It has been too damned hot again this week at The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House, dear blog reader. You might have noticed in your own neck of the woods. It's been bloody savage, in fact - sapping all of the energy and get-up-and-go from both man and beast. Which is, actually, somewhat less of a chore for this blogger than it probably is for most of you lot since he's got sod-all energy to begin with and his get-up-and-go has, long-since, got-up-and-gone. As the people who always say this sort of thing always say, 'what you've never had, you never miss.' Try telling that to everyone that hasn't got a million quid in the bank.
In the splendid 1999 book The Sandman Companion by Hy Bender (stop sniggering at the back, it's the chap's name), From The North favourite Neil Gaiman explained why sneering Gruniad-reading, Middle Class hippy Communists need a good, hard, eye-watering knee to the Jacob's Cream Crackers. 'Once, while at a party in London, the editor of the literary reviews page of a major newspaper struck up a conversation with me and we chatted pleasantly until he asked what I did for a living,' Neil noted. '"I write comics," I said, and I watched the editor's interest instantly drain away, as if he suddenly realised he was speaking to someone beneath his nose. Just to be polite, he followed up by inquiring, "Oh, yes? Which comics have you written?" So I mentioned a few titles, which he nodded at perfunctorily and I concluded, "I also did this thing called Sandman." At that point he became excited and said, "Hang on, I know who you are. You're Neil Gaiman!" I admitted that I was. "My God, man, you don't write comics," he said. "You write graphic novels!" He meant it as a compliment, I suppose. But all of a sudden I felt like someone who'd been informed that she wasn't, actually, a hooker; that in fact she was a lady of the evening! This editor had obviously heard positive things about Sandman; but he was so stuck on the idea that comics are juvenile he couldn't deal with something good being done as a comic book. He needed to put Sandman in a box to make it respectable.' A sand-box, if you like (this blogger is here all week). And that, dear blog reader, is just one of the many, many reasons that this blogger has such an utter and complete loathing and contempt for Middle Class hippy Communists and all of their silly, vegan quiche-eating, ways.
When it was first announced, in 2019, that Netflix were to make an adaptation of Neil's acclaimed comic fantasy masterpiece, few believed it would ever actually happen, such had been the history of The Sandman's legendary 'unfilmability.' There had been at least half-a-dozen previous documented attempts to make a movie based on The Sandman. Those are a story in and of themselves. All of them, ultimately, failed to get off the ground for the same, basic reason. As Gaiman himself noted: 'For thirty-odd years, people were trying to make Sandman films. They were trying to take three thousand pages of Sandman and somehow condense it, successfully, into two hours of cinema. It never worked.' Nevertheless, when the announcement was made, this blogger was quick off the mark in detailing for you all, dear blog readers, Keith Telly Topping's own - brief - interaction with the From The North favourite. The short version of which is as follows: In Collectors (The Sandman issue fourteen), there is a depiction of a serial killers convention. Like all conventions (and this blogger has been to more than a few - not serial killer conventions admittedly, usually just Doctor Who ones ... which, to be fair, aren't that different), it had a viewing room. At one point a character is looking at the schedule of movies to be shown - they're all, as one would expect, terrific serial-killer movies - The Collector, In Cold Blood, Night Of The Hunter, Hammer's Straight On Till Morning et cetera. And then, towards the end of the list, partially obscured by the reader's finger, is ... Carry On Screaming (or, technically, due to the obscuring finger rry On Screami). This blogger couldn't read the rest of that page for about ten minutes afterwards due to his rolling on the floor, laughing and kicking his legs in the air like one of the robots in the For Mash Get S.M.A.S.H adverts.
Keith Telly Topping - as was his want at the time (1989) - promptly wrote a letter to DC saying how much he had enjoyed that particular issue and, especially, that particular joke. It didn't get printed (this blogger didn't expect it to) but, about two months later, he got a postcard from Neil his very self saying that Keith Telly Topping appeared to be the only person that had even spotted it and offering his congratulations. When this blogger and Neil shared a convention panel in Minneapolis about a decade after that and this blogger pulled his highly naughty 'Neil, mate, would you mind signing eight random issues of Sandman - and one of Hellblazer - that I happen to have dragged six thousand miles with me?' stunt, this blogger reminded Neil of the Carry On Screaming moment. And he thought it was funny as well. We also came up with this really interesting theory that you can tell an awful lot about an individual for the 'eight random issues of Sandman' that they bring six thousand miles specifically for Neil to deface. The first issue - 'elitist snob'; The Sound Of Her Wings - 'likes Goth girls'; Men Of Good Fortune - 'closet romantic'; Collectors - 'potential serial killer'; A Midsummer Night's Dream - 'delusions of literacy!'; Dreams Of A Thousand Cats - 'likes cats!'; Parliament Of Rooks - 'bloody weirdo' et cetera. He did sign them all, bless him. And, whilst doing so, also defaced Dave McKean's stunning covers with yer actual proper Gaiman graffiti. Good bloke, that Neil Gaiman. A right sarky bugger, mind!
Some years after that, Neil did a TV series for the FOX Movie Channel called Thirteen Nights Of Fright With Neil Gaiman; it came about, basically, because they had recently acquired a bunch of horror movies and wanted to make a late night anthology series out of them. They asked Neil if he'd host the show (in a sort of Boris Karloff, One Step Beyond-type way). Neil reportedly said that, yes, he would be quite prepared for that eventuality, but on two conditions. One, that he had a busty, Elvira-like side-kick and secondly, that he could come out of a coffin at the beginning. They said yes to both (obviously, there was some money involved as well. He didn't do it for free). The blogger's most excellent fiend Clay Eichelberger was working on the series and, subsequently, confirmed that Neil, during a discussion over dinner one night when this blogger's name came up, actually remembered who Keith Telly Topping was from that one shared convention panel about five years earlier. And, importantly, not in a 'oh, that prat who wrote the Buffy book and brought me a load of random Sandman copies to sign' way, either. Clay noted 'Neil remembered Keith right off and spoke very well of him.' To which this blogger could only reply: '"Spoke very well" of me? Pfft - well, he's gone right down in my estimation.' This blogger will repeat, good bloke, that Neil Gaiman. A right sarky bugger, mind.
