plight of the inner city working class woman to the attention of those in a position to do something about it, then surely it’s our duty! I’m sorry if you found it voyeuristic.”
Maggie didn’t dare pursue an argument with her redoubtable opponent, often described by the critics as ‘the enfant terrible of television drama’. She knew she’d scored a disastrous own goal. Damn. Shit.
From within a red haze she heard a man speaking reasonably in measured tones.
“… traditionally speaking, the working class victim’s triumph over adversity is what audiences respond to most strongly.”
You understood me, thought Maggie, I love you. Who are you? He was a mature, pleasant-looking individual with wavy grey hair. She soon found out when Jonathan put his oar in.
“Basil’s right, of course, and we’ve got Gas and Boilers to prove that point.” A general nod in Basil’s direction credited him with the seminal sixties drama. “But there are some stories which need a tragic conclusion – look at the novels of Hardy, or Zola.” Basil acknowledged the truth of this by inclining his head in Jonathan’s direction.
The theme was picked up and tossed around the room, while Maggie sat back and resolved to keep her trap firmly shut for the rest of the meeting. So this was Basil! She was amazed to find that her two heroes were so different. Basil looked incredibly old-fashioned, not the sort of person she would ever have imagined herself working with. He was wearing a suit and looked almost like a Conservative politician, or at least a Liberal. Jonathan was perfect for him, of course; Basil would never want Maggie in his office, she felt sure. Stewart, on the other hand, was definitely more her kind of person, obviously a bit of a rebel. In fact if he was twenty years younger he would be quite fanciable.
By now she had lost track of the argument as well as her desire to participate, so she looked around the room, thinking there had to be at least one woman in the room who had agreed with her but was too bloody pathetic to say so. She caught Anthea looking her way, but she appeared to be wrapped up in her own thoughts. Maggie wondered how long the meeting would go on for. Now that she’d blown it she wanted to go home as soon as possible.
After ten minutes Fenella moved the discussion on to the film adaptation of Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson , a novel from 1911 about a young adventuress running amok amongst the eligible bachelors at Oxford University. Maggie hadn’t understood it, really, even though she had a degree in English literature. She had found it obscure and unfunny, a parade of men in blazers and boaters who did little but punt girls in long frocks through trailing willow branches in idyllic sunshine – unless they were attending sherry parties at which they embarrassed themselves by hiccuping in front of the Dean’s stuffy wife. At the mere sight of the doll-like heroine every man in it was reduced to a quivering wreck, and none of them was apparently capable of having a conversation with her.
However, Maggie now knew better than to say as much, which was just as well because everyone else had loved it to bits. They showered Donald, who had produced it, with praise. It was apparently sweet, enchanting, witty, and compared very favourably with Merchant Ivory films despite the budget being only a fraction of theirs. Maggie tried to damp down her bile by reasoning to herself that the corporation’s drama output needed to be broad, and that there was no need to deny audiences who wanted to see this kind of nostalgic escapism now and then, just because she thought it a waste of time. But she was puzzled when someone referred to the satire. What satire? It was a satire? What on? Someone was saying that they suspected the satire might have escaped some of the audience if they weren’t very familiar with Oxford. Maggie realised that she was one of them. Damn and shit. She felt outraged on behalf of the
Maggie didn’t dare pursue an argument with her redoubtable opponent, often described by the critics as ‘the enfant terrible of television drama’. She knew she’d scored a disastrous own goal. Damn. Shit.
From within a red haze she heard a man speaking reasonably in measured tones.
“… traditionally speaking, the working class victim’s triumph over adversity is what audiences respond to most strongly.”
You understood me, thought Maggie, I love you. Who are you? He was a mature, pleasant-looking individual with wavy grey hair. She soon found out when Jonathan put his oar in.
“Basil’s right, of course, and we’ve got Gas and Boilers to prove that point.” A general nod in Basil’s direction credited him with the seminal sixties drama. “But there are some stories which need a tragic conclusion – look at the novels of Hardy, or Zola.” Basil acknowledged the truth of this by inclining his head in Jonathan’s direction.
The theme was picked up and tossed around the room, while Maggie sat back and resolved to keep her trap firmly shut for the rest of the meeting. So this was Basil! She was amazed to find that her two heroes were so different. Basil looked incredibly old-fashioned, not the sort of person she would ever have imagined herself working with. He was wearing a suit and looked almost like a Conservative politician, or at least a Liberal. Jonathan was perfect for him, of course; Basil would never want Maggie in his office, she felt sure. Stewart, on the other hand, was definitely more her kind of person, obviously a bit of a rebel. In fact if he was twenty years younger he would be quite fanciable.
By now she had lost track of the argument as well as her desire to participate, so she looked around the room, thinking there had to be at least one woman in the room who had agreed with her but was too bloody pathetic to say so. She caught Anthea looking her way, but she appeared to be wrapped up in her own thoughts. Maggie wondered how long the meeting would go on for. Now that she’d blown it she wanted to go home as soon as possible.
After ten minutes Fenella moved the discussion on to the film adaptation of Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson , a novel from 1911 about a young adventuress running amok amongst the eligible bachelors at Oxford University. Maggie hadn’t understood it, really, even though she had a degree in English literature. She had found it obscure and unfunny, a parade of men in blazers and boaters who did little but punt girls in long frocks through trailing willow branches in idyllic sunshine – unless they were attending sherry parties at which they embarrassed themselves by hiccuping in front of the Dean’s stuffy wife. At the mere sight of the doll-like heroine every man in it was reduced to a quivering wreck, and none of them was apparently capable of having a conversation with her.
However, Maggie now knew better than to say as much, which was just as well because everyone else had loved it to bits. They showered Donald, who had produced it, with praise. It was apparently sweet, enchanting, witty, and compared very favourably with Merchant Ivory films despite the budget being only a fraction of theirs. Maggie tried to damp down her bile by reasoning to herself that the corporation’s drama output needed to be broad, and that there was no need to deny audiences who wanted to see this kind of nostalgic escapism now and then, just because she thought it a waste of time. But she was puzzled when someone referred to the satire. What satire? It was a satire? What on? Someone was saying that they suspected the satire might have escaped some of the audience if they weren’t very familiar with Oxford. Maggie realised that she was one of them. Damn and shit. She felt outraged on behalf of the
Similar Books
