大象传媒

It was in the 1960s that W.H. Auden declared radio drama to be a 鈥渄ying art鈥�. He wasn鈥檛 alone in doubting its future. It was the kind of radio that demanded proper attention from its listeners 鈥� the kind you simply wouldn鈥檛 expect to survive radio鈥檚 reinvention as a background medium.

Yet, far from dying, Radio drama thrived. And newly-released 大象传媒 oral history interviews help us to understand how the battle to save the genre was won.

We might start the story in 1963. For it was then that the long-serving and conservative head of Radio Drama, Val Gielgud, was replaced with the more cosmopolitan figure of Martin Esslin.

Gielgud, in charge since the pre-war days of Reith, had liked good plain stories, the classics, Shakespeare. Esslin, born in Budapest and educated in Vienna before coming to Britain as a refugee from the Nazis, was multi-lingual, prodigiously well-read, a world-leading expert on the 鈥楾heatre of the Absurd鈥� - a category which encompassed the work of playwrights such as Bertolt Brecht, Eugene Ionesco, and Samuel Beckett. In short, he was far more in touch with contemporary developments 鈥� someone poised to bring energy and change.

In his oral history interview, however, we find Esslin giving a surprising amount of credit to his predecessor. Yes, Gielgud was old-fashioned. Yes, under his regime the influence of the Radio Drama department had certainly fallen from its war-time high. But Esslin tells us that the seeds of decline had also been sown in wartime - and suggests that, whatever his faults, Gielgud was at least alert to the danger posed by new, rival production-teams inside Broadcasting House...

As Esslin points out, Gielgud had long realised that even if he didn鈥檛 like or even understand the new generation of playwrights, it was his professional duty to allow younger producers in his department room to follow their own, more adventurous instincts. As one of them later said, Gielgud鈥檚 great quality was that in the end, grudgingly or not, 鈥渉e trusted people鈥�.

Another factor worked in Radio Drama鈥檚 favour. Its old rival, the Features Unit, was disbanded in 1964, after suffering its own loss of energy from the untimely death of key members. A handful of talented survivors now joined Drama 鈥� a welcome infusion of new blood.

And there was 大象传媒 Radio鈥檚 ability to find a place on its schedules for dramatic writing too 鈥榳eird鈥� or unsettling to put on television or the stage. British theatre was still heavily constrained by censorship: The Lord Chamberlain鈥檚 archaic powers over theatre weren鈥檛 to disappear until 1968.

Television was getting lots of attention in the press, but it was an expensive medium - and one very much broadcasting to a large family-based audience: by-and-large it had to play safe. Radio, having been kicked out of the prime spot in the sitting-room corner by TV, was increasingly listened to alone rather than by whole families. It was liberated to serve more specialized audiences. Quite apart from being cheaper, it could simply take more risks.

Television certainly had nothing like the Third Programme or its successor Radio 3 鈥� a network that could assume its listeners, by the very act of choosing it, were going to be tolerant of difficult or unfamiliar things. So even under a conservative head such as Gielgud, Drama producers had the Third as a place where new talent could be nurtured, new styles or techniques tested.

One classic example of this 鈥� proof that even under Gielgud鈥檚 more cautious regime something entirely novel and exciting could emerge 鈥� came in January 1957, when the Third Programme broadcast a play hailed instantly as the most important piece of radio drama for years: All That Fall, by Samuel Beckett. Getting the author of Waiting for Godot to write this play for radio rather than the stage was a great coup 鈥� which owed much to the behind-the-scenes work of Barbara Bray, Radio Drama鈥檚 Script Editor.

In this extract from her oral history interview, Bray describes Beckett鈥檚 relationship with the radio medium, how All That Fall had a critical role in the development of radiophonic techniques, and the play鈥檚 genesis in a meeting between the author and the then head of Third Programme, John Morris鈥�

One of the other great talents nurtured by Barbara Bray 鈥� often working alongside her colleague, the producer Donald McWhinnie - was the young Harold Pinter. But as Bray points out, there were in fact plenty of writers who could thank radio for their first break.

What made the difference, she argues, was Radio Drama鈥檚 ability to spot and nurture most (if not all) emerging talent 鈥� or, as in the case of Pinter, to provide a desperately-needed lifeline in the early stages of a writer鈥檚 career...

In radio, words were usually at the heart of it all.

And in another oral history interview, we get a vivid picture of how vitally important the Script Unit, over which Bray reigned, was 鈥� not just to the 大象传媒, but to British theatrical culture as a whole.

In this recording, John Tydeman, who was Head of Radio Drama in the 1980s and 1990s, describes what he sees as the Unit鈥檚 extraordinary, if sometimes under-appreciated value...

One illustration of this service to British cultural life had come near the start of John Tydeman鈥檚 own career at the 大象传媒, when, as a young recruit to Radio Drama he鈥檇 read a script which arrived in the strangest of circumstances. It would eventually be broadcast in 1964 as The Ruffian on the Stair 鈥� a play which announced the presence of a striking new talent on the British scene...

After Orton鈥檚 death, Tydeman worked with John Mortimer, Tom Stoppard, and Sue Townsend, among others 鈥� all writers we might easily imagine as too famous or successful to bother sticking with radio. But they did. They liked its intimacy, its collaborative style of production, its respect for the written word.

In her interview, Barbara Bray points to one final attraction: radio鈥檚 ability to repeat a play. Listeners might not like repeats as a matter of principle. But, as she explains, in 大象传媒 Radio they鈥檇 always had a vital role in building-up acceptance for unusual productions...