There will, of course, be some people out there who have never read The Sandman. Or, those who have but insist on claiming it was 'a graphic novel' rather than a comic. This blogger is of the opinion that those people should all die. Ideally horribly. However, in a effort to seem ... well, 'normal' is the wrong word but, somewhat less homicidal anyway, this blogger does realise that there are younglings, for example. People who are unaware that some important stuff did happen earlier than, like, last week. This blogger's advice, to them, is hold on tight as the rest of this bloggerisationisms may be a bumpy ride.
So, anyway, dear blog reader, as you might've guessed from that lengthy preamble, this blogger downloaded the first (ten episode) series of The Sandman from Netflix late on Saturday evening shortly after it became available (and shortly before he went to bed). However, this blogger really didn't want to binge-watch the whole thing straight away the next day. Rather, he wanted to experience it with the sense of anticipation and emotion that he did with the comics all those years ago. That said, he had no intention of watching one episode every twenty eight days(!), rather he aimed to try for a maximum of about one or two episodes per day over the following week. From the look of the plot descriptions on Wikipedia (and, a few comments that this blogger spotted by some of his fine Facebook fiends who had binge-watched the whole thing straight away), it appeared as though the first six episodes were to be a fairly straight adaptation of the first eight issues of the comic (in some cases, complete with the same episode titles), with a few minor changes that tied the comic series closer to the DC universe. So, we seemed to have the replacement of John Constantine with his great, great, great, great grandma and, one presumed, no sign of the sequence where Morpheus visited The Justice League HQ and met Mister Miracle and The Martian Manhunter in issue five (which Neil always disliked anyway. This blogger thought it was rather cute). And, all of the stuff in Arkham Asylum. Otherwise, it appeared - from a first glance - that this was Preludes & Nocturnes, followed by a version of The Dolls House over episodes seven to ten. Having had something to eat, therefore and rested up for a couple of hours on the couch on Sunday afternoon watching The Commonwealth Games and, generally, preparing himself for the possibility of disappointment, this blogger, in the words of From The North favourites james, went 'hitchin' a ride with The Sandman.' It turned out to be quite an experience.
The Sandman: Sleep Of The Just. Whilst attempting to apprehend living nightmare The Corinthian in 1916, Morpheus of The Endless is captured during an occult ritual by self-styled Magus (and 'rank amateur') Roderick Burgess, who had been attempting to capture Death. But missed and got her kid brother instead! What an elementary schoolboy-type error. Roderick steals Morpheus's totems, all of which are then thieved from him a decade later by Roderick's former lover, Ethel. Morpheus's imprisonment causes an epidemic of sleepy sickness across the world which lasts for over a century. Roderick's son, Alex, continues to keep Morpheus imprisoned. But, in 2021, when part of the binding rune is erased, this allows The Lord Of Dreams to escape and take a terrible vengeance on Young Mister Burgess. Returning to The Dreaming, he finds that everything is well and truly fucked-up.
'We begin in the Waking World ...' So, as this blogger (and many thousands of other devoted fans of the comic) had hoped, that was great. This blogger means properly great. When the Gruniad Morning Star's review described it as '2022's single greatest hour of TV drama' and yet they still only gave it four stars out of five (what's that all about?), this blogger knew he was going to love the series unconditionally on general principle. What a cast, though - Charles Dance going so far over the top he's down the other side, Bill Paterson, Niamh Walsh and Boyd Holbrook as a 'don't hold your breath he's going to do something deranged any second' Corinthian. Tom Sturridge is perfect in the lead - he's got the look and the voice but, the best thing about him in the opening episode is his silent imprisonment - watchful and still, full of pathos and yet you just know, under all that, is a seething bag of barely suppressed and terrible fury. It looks gorgeous, the effects are superb (particularly the capture sequence). In short, this blogger thought it was effing brilliant. And, of course, as he kind of knew would happen, he wanted to watch episode two immediately. To sum up then, it turns out The Man Who Fell To Earth might, just, not be the best TV show of this year after all.
The Sandman: Imperfect Hosts. Morpheus finds his palace in ruins due to his prolonged absence. He visits Cain and Abel to retrieve their gargoyle, Gregory, whose death will restore his power enough to summon The Three Fates for information. Thus he, effectively becomes Morpheus, The Dragon Slayer. He successfully summons The Triquetra who inform him of the whereabouts of his tools - London, Buffalo and, err, Hell. He leaves, on a quest to get them back. But, before he does so, he sends a baby Gargoyle egg to Cain and Abel to replace their dead companion. Which was nice of him. Albeit, he did extremely kill Gregory in the first place.
'I never felt abandoned. I knew you would return.' This blogger loves the idea that the episodes of The Sandman were all designed to be the length that they needed to be to tell the story they had to tell. To quote Picnic At Hanging Rock, 'everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place.' So, episode two is thirty seven minutes long. And that's fine because that's how long it needed to be. Brilliant realisations of The Three Fates (pure Macbeth) and the Houses of Mystery and Secrets. Wowza special effects again (the deconstruction of The Corinthian must've cost a packet) and the dialogue is, as one would expect, terrific: 'Supernatural and sexist, you really are a nightmare, aren't you?!' Then they added Joely Richardson to the cast. And Nina Wadia (top bit of snake-swallowing - something, one imagines, she never had to do much of in EastEnders) and the astonishingly good David Thewlis. Asim Chaudhry and Sanjeev Bhaskar are a playfully intense (and very funny) Cain and Abel. It took thirty years to find some people with brains to tell this story the way that it had to be told. Thank God - on the evidence of the first two episodes - they appear to have found the right ones.
The Sandman: Dream A Little Dream Of Me. Morpheus meets occult detective Johanna Constantine, seeking the return of his sand pouch. However, Jo reveals that she left it with her ex-girlfriend, who, unbeknownst to them both, has become addicted to the dreams it offers. Meanwhile, Ethel, whose life was artificially prolonged by a protection amulet, visits her son and passes the amulet to John, before immediately ageing and dying. Morpheus, with the sand back in his possession, prepares to go to Hell.
'Who do I bill for this, Church of England or Buckingham Palace?' When The Sandman comic began the first couple of issues generated a word-of-mouth that suggested something really special was happening here. But it was with issue three (same title as the episode) and the appearance of John Constantine that it started to get its own - rabid - fandom. It's the classic example of the old 'issue/episode three greatness' rule. Notwithstanding the fact that - due to copyright and other reasons - John is, here, Johanna and looks less like Sting (which is a good thing) and more like Clara Oswald (which is an even bigger good thing), Dream A Little Dream Of Me is, thereafter, a virtual frame-for-frame, word-for-word, adaptation of twenty four page of perfection.
It's all there - the Newcastle back story ('less a dream, more a memory') complete with reasonably accurate regional accents; Mad Hattie; Rick The Vic (Meera Syal in a scene-stealing cameo); a reference to Chas the Cabbie; Constantine's scuzzy flat (it was once suggested to Neil that most readers had always expected Constantine would live in a kind of 1970s Get Carter style apartment with lava lamps and a globe telly). The dialogue ... sings ('Do you have any ex girlfriends?', 'She sounds like that because she been possessed by a fucking demon!'); the script is a philosophical, character-driven essay on regret and includes a beautiful shade of moral ambiguity in all of the characters, but especially Morpheus himself ('what is the point of you?') In terms of 'I never thought they'd be able to adapt that successfully', the realisation of Matthew The Raven (fantastically voiced by Patton Oswalt) is the best example yet. The sparks that fly between Coleman and Sturridge are, truly, a joy to behold. As the episode ended, this blogger kept on repeating his mantra, 'I'm not gonna binge-watch, I'm not gonna binge-watch, I'm not gonna binge-watch.' But, it was so tempting, dear blog reader. Because, put simply, This. Was. Stunning. No other description comes close.
The Sandman: A Hope In Hell. To retrieve his helm, Morpheus goes to Hell where he meets Lucifer Morningstar. He finds the demon with the property, but in order to get it back, the demon challenges Morpheus to a game of wits. Morpheus accepts and elects to represent himself, but the demon chooses Lucifer to face him. Morpheus eventually wins the challenge by invoking hope, a concept which Lucifer recognises as unbeatable. For, although Morpheus himself has no power in this realm, the concept of dreaming for something better is the greatest power of all. Lucifer promises one day to 'destroy' Morpheus (come back to this in series two if we get that far). John Dee, meanwhile, is offered assistance by Rosemary, a kindly good Samaritan and is able to retrieve the ruby without killing too many people. Just one.
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So Hell does exist?' 'For some.' In which Lucifer looks not like David Bowie (or even Tom Ellis) but, rather, Lady Brienne from Game Of Thrones. Which is totally cool. Gwendoline is superb, with just the right degrees of feyness, aloofness and casual malevolence. Again, there's the correct amount of reverence for the source text (the Nada subplot) and the visualisation of Hell comes straight from the pages of The Sandman issue four. This episode's 'wow, they managed that' moment being the horrifying scarred face of Mazikeen. Again, great dialogue ('the ruler of Hell is no mere devil') and Matthew gets most of the best lines. Even when they're in 'Raven-talk'. Like the moment when Choronzon tells Morpheus what will happen to him if he loses the challenge and there's a little, very startled, raven squawk from off-screen. The game of wits is brilliantly realised and when Morpheus gets up off the floor and, quietly, tells Lucifer: 'I am hope' it's one of those genuine punch-the-air moments. The Doctor Dee half of the plot is, also, great ('I have no reason to hurt you. Until you give me one') managing to avoid trying the audience's patience in their hurry to get back to the events down under. Another episode touched - in this case, quite literally - with magnificence.
The Sandman: 24/7. John Dee takes refuge in a local diner. There, he uses the ruby's power to prevent the punters and staff from lying, eventually driving them all to insanity, murder and suicide. Really messy suicides, at that. Morpheus transports Dee to The Dreaming, where John crushes the ruby seeming to destroy Morpheus. But, he doesn't. Not even close. Taking pity on John, Morpheus returns him to the institution. Elsewhere, Morpheus's sister/brother Desire plots against him. Naughtily.
'This is my secret, it makes dreams come true.' An adaptation of the notorious sixth issue of The Sandman, Twenty Four Hours, 24/7 is a dream soap opera which rapidly turns into a full-on nightmare. A story about authoring ones own destiny, a meditation of human frailty, the ultimate game of truth and consequences. 'You said you were going to change the world. I didn't believe you.' Dark, absorbing, disturbing, full of oedipal shading, in places genuinely, sick (in every sense of the word). A quite extraordinary, horrible, difficult example of Gaiman's world at its most edgy and harsh. Good people die for no reason; madness reigns and Morpheus's concept of 'mercy' is, seemingly, endless sleep. So, it's hard work, dear blog reader. But, worthwhile for its final scene and if only for the knowledge that The Sandman's source text, whilst often very, very dark was never this nihilistic, this numb again.
The Sandman: The Sound Of Her Wings. Morpheus - now aimless after completing his quest and resorting to feeding pigeons in the park for entertainment - is visited by his big sister, Death. He accompanies her as she escorts the recently deceased to ... whatever happens next. Death attempts to show a moping Morpheus the possibility of finding purpose and fulfillment in his duties. In a flashback to the Middle Ages, Morpheus and Death visit a tavern where they encounter Robert Gadling, a soldier in the King's Army, who loudly tells his friends that death is a mug's game and that he intends to never die. Death is amused by this and agrees not to take Gadling for as long as he wishes, on the condition that Morpheus keeps regular appointments with this unusual human. Hob and Morpheus, therefore, meet on the same day at the same location each century. No matter which turns his life takes - and he has as many downs as he has ups - Hob maintains that he still does not wish for death. He has, after all, 'so much to live for.' In 1889, Hob hypothesises that Morpheus continues to meet with him solely because he is lonely, the mere suggestion of which offends Morpheus greatly. Due to Morpheus's imprisonment, he is unable to attend his meeting with Hob in 1989, which Hob believes may be the end of their friendship. Nevertheless, in the present day, Morpheus and Hob meet once again in a new location as Morpheus affirms that he has heard it is impolite 'to keep ones friends waiting.'
'Let me tell you something, Dream and I'm only going to say this once so you'd better pay attention. You are utterly the stupidest, most self-centred excuse for an anthropomorphic personification on this, or any other, plane!' Probably the two most important early issues of The Sandman were The Sound Of Her Wings (issue eight) and Men Of Good Fortune (issue twelve), two powerful, touching and - importantly - funny new layers to the story of Morpheus and his interactions with others. (They were, in fact, two of the 'eight random issues' this blogger got Neil Gaiman to scrawl all over in 2001.) Whoever's idea it was to mash these two together into one episode of the TV series needs a medal. And money. And, loud, noisy sex with a partner of their choice. And, anything else they want, frankly, because they deserve it. As with the two issues of the comics all those years ago, this is magnificent. Touching, empathetic, skillful and impossible to watch without the onset of Sudden Lachrymosity Syndrome. This blogger will freely confess without shame or embarrassment, that he blubbed like a little girl through the first half of the episode. And then, he blubbed like a little girl whilst simultaneously laughing throughout the second. Kirby Howell-Baptiste - whose casting various no doubt perfect specimens of humanity who are, obviously, not racist scum (oh no, very hot water), whinged about at length when it was announced - is Death. She is perfect in the role, down to Earth, sweet, charming and the sort of big sister that Morpheus so desperately needs. The first half of the episode belongs to her ('people may not be ready for my gift, but they get it anyway'). The second half belongs to Ferdinand Kingsley as a crude yet loveable Hob. Tom Sturridge just has to sit there and feed him one-liners like a straight man ('I'm not The Devil', '... And I'm not Jewish!') All of the elements that made the original comic work so well (how, in time, everything changes but nothing changes) are there. We've got Geoff Chaucer, Kit Marlowe and Billy Shakespeare ('acts a bit. Wrote a play', 'Is it good?' 'No, he's crap!') and the set-up, should we get that far in the series, for at least two further appearances by Will. There's the return of Wor Geet Canny Jenna as her own ancestor, Lady Johanna and, again, a set-up for a future episode in which she will, 'do a service' for Morpheus (on current issue count, that should come around towards the end of series three). A story about the need for companionship whether one wants - or even deserves - it or not, The Sound Of Her Wings is everything that this blogger hoped The Sandman would be when the series was first announced; thirty years of having this potential series playing in his head and they've pretty much done it. It's that good. Advice, dear blog readers, when you get the chance to watch this episode (those of you who haven't already seen it) cherish it. Because, you might live as long as Hob Gadling and never even come close to finding another one like it.
The Sandman: The Doll's House. In 2015, teenage Rose Walker and her little brother, Jed, are separated when their parents divorce. Six years later, following the death of both parents, Jed is placed in a violently abusive foster home, despite Rose's attempts to locate him and claim guardianship. Rose is, unknowingly, The Vortex - a being who attracts and manipulates dreams and Desire and their twin, Despair conspire to use Rose's abilities against their brother. Aware of Rose's nature, Morpheus plans to use her for his own current project, to track three residents of The Dreaming who are still at large in the Waking World - Gault, Fiddler's Green and, of course, The Corinthian. Rose and her friend, Lyta, travel to England to meet Unity Kincaid, a wealthy recovered victim of sleepy sickness. Unity reveals that she is Rose's biological great-grandmother and offers to fund Rose's search for Jed. Rose and Lyta travel to Florida. Unable to locate Jed in the Waking World, Lucienne and Morpheus deduce that Gault has severed Jed's consciousness from The Dreaming. Rose then approaches Lucienne and Morpheus for assistance. Meanwhile, The Corinthian is invited to be the guest of honour at a forthcoming serial killer convention.
'Do you think these little games of ours will change him?' Following the first eight issues of The Sandman, the second great (and, in many ways, best) storyline of the entire comic series was The Doll's House which occupied issues nine to sixteen. Having already adapted one part of the story (Men Of Good Fortune) earlier, this episode is, effectively the set-up for the three that will follow introducing a plethora of new characters in both The Dreaming and the Waking World, several of whom will become very important later (if we get that far). Chief amongst them being Gilbert, played in a marvellously Stephen Fry-esque way by ... Stephen Fry. In one of the roles that he was born to play (along with Oscar Wilde, Jeeves, The Duke of Wellington et cetera). A story about loss on several levels (note, the stray reference of the missing member of The Endless, The Prodigal which, again if we get that far, will become a major storyline probably somewhere around series four). Kyo Ra is splendid as the naïve, yet spunky, Rose who looks all vulnerable but is capable of chinning a couple of bonehead scoundrel robbers down a back alley. The inhabitants of Hal Carter's guest house - Ken and Barbie, The Spider Sisters - are all exactly as you'd imagine them to be and the episode's crowning glory is the first appearance of The Dreaming's angry janitor Mervyn Pumpkinhead (voice by Mark Hamill). The dialogue, again, is magical ('we're sending a message to The Corinthian. And, the waiter isn't coming back!' 'Maybe that's what life is, a series of interruptions?') And, again, Matthew gets most of the best lines. There is, as with the previous six episodes, barely a duff note, barely a missed opportunity to take the source text and adapt it in ways that one could have imagined but never dreamed they would get so right (Rose's meeting with The Three Fates in a cupboard being just one such moment). Desire and Despair's games are, like the plot, twisted, labyrinthine and complicated but have a real sense of peril. And, the knowledge that this story continues to get better and better is both comforting and thrilling. Another bloody gem.
The Sandman: Playing House. Despite Lucienne's protests, Morpheus agrees to help Rose locate her brother. Rose and the other guests at the B&B post flyers around Cape Kennedy which, somewhat inevitably, attracts the attention of The Corinthian. Morpheus and Rose travel through the dreams of the house guests, eventually crossing into Jed's dreams of being a costumed superhero, which Gault had manipulated to provide an emotional escape from Jed's abusive foster father. Morpheus punishes Gault for stepping outside her duties, though Gault maintains that she disobeyed because she believed it was in Jed's best interest. Meanwhile, Lyta seemingly reunites with her dead husband Hector in The Dreaming. Hector attempts to convince her to stay and have a baby with him and when Lyta wakes up, she is visibly pregnant. The Corinthian kidnaps Jed and murders his foster parents to lure Rose to her destiny.
'Which of my enemies is it this time? Johnny Storm? The Phantom Of The Fair? Or is Doctor Death back for more?' The most plot-heavy episode of the series thus far; lots of plot, taken from half-a-dozen different parts of the source text. Some of it is properly heavy stuff - abuse demons, murder, eyeball eating and so one. Some of it is hilarious ('Matthew, is that you?' 'No, that's a crow. Common mistake!') Some of it, simply astonishing - the sequence of Rose wandering through other people's dreams, for example. If the production hangs around long enough, they might even get a whole series out of Barbie's technobabble-filled dream-quest with Martin Tenbones. Although, hopefully, they might think about recasting the voice of the latter so that Martin is played by someone who wasn't last, briefly, funny in about 1983. Morpheus is at his most aloof and unhuman here, although the sequence in Jed's dream does provide him with the only moment of genuine humour he displays all series ('you're The Sandman'?!) The key theme of the episode is summed up in Gault's line, 'even nightmares can dream.' A necessary smaller part of a much bigger jigsaw, Playing House is the necessary calm before the oncoming storm.
The Sandman: Collectors. Lucienne and Matthew speculate (correctly) that Lyta's pregnancy is the result of Rose's increasing power, which threatens to break the barriers between The Dreaming and the Waking World. The Corinthian calls Rose, sharing Jed's location at a 'Cereal Convention' in Georgia. Rose travels to the hotel to meet them, accompanied by Gilbert. Lyta continues to meet Hector in her dreams and finds that her pregnancy is advancing at a rapid rate. Morpheus finds Lyta and Hector and realises that The Vortex has allowed Hector's spirit entry to The Dreaming, in lieu of him passing to the afterlife. Morpheus releases (for which read 'kills') Hector - though he was, admittedly, dead already - and informs Lyta that her unborn child will one day belong to him, as it was conceived in The Dreaming. Rose and Gilbert arrive at the hotel and The Corinthian and Gilbert recognise each other, causing Gilbert to flee and reveal the location to Morpheus.
'So, I've been having these dreams ...' An extraordinary fifty minutes of TV featuring cracks affecting anything and everything. And everyone. The entropy of hollow consciences done through the metaphor of a convention for the cynical, the obsessed, the damaged. The cracked. All of the most magical moments of Collectors come straight from the comic's pages - 'we don't shit where we eat'; the wonderfully sick 'death'-related humour in the dialogue of the opening few moments ('I could murder a steak' et al); the panels ('as a born-again Christian, I wish to dissociate myself from this madman!') Plus, of course, possibly the single most chilling line in The Sandman (in all its forms): 'As for me, I like the eyes.' Interestingly, they chose not to include The Corinthian's subsequent line - 'You know what we're going to do now, Philip? We're going to take turns' - probably that's just as well. Loved the way Nimrod spits out the word 'fanboy' to describe The Boogieman imposter (and really enjoyed that just one line of dialogue tied this TV series to Alan Moore's acclaimed run on Swamp Thing). Gilbert's precise little essay on the nature of the paradox is pitch perfect, as is his reply to Rose's observation that he sounds English ('thank you!') Morpheus's coldness - even when he's correct - makes him enemies though, as Gilbert notes, his time locked in a cellar has changed him; he comes close to apologising to Lucienne something that, Gilbert adds, the Morpheus he knew never would have considered. Threads are laid down for the future, in Lyta's pregnancy and Rose's affecting The Dreaming. Collectors has many important things to say about life, fate, regret, passion, frailty and, magnificently, redemption. Plus, a load of great jokes for anyone that's ever stood in line to register at a Con thinking 'sod it, I'm supposed to be a guest here'. And, a great cliffhanger. What more could anyone possibly ask?
The Sandman: Lost Hearts. Morpheus interrupts The Corinthian's keynote speech to the convention, but The Corinthian shows Morpheus that Rose's power enables him to defend himself against his creator. Using knives. Morpheus tells Rose about the great danger she poses to the Waking World, prompting Rose to temporarily restore The Dreaming and allowing Morpheus to 'unmake' The Corinthian and curse the convention attendees with the clarity of their terrible crimes. That night, Rose confronts Morpheus in The Dreaming. Rose is ready to sacrifice herself to save her friends and brother, but Unity joins them and convinces Rose to transfer The Vortex into her, allowing Morpheus to end her life instead and spare Rose. Morpheus realises that his sister/brother, Desire, impregnated Unity to pass The Vortex to her descendant, in an overly complex - and, ultimately failed - attempt to have Morpheus spill family blood. As a consequence, he is Goddamn pissed off about this right-shite state of affairs and confronts Desire, warning them against further shenanigans and malarkey of this type. Having allowed Gilbert to return to his former role, Morpheus remakes Gault as a dream and endeavors to act as a more benevolent ruler of The Dreaming. In the Waking World, Lyta gives birth to a son and moves with Rose, Jed and Hal back to New Jersey. After being reproached by the Lords of Hell, Lucifer ponders doing something which 'will make God absolutely livid' and plots her revenge on Morpheus.
'Our guest of honour here tonight is proof, to me at least, that dreams do come true.' Compressing everything from issues fourteen, fifteen and sixteen of the comic that hadn't already been adapted into fifty minutes looked like a tough task. But, credit where it's due, they managed it, with some ease in the end, missing out remarkably little of any importance. Most of the characters get a happy(ish) ending (except The Corinthian, obviously). Including Rose thanks to her great-grandmother's selfless sacrifice. The Corinthian's 'we are The American Dream' speech to a room full of monsters is chilling in its banal malevolence ('we kill ... to kill'). Morpheus is confronted with his own failings ('I am not the problem, Dream!') and his failure to see things which are blindingly obvious to others ('You're not very bright, are you?!') But, he eventually works out that Desire was behind this sordid attempt to cause chaos and, for the moment at least, he puts a stop to their scheming ways. That continuing sibling rivalry, Lyta's son, Barbie's dream-world, the on-going situation in Hell (where Roger Allam loans his velvety voice to Lord Azazal) and ultimately, Rose herself, will all become important facets of future series (if, importantly, we get that far). But, even if this is the end, then we've had ten quite remarkable episodes adapting stories that many, who read the comics back in the day, have had as a movie running in our heads for over thirty years. For that, and for getting it so spot-on, the production has this blogger's thanks. Best bit: Desire's tail waging in time with the dialogue!
It's not just this blogger - or many of his beast Facebook fiends - who have been so wrapped up in The Sandman over the past week, dear blog reader. I mean, you may well have been too but so have, in no particular order, someone of no consequence at the Gruniad Morning Star, ign, Empire, Games Radar, TV Line, Rotten Tomatoes, the NME, the BBC, NBC News, Forbes, Den Of Geek, Decider, Variety, Entertainment Weekly, Esquire, Polygon, the Daily Scum Express, Collider, We've Got The Covered, the Torygraph, Geek Girl Authority, Winter is Coming, Hello! (no, really!), The Ringer, some worthless waste of oxygen at the i (so, not a real newspaper then) for whom, it would seem, doing a bit of reading is too much like hard work. And many, many others. Everybody - and their dog - have been talking about it, dear blog reader. Not all of them as one thousand per cent complimentary as this blogger. But, as Oscar Wilde once noted, there is only one thing worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about. So, Netflix, one fully realises that you're losing subscribers hand-over-leg at the moment thanks to the worldwide cost of living crisis and one, genuinely, sympathises (with everyone). But, do you think you could see your way clear to an adaptation of Dream Country and Seasons Of Mist next, please? Pretty please? Keith Telly Topping is sure he speaks of the vast majority of your audience when he says that we'd all be jolly grateful. Thanks, muchly, in advance.
Speaking of wastes of oxygen, dear blog reader, how delightful it wasn't to see some sick, hateful racism and sexism cropping up on other people's Facebook pages with regard to some of the casting decisions in The Sandman. That is, of course, what ones 'block' facility is designed for. But it does, rather, make one wonder about a few of the 'friendships' one has made over the years when such comments are neither censured nor rebuked. It's almost as though the page in question's owner agrees with such appalling views. But, of course, that can't be the case. Can it? This blogger wishes to clarify his position here as it may be open to misinterpretation. Complaining about a casting decision, sight unseen, can be legitimate but it's a dangerous and slippery road (as those who whinged about Danny Craig being 'wrong' for James Bond before Casino Royale had even started shooting were ultimately proven to have taken). Complaining about a casting decision once you've seen a performance can also be legitimate though one always has to be hyper-aware that one may be bringing pre-conceived prejudices about an actor's previous work to the party. It's always best to go in with a clean slate. Complaining about a casting decision solely on the grounds of an actor's race or gender is just plain, flat out wrong. Bigly wrong. It is wicked, it is vile and this blogger shall not have it. Especially when the creator of the property in question is fully - and vocally - behind the casting decisions and/or character changes. Here endeth the lecture.
Or, to put it more bluntly.
Kris Marshall has spoken about the perennial rumours that he could take over the TARDIS in Doctor Who, confirming that he has 'never been approached.' Which will, presumably, come as something of a surprise to the Daily Mirra who, in 2017, claimed to have an anonymous (and, therefore almost certainly fictitious) 'source' who, allegedly, told them that Kris had, in fact, already been cast in the role of The Doctor. The Daily Mirra talking absolute truthless bollocks? What were the odds? They were, to be fair, a much more reliable source of information when they used to hack people's phones. The actor has been on 'next Doctor' rumour lists a number of times in the past decade, notably when Peter Capaldi stepped down from the role and, again, when Jodie Whittaker announced her departure. Most notably by some foolish fool at the Daily Scum Express. The actor has now suggested that all of those rumours never really had any substance. No shit? What a shock. 'If I'd been approached to audition for a show at the vanguard of TV for the last fifty years, I'd at least have done my research, but I've never seen an episode of Doctor Who,' he told Radio Times. 'I'm sure it's brilliant, but no, I've never been approached.' Reflecting on why the speculation may have surfaced, Marshall suggested: 'I left Death In Paradise at around the same time as Peter Capaldi left Doctor Who, so the tabloids must have put two and two together to make five.' Yeah, that sounds like something scum tabloids would do.
Film production crews have been seen preparing for filming at Grantham's Belton House for what is rumoured to be the forthcoming sixtieth anniversary special of the BBC's popular long-running family SF drama. According to The Lincolnite, 'The entire Belton estate is closed for filming and will reopen on Saturday, 13 August. It will then be closed for additional days - Wednesday 17 August to Friday 19 August.' The exact nature of the filming hasn't been officially confirmed, but it, they claim, is 'understood' to be for the anniversary special.
And now, dear blog reader, a welcome return for this old favourite ...
Robbery. Peter Yates and Stanley Baker's gloriously violent 1967 take on The Great Train Robbery.
Violent Playground. As noted in From The North's recent, in-depth look at Hell Is A City, TPTV seem to be showing an awful lot of Stanley Baker-led movies at the moment. Maybe they bought a job-lot, who knows? Anyway, Violent Playground (Basil Dearden, 1958) is both terrific and risible all at the same time suggesting, as it does, that a) rock and/or roll music is responsible for all youth crime ever and b) that lovely David McCallum could ever have been a violent hoodlum. It's also the movie debut of a scarily young Freddie Starr and is one of only a small handful of films featuring Peter Cushing playing a vicar. And, in this one, he's not, also a pirate.
The Day The Earth Caught Fire, the first part of 'Val Guest Apocalypse Night' on TPTV! And, this of all weeks, hideously topical.
Quatermass 2, the second part of 'Val Guest Apocalypse Night' on TPTV (though, to be fair, they did have a rather non-apocalyptic episode of Maigret sandwiched in-between.
October Moth. As recently featured in this blog's essay on British b-movies. A classy, well-made little chiller though, perhaps, not the sort of light entertainment you'd normally expect for an 8am, breakfast-time showing over ones Cocoa Pops.
The Switch. Another film featured in B Crumble & The Stinkers: The British Post-War B-Movie - A Re-Assessment. Also, one of the classic examples of an - unspoken, but very obvious if you know what you're looking for - theme running through British crime movies of the 50s and 60s. The implication that all police women were closet lesbians. An entertaining, if - to modern sensibilities - more than a bit dodgy, conceit.
The Diplomatic Corpse. A rather good little 1958 comedy thriller directed by Montgomery Tully and starring a pre-Uncle Mort Robin Bailey, Susan Shaw and Liam Redmond. It was produced as a second feature by ACT Films.
Faces In The Dark. With the great John Gregson playing someone very different to Inspector Gideon.
Blood On Satan's Claw. A regular on The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House tellybox every time it crops up on Caroline Munro's The Cellar Club.
Penny Gold. A somewhat forgotten Jack Cardiff thriller with an excellent cast, including From The North favourite Francesca Annis playing twin roles.
The Mind Of Mister JG Reeder. Exactly what the casual insomniac - and, this blogger is more casual about his insomnia than most - needs at some obscure hour of the morning when he's been turfed, unwillingly, out of his pit by forces beyond his control.
Kessler. It's odd that, when it was made, Kessler was rather spat-upon by critics who described its concept as risible and unbelieavalbe. Shockingly, in the Twenty First Century with the rise of the alt-right, it not only feels realistic but, chillingly, ahead-of-its-time. And, actually, this blogger rather prefers it to the series that spawned in, Secret Army.
The Champions. ITV4's contribution to keeping yer actual Keith Telly Topping vaguely awake and entertained.
Van Der Valk. A recently shown episode of which was Gold-Plated Delinquents (1977), featuring a similar plot to Violent Playground (only, updated to the 1970s, set in Amsterdam not Liverpool and, this time, dissing rebellious Upper Middle Class youth rather than the Working Classes. Otherwise, virtually identical!) The chief naughty tearaway in this was played by the excellent Phoebe Nicholls - the daughter of The Champions' Anthony Nicholls and the mother of Tom Sturridge. It's odd how this blogger's viewing habits seem to run on such unlikely connections, dear blog readers, is it not? The episode also has a hint of that 'all police women are closet lesbians (even Dutch ones)' thing working for it, too.
This blogger's lovely fiend, Jackie, noted in relation to the Van Der Valk episode in question: 'I thought Barry [Foster] looked like he was having too much fun when he slapped Phoebe!' To which this blogger replied: 'As my mother would've said at the time (and, indeed, probably did. It was one of her favourite shows) "well, she's a saucy little madam, she was asking for it!"' Interestingly non-PC view of the world, this blogger's late mother. Keith Telly Topping also discussed a problem he has with the title sequence for the 1977 series of Van Der Valk. Specifically, it's a bit where Barry Foster is driving his tasty cream DAF through Amsterdam and, at one point, he waves cheerfully at four rather camp-looking policemen standing at the side of the road, all of whom look as though they are telling passers-by 'he ish ma partner and alsho, ma lover.' The worrying thing is that they promptly wave back at him. This blogger finds that one of the most sinister and disturbing moments in TV history. Were they paid to do that?
Next, dear blog reader, to the bit of From The North that - seemingly - you've all been waiting for. Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifty Two: Peter Cushing: 'A coachload of children? I can't believe that.' Christopher Lee: 'The children were incidental. They were accompanied by three illustrious and very rich trustees ...' Nothing But The Night. Particularly notable, this one, because Mister Lee acts throughout the entire movie with a small fury mammal precariously balanced upon his top lip. Which is, let's face it, quite a feat if you can manage it.
Also, Nothing But The Night features the single most terrifying, disturbing and nightmare-inducing moment of any British horror movie, in living memory: Diana Dors in a miniskirt. Apologies to any dear blog readers who've just had some long-suppressed childhood trauma reawakened by this.
Memorably Daft Lines From British-German Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifty Three: John Moulder-Brown: 'I love her.' Eduard Linkers: 'You perverted little monster!' Deep End. Which is, according to no lesser authority than David Lynch, one of the most impressive and disturbing movies of the 1970s, horror (or, 'psychological thriller', technically) or otherwise.
Can on the soundtrack, Jane Asher is stunning in it and that final scene is about as horrific as anything this blogger's ever seen in a movie.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifty Four: Michael Byrne: 'This is too good to be true.' Anulka Dziubinska: 'Nothing's too good to be true, it's just that life is too short.' Vampyres.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s (Or, In This Case, The Late 1960s). Number Fifty Five: Tony Booth: 'I made you!' Sue Lloyd: 'You think you made me? It was me that made you, sweetheart. My face! Who are you? Cameras, lights, lens. The only thing that you ever had was me.' Corruption.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifty Six: Michael Gough: 'The thing I admire most about you, Francis, is your ability to suffer in silence. Don't ever change!' Satan's Slave.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifty Seven: Oliver Reed: 'Is something bothering you?' Fiona Lewis: 'We own this house, you just work here.' Oliver Reed: 'You own it and that's the law, isn't it? But do you possess it?' Blue Blood. Good old Mad Ollie, here, going right over the top in a most pleasingly bonkers way. One of this blogger's Facebook fiends suggested that if this was a horror film then Harold Pinter's The Servant was also. This blogger's response was: 'I don't remember Dirk Bogarde taking part in too many Satanic Rituals in The Servant!' 'nuff said, really.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s (Or, In This Case, The Late 1960s). Number Fifty Eight: Patrick Allen: 'What the Hell are you doing here?' Jane Merrow: 'You know why I'm here.' Patrick Allen: 'Then, you made a mistake. I hope you haven't unpacked!' Night Of The Big Heat. Because, it's a movie this blogger totally adores for all sorts of reasons (flaws and all). But, mainly, because when you've got a picture of The Divine, Saintly and Wondrous Jane Merrow in a wet bikini, it seems stupid not to use it.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifty Nine: Ralph Richardson: 'Who's next. Perhaps ... you?' Tales From The Crypt. One of the most regular complaints this blogger had when he wrote Vault Of Horror was 'you didn't include Tales From The Crypt.' And, if there's one thing this blogger really doesn't enjoy it's being whinged at by fanboys. Thing is ... whisper it and this blogger realises this may be considered sacrilege to some, but he doesn't think Tales From The Crypt is very good. He much prefers all of the other Amicus portmanteau movies. Yes, Joan Collins gets strangled by Santa Claus, that's quite amusing. But otherwise ... It hadn't even been released before Ralph was being interviewed saying he 'did it for the money' (which applies, equally, to every other film, TV series and play he acted in). Yet, it was a big success (far bigger than, say, House That Dripped Blood, which is a much better movie). Chalk this down as a film that's reputation is vastly over-rated.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Sixty: Sharon Gurney: 'Hand it to me, please.' Michael Gough: '"My dear Jane, you don't know me but I see you from time to time. I think we should go out sometime, what do you think?" Oh, look at that, Rupert, it is written with a biro! What more do we need to say?' The Corpse. Covered, in some depth, recently on this blog when it got a very rare showing on UK TV. Not too many daft lines in this one, but some wonderful performances (particularly from Gough). One of this blogger's favourites.
At this point - and with a terrible inevitability of the terribly inevitable - to that part of From The North dedicated to this blogger's on-going medical malarkey. For those dear blog readers who haven't been following this on-going fiasco which appears to have been on-going longer than the sessions for the second Stones Roses LP, it goes like this: Keith Telly Topping spent some weeks feeling rotten; had five days in hospital; was discharged; received B12 injections; then more injections; somewhat recovered his missing appetite; got a diagnosis; had a consultant's meeting; continued to suffer fatigue and insomnia; endured a second endoscopy; had another consultation; got (unrelated) toothache; had an extraction; which took ages to heal; had another consultation; spent a week where nothing remotely health-related occurred; was given further - painful - B-12 injections; had an echocardiogram; had more blood extraction; did another hospital visit; saw the insomnia and torpor continue; returned to the hospital for yet more blood letting; had a rearranged appointment to get his latest note from his doctor. Suffered probably his worst day yet in terms of fatigue. The depressing, endless fatigue. All hail the fatigue.
On Saturday, this blogger needed to get some essential supplies in so he thought, since he'd been up since the crack of insomnia, he would head down to ALDI for it opening (at 8am) and, thus, get that chore out of the way nice and early. This blogger made it there - and, eventually, back - in more or less one piece with everything he needed to buy (albeit, he had to catch the bus on the return leg). But, just as soon as he got into The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House he felt as though he'd just done one of those iron man marathons rather than merely a bit of local shopping. It's bloody awful, dear blog reader when, by 8.30 in the morning, you feel as if you've already done a day's hard manual graft when, actually, all you've achieved is something which should be completed, under normal circumstances, with relative ease. This blogger then spent the rest of that day mostly well-jiggered and pure-total shagged out, collapsed on The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House couch and contemplating the inherently ludicrous nature of existence. So, just another average day at The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House, then?
Mind you, this blogger did liven up a bit during Saturday afternoon when he had Soccer Saturday on and the Premier League socherball result concerning this blogger's beloved (and now, thankfully, sold) Magpies came in. Yeah, okay, that'll do - can we just finish the season now with United in a Champions League spot, please?
What a difference a few months and a change of ownership from an odious oaf who didn't know his arse from a hole in the ground to a harsh and repressive Middle Eastern regime who are nevertheless, still, infinitely preferable to the louse they replaced no matter how many dissidents they execute. Even the sun now shines brightly above The Cathedral Of Dreams, who predicted that would happen?
This blogger, as you may have noticed, doesn't get out of The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House all that much these days - the odd bit of shopping, occasional breakfast at Morrisons and regular medical visits aside - which he can live with, especially when it's as hot and humid as it has been recently. But, a once-a-month visit to the excellent Little Asia in Gallowgate with his firm fiend, Young Malcolm is always worth that bit extra fatigue which such a visit inevitably leaves in its wake. All of which was, obviously, deserved.
Fifty eight years and six weeks ago, dear blog reader, John Winston Lennon and James Paul McCartney of the popular beat combo, The-Beatles (you might've heard of them) famously sat in a hotel room in the famous Newcastle Upon Tyne and began to compose their new single, the famous 'She Loves You' (it was completed the following day at the famous Paul's gaff back in the famous 'Pool). It was released on 23 August and went straight to number one in The Famous Hot Hit Parade where it stayed at the toppermost of the poppermost for several weeks, dropped down to number two, then went back up to number one where it remained until knocked off by The Be-Atles next single, 'I Wanna Hold Your Head'. In fact, if this blogger had held off being born for another twenty four hours, 'She Loves You' would've been back at number one on the very day of his famous birth (instead, he got 'Do You Love Me?' by the far-less-famous Brian Poole & The Tremeloes which is matter of continued regret to him). Unfortunately, this blogger didn't have much say in the matter. The question of which hotel the song was written in has become something of a vexed one. Famously vexed, at that; for many years it was said to be The Royal Turks Head on Grey Street (which would've been sensible since The Be-Atles were in town to play The City Hall on nearby Northumberland Road as part of The Roy Orbison Tour). In 2003 a blue plaque was going to be put up at The Royal Turks by English Heritage to celebrate this famous feat but the ceremony was cancelled at the last minute after a competing claim was made from The Imperial Hotel on Osborne Road in Jesmond (about a mile away from the city centre). The Be-Atles, in fact, played Newcastle at least four times in 1963 and stayed at both hotels although when they stayed at which has become lost in the mists of time. That's one for From The North favourite Mark Lewisohