than a radio play – whose author makes use of the specialised technique of radio-dramatic production.”[ii]

Laurence Gilliam, who ran the independent post-war Features Department for the whole of its existence, was no more helpful: “In its simplest form,” he wrote in 1950, the feature programme aims at combining the authenticity of the talk with the dramatic force of a play, but unlike the play, whose business it is to create dramatic illusion for its own sake, the business of the feature is to convince the listener of the truth of what it is saying, even though it is saying it in dramatic form.”[iii]

And finally there is Rayner Heppenstall, who joined Features immediately after the war and who only produced radio plays at the end of his career. In his introduction to Imaginary Conversations (1948), a series of non-factual scripted dialogues between historical people, performed by actors, Heppenstall attempts to answer the question he is always being asked:

“Adopting a tentative manner and using inflexions calculated to suggest a fresh and spontaneous approach, I would murmur, ‘Well, I suppose anything between a talk on the one hand and a play on the other could be regarded as a feature. Of course, there’s always supposed to be some factual interest, but then most things are factual, don’t you find? … And the information is presented dramatically, more or less…”[iv]

MacNeice, like Bridson, wrote plays and features. He was departmentally always a Features employee yet his major works, Christopher Columbus (1942) and The Dark Tower (1946), have traditionally been regarded as plays. The latter certainly is, but a case can be made for classing Columbus as a dramatic feature at the most elaborate end of the scale. Heppenstall, for example, says he cites “Louis MacNeice’s verse epics” as “concrete instances” of features, “being careful to point out, however, that The Dark Tower was regarded as a play.”[v]

Fortunately, Enter Caesar is definitely a feature. It uses actors – members of the BBC Repertory Company – and it uses scripted dialogue, but there is no real sense of place, nor any plot to speak of. What we have is a thesis – that Caesar rose like Hitler and Mussolini and knowledge of how he did so is therefore relevant to the modern world – which MacNeice expounds through his mouthpiece characters. That we, the listener, are being in a sense lectured is driven home by the second scene, which leaves an unnamed Roman centurion getting his first glimpse of the White Cliffs of Dover[vi] and switches to a post-war classroom where a Scottish teacher is desperately trying to interest his pupils in De Bello Gallico: “Och, I know the Bellum Gallicum is a bore but it’s better written than Mein Kampf … What’s the connection with Hitler? All right; close your books. I’ll try and paint for you now the history of a dictator.”[vii]

Perhaps more should have been made of the framing device – the schoolmaster does not reappear until virtually the end of the piece.   Further interventions from Duncan McIntyre’s familiar brogue might have enlivened the progression of what are essentially the same voices – the patrician politicians of republican Rome. Shakespeare recognised the problem; his Caesar is more often than not encountered with his wife, Calpurnia. Here we have a brief appearance from Caesar’s first wife, Cornelia, urging him to divorce her for the sake of his career; otherwise the only recurring woman of the ruling class is the debauched Clodia, sister of the degenerate Clodius. W H Auden, in his introduction to the 1969 collection, claims that Enter Caesar “gives those of us who are not, like MacNeice, classical scholars who have read all the historical documents, a clear understanding of the political and social conditions in the Roman Republic after Sulla’s death.”[viii] I would suggest that the Clodia/Clodius relationship, and the Bona Dea scandal which was certainly a factor in Caesar’s rise, needs more explanation than MacNeice is able to give it, in 1946, and in forty-five minute programme. There is, understandably, no hint of transvestism or incest.

More interesting than any of the characters that do appear, and there are at least thirty-five of them, is of course the one who doesn’t. Shakespeare gave his eponymous character less than 150 lines before killing him off at the beginning of Act Three; MacNeice goes further and gives his Caesar none at all. Everything in the script is about Caesar but we hear nothing from him. Auden neatly sums up the mise en scène: “What we hear are a series of political discussions by others, both professional politicians and men-in-the-street about him. Is he a danger to them personally or to the State, or is he a saviour? Would it be good policy to support him or oppose him? In either case, what steps should be taken?”[ix]

The scenes involving men- and women-in-the-street work well, especially the final scene – a centurion and a freedwoman drunkenly celebrating the festival of Anna Perenna, which also happens to be the Ides of March, toasting Caesar a long life, unaware that he has been assassinated. The scenes of political debate work less well, principally because there are so many of them. Contrary to Auden’s assertion, one can’t help feeling that MacNeice’s scholarship got the better of him on occasion – that ‘names’ like Cicero and Cato have been shoe-horned in purely because they were there historically. In contrast, one effective voice is not human at all: in a bravura device typical of the dramatic feature, Cisalpine Gaul offers us his opinion on behalf of the entire provincial population:

“I always knew that Caesar would come to the top – but not to a top like this. Did you see Crassus when he passed? Did you see Pompey? They looked a bit awkward, didn’t they? The Three Big Men they call them but every triangle has an apex. And I know who the apex is this time.”[x]

