Read Online Murder Unprompted: A Charles Paris Murder Mystery by Simon Brett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Brett
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Banks.
And it might well have done. He had reached that most difficult of ages for a successful actor, his forties. The audience who had loved him as a stage juvenile were themselves growing old, and could not fail to notice the signs of ageing in their idol. The rising generation was not interested. To them Michael Banks represented that anathema – something their parents liked. If they saw him in a play, they saw a middle-aged man pretending to be young, in an outdated vehicle that bore as much relation to their reality as crinolines and penny-farthings.
He did two more West End comedies, neither of which lasted three months, and theatre managements were suddenly less anxious to pick up the phone and plead with his agent. The British film industry, such as it was, was committed to making zany films about Swinging London and, if there were any parts for the over-forties, they went to outrageous character actors.
One or two offers of touring productions or guest star status in provincial reps came in, a sure sign that their managements were trying to cash in on the name of Michael Banks before it was completely forgotten.
It was the nadir of his career. He was all right financially – he had always been shrewd and he had made his money in days when the Inland Revenue had allowed people to keep some of it – but his prospects of regaining his former place in the public’s esteem seemed negligible.
The way he had fought back from that position showed that the grit demonstrated in all those celluloid heroics was not just acting. He had survived by sheer determination.
His first decision had been to take on only older parts. He refused every sort of juvenile role that was offered, resisting lucrative inducements to recreate his West End successes in the diminished settings of the provinces or seasons in South Africa and Australia.
The result of this policy change was a very quiet three years. He played one Blimpish cameo in a short-lived play in Birmingham and a couple of small parts in television plays.
It wasn’t an enjoyable period of his life, but he stuck it out, certain that he was on the right track. He deliberately courted very old parts, particularly on television. He realised the medium’s power, and realised that, through it, he could reach a different public and establish a new image with them. The West End and even cinema audiences were tiny compared to the huge passive mass of armchair viewers. He reasoned that, if he could establish a new, older identity with them, he would be able to shake off the persona of faded juvenile.
Age was not the only criterion in his choice of parts. He avoided the trendy and the experimental, aiming ideally for costume drama, aware that his strengths were those of permanence and reliability, and would be dissipated by following the twists of fashion. And he had a gut-feeling that the values of that huge but silent force, the British middle class, were the same as his own. The television-viewing public was made up of the older stay-at-homes, not the swinging exotics whose exploits filled the front pages of the newspapers. They might not dare to admit it, but they didn’t like the changes they saw around them; they enjoyed television’s recreations of more confident times, when they had had a country to be proud of, when people had reached maturity at forty and had not pandered to youth. They liked seeing the old values reasserted.
And, gradually, through the parts he chose, Michael Banks came to symbolise those values.
His three years in the wilderness climaxed with a solid part in a BBC costume drama series. It was not the lead, but the character was in every episode, and had the advantage of ageing from week to week.
The public took the character to their hearts. Once again, they took Michael Banks to their hearts. Having watched him grow old before their eyes in their own sitting-rooms, they would thereafter accept him in parts of any age.
Since that time, his
And it might well have done. He had reached that most difficult of ages for a successful actor, his forties. The audience who had loved him as a stage juvenile were themselves growing old, and could not fail to notice the signs of ageing in their idol. The rising generation was not interested. To them Michael Banks represented that anathema – something their parents liked. If they saw him in a play, they saw a middle-aged man pretending to be young, in an outdated vehicle that bore as much relation to their reality as crinolines and penny-farthings.
He did two more West End comedies, neither of which lasted three months, and theatre managements were suddenly less anxious to pick up the phone and plead with his agent. The British film industry, such as it was, was committed to making zany films about Swinging London and, if there were any parts for the over-forties, they went to outrageous character actors.
One or two offers of touring productions or guest star status in provincial reps came in, a sure sign that their managements were trying to cash in on the name of Michael Banks before it was completely forgotten.
It was the nadir of his career. He was all right financially – he had always been shrewd and he had made his money in days when the Inland Revenue had allowed people to keep some of it – but his prospects of regaining his former place in the public’s esteem seemed negligible.
The way he had fought back from that position showed that the grit demonstrated in all those celluloid heroics was not just acting. He had survived by sheer determination.
His first decision had been to take on only older parts. He refused every sort of juvenile role that was offered, resisting lucrative inducements to recreate his West End successes in the diminished settings of the provinces or seasons in South Africa and Australia.
The result of this policy change was a very quiet three years. He played one Blimpish cameo in a short-lived play in Birmingham and a couple of small parts in television plays.
It wasn’t an enjoyable period of his life, but he stuck it out, certain that he was on the right track. He deliberately courted very old parts, particularly on television. He realised the medium’s power, and realised that, through it, he could reach a different public and establish a new image with them. The West End and even cinema audiences were tiny compared to the huge passive mass of armchair viewers. He reasoned that, if he could establish a new, older identity with them, he would be able to shake off the persona of faded juvenile.
Age was not the only criterion in his choice of parts. He avoided the trendy and the experimental, aiming ideally for costume drama, aware that his strengths were those of permanence and reliability, and would be dissipated by following the twists of fashion. And he had a gut-feeling that the values of that huge but silent force, the British middle class, were the same as his own. The television-viewing public was made up of the older stay-at-homes, not the swinging exotics whose exploits filled the front pages of the newspapers. They might not dare to admit it, but they didn’t like the changes they saw around them; they enjoyed television’s recreations of more confident times, when they had had a country to be proud of, when people had reached maturity at forty and had not pandered to youth. They liked seeing the old values reasserted.
And, gradually, through the parts he chose, Michael Banks came to symbolise those values.
His three years in the wilderness climaxed with a solid part in a BBC costume drama series. It was not the lead, but the character was in every episode, and had the advantage of ageing from week to week.
The public took the character to their hearts. Once again, they took Michael Banks to their hearts. Having watched him grow old before their eyes in their own sitting-rooms, they would thereafter accept him in parts of any age.
Since that time, his
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