Indeed, scheduling was a vital part of radio drama鈥檚 survival. Since the earliest days of the 大象传媒, it had been part of the Corporation鈥檚 thinking that instead of meeting public tastes, it should develop them, improve them. In the commercial world, demand shaped supply. In the 大象传媒, the reverse held true: supply was intended to shape demand. For it has long been a guiding principle inside the 大象传媒 that taste 鈥� specifically, audience taste - grows upon that which it is fed.

And it鈥檚 here that Martin Esslin gives us a final surprise in his interview.

Here鈥檚 someone celebrated for his championing of Absurdist drama 鈥� not always the most easily digested of forms. An aficionado of the Third Programme if ever there was. But actually, he spent most of his 14 years as Head of Radio Drama 鈥� from 1963 to 1977 鈥� championing the cause of the more down-to-earth daily drama on Radio 4...

Making demanding and difficult productions was an important part of the mix. But a central part of 大象传媒 philosophy also held that the 大象传媒 could only be a cultural force if its programmes reached a respectable proportion of the British people. 鈥淭he absence of an audience is terrible鈥�, Esslin once wrote.

And if Esslin is right, in the end what saved radio drama from the nay-sayers of the 1960s wasn鈥檛 so much the occasional spectacular commission. It was something rather more mundane: the utterly routine nature of its appearance on the schedules over the years 鈥� and, it seems, the sheer bloody-mindedness of those 大象传媒 managers who simply decided to keep it there.

The Casement Play

At 8pm on Sunday 4 February 1973, a controversial broadcast on Radio 3 showed in dramatic fashion how an art-form which many thought had outlived its purpose was not just alive, but alive and kicking.

Cries from Casement as His Bones are Brought to Dublin, was a new play written for radio by David Rudkin. Difficult in subject-matter, complicated in form, nearly three hours long, it was, according to one 大象传媒 insider, the kind of programme which at the time simply could not have been broadcast on television. Its broadcast, and the behind-the-scenes discussions which eventually allowed it to go ahead, reveal radio drama after 1967 as something fully capable of being vital and provocative.

Cries from Casement explored the life of Roger Casement, an Irish nationalist who also worked as a British diplomat before being executed for treason in 1916. His gay love-affairs had been described in detail in his so-called 鈥楤lack Diaries鈥�, leaked by the British government as part of a campaign to discredit him during his trial.

Out of this sorry tale, Rudkin had fashioned a rich mosaic of words and sounds, constantly cutting back and forth in time, weaving together multiple themes. Here, towards the beginning of the play, we find Casement 鈥� or more likely his long dead ghost 鈥� being disturbed while dreaming in prison...

The play was directed by the experienced 大象传媒 Radio Drama producer, John Tydeman. He had immediately recognised the quality of Rudkin鈥檚 script, but also 鈥� given its potent brew of explicit language, gay sex scenes and Irish nationalism - the huge potential for creating a row, even if confined to the small and committed audiences of Radio 3.

To add to the 大象传媒鈥檚 difficulties, it was being broadcast very close to the first anniversary of the Bloody Sunday killings in Northern Ireland. In other words, Cries from Casement threatened a perfect storm of outrage 鈥� something 大象传媒 executives would surely want to discourage.

When the final script was ready, Tydeman knew he鈥檇 no alternative but to initiate the 大象传媒 editorial process of 鈥榬eferring up鈥� 鈥� in other words, consulting more senior figures for guidance and approval. To many outside observers, it was a process that smacked of top-down censorship, or at best an overly bureaucratic approach to creativity. And, indeed, over-cautiousness had often as not prevailed.

Yet, as Tydeman reveals in his interview for the 大象传媒 oral history archive, in this particular case the referral system provided exactly the protection he needed 鈥� and from the highest levels within the Corporation:

A key figure involved in this 鈥榬eferral鈥� process was Howard Newby, the former Controller of the Third Programme and Radio 3, who, in February 1973 was Director of Programmes at 大象传媒 Radio. In his own oral history interview, Newby provides more insight on the behind-the-scenes discussions which eventually allowed the play to go ahead.

He describes how the Board of Governors were consulted before the broadcast. This breached convention, since it appeared to give Governors a degree of editorial control over day-to-day content which potentially undermined the independence of 大象传媒 programme-makers.

This was an especially sensitive issue at the start of 1973: the outgoing Chairman 鈥� Charles Hill, who had come from the commercial sector 鈥� had been viewed with suspicion by many 大象传媒 staff for what they saw as his tendency to meddle; the incoming Chairman, Michael Swann, was still a largely unknown quantity. Relations between the Board of Management, headed by the Director-General, Charles Curran, and the Board of Governors were especially febrile.

Enter the Casement play. Newby points out that one key argument in its favour was that it had been written by a skilled playwright 鈥� someone who could be trusted to handle 鈥榲ery difficult鈥� topics sensitively. This was certainly important. But, Newby suggests, the drama also played a small but significant part in the larger politics of the 大象传媒: editorial discussions over its suitability provided a means of re-building trust within the Corporation 鈥� proving that this extraordinary play was deeply political in more senses than one...

Cries from Casement as His Bones are Brought to Dublin embodied a new-found confidence in Broadcasting House.

Long before the upheavals of 1967, the critics had been predicting the imminent demise of radio drama as an art form. But Casement showed that radio drama had survived the onslaught of television and pop culture not just because it was a 鈥榩rotected鈥� heritage genre, but also 鈥� more positively - because it was one of the few places within the British broadcasting ecology where some of the most challenging and experimental creative work could be nurtured and exposed, and where political ideas could sometimes be explored even more effectively than in everyday news programmes.