Another signature of the feature, and MacNeice’s radio work overall, is the use of music. Walton scored Columbus, Britten The Dark Tower, but this lesser work warranted a less well known composer, Elisabeth Lutyens, a Shoenbergian serialist in youth, but later relegated to the soundtrack on British horror films. MacNeice was specific in the sort of music he wanted and how it worked with his text. The segue from the schoolroom to Sulla’s revival of the dictatorship in 82BC is detailed thus: “fade up orchestra, first few bars reminiscent of Horst Wessel, then twist into Legionary March and end triumphant.”[xi] Caesar’s rise to power is marked with ‘Caesar’s fanfare’, often set against ‘Forum music’ when his enemies in the Senate strike back.[xii]

The use of stock sound effects in BBC features had become proverbial by the end of the war. Gilliam’s 1933 “gramophone record of mewing sea-gulls became a music-hall joke,” according to the Allans in 1948, “and that of the car with its squealing brakes bored instead of thrilled.”[xiii] Heppenstall, writing the same year, observes, “Our radio critics, those incarnations of public taste, incline towards a myth in which there are two types of radio production, the tasteful (without effects) and the misguided (with).”[xiv] For a time producers eschewed effects altogether.[xv] MacNeice uses music instead of effects. His thunder is ‘orchestral’, the march of legionaries a military march. He uses vocal babble to suggest crowds. He clearly intends to be tasteful without falling into the trap of silent sterility.

Tasteful he may have been, but he failed to impress. MacNeice was highly rated by the BBC Listener Panels for both Plays and Features but Enter Caesar was not well received. The Listener Research Bulletin for the week reported, “Although the audience for this feature compared reasonably well with that for other Friday night features at this time,[xvi] 10%, its Appreciation Index was disappointing, only 46. Friday night features rarely have Appreciation Indeces lower than 60.”[xvii]

Perhaps, after all, MacNeice would have done better to show us something of Caesar the man, the opportunist, the strategist, the mover and shaker, and less of Caesar the absent iconoclast.


[i] Controller to Control Board etc., December 10 1928, “Programme Research Department” (WAC 12/77/1) Geilgud, Val Henry, Personal File

[ii] Val Gielgud (1947) Years of the Locust, London, Nicholson & Watson, p. 74

[iii] Laurence Gilliam (1950) BBC Features, London, Evans, p. 10

[iv] Rayner Heppenstall (1948) Imaginary Conversations, London, Secker & Warburg, p. 10

[v] Ibid, p. 11

[vi] Under the terms of the 1928 memo Enter Caesar was a feature programme with reference to a particular date, in this instance 54BC, the pretext being that 1946 was 2000th anniversary of the Roman invasion of Britain.

[vii] Louis MacNeice (1969) Persons from Porlock and other plays for Radio, London, BBC, p. 13

[viii] MacNeice 1969: 9



The peculiar integrity of the medium…

MacNeice understood the peculiar integrity of the medium, with its aptitude for psychological montage…  His wartime propaganda features allowed an invisible narrator to eavesdrop on the vox pop of a collective unconsciousness, as if by twiddling dials and commuting between frequencies.


Peter Conrad reviewing Jon Stallworthy’s biography of Louis MacNeice for the Guardian, February 12 1995

Review – Best Radio Plays of 1989

You start looking for radio scripts – and all roads lead to Penguin New Writing 11, which is all very well but…

The truth is, there are zillions of radio scripts out there, you just have to know where to look.

In the eighties things were slightly simpler because we had Methuen’s invaluable “Best Radio Plays of…” series, which ran from 1978 to 1989 and gave us the winners of that year’s Giles Cooper Awards for BBC radio drama.

Cooper is a thesis subject unto himself.  It is a disgrace that he is not venerated alongside his peers – and in radio drama terms I put him on a par with no less a luminary than Samuel Beckett.  So far as the awards go, what matters is that Cooper died young.  He was 48 when he fell from a train passing through Surbiton in December 1966.

To start at the end, which is a very Cooperish thing to do, what we have here are the last award winners before John Birt wielded the axe.

The Baby Buggy by Elizabeth Baines, Afternoon Play 16/8/89, producer Susan Hogg.

O Ananias, Azarias and Misael by Jennifer Johnston, Thirty Minute Theatre, producer Jeremy Howe.

The Stalin Sonata by David Zane Mairowitz, Drama Now (R3) 1/8/89, producer Richard Wortley.

Eating Words by Richard Nelson, from the Globe Theatre Season on Radio 4 and the World Service, 30/10/89, producer Ned Chaillet.

By Where the Old Shed Used to Be by Craig Warner, Drama Now 12/12/89, produced by Andy Jordan.

BRP89 Back

(The advantage of the hardback edition is you get pix of the writers on the back.)

Overall, the collection shows some falling off from previous editions.  There is something very 1980s and dated  about Eating Words and especially By Where the Old Shed Used to Be.  The Johnston monologue, on the other hand, was contemporary in 1989 – life in Northern Ireland after 20 years of the Troubles – but transcends its era because it is about character.   The Baby Buggy could be broadcast today.  We would be lucky to get a play as well written as The Stalin Sonata nowadays. Continue reading “Review – Best Radio Plays of 1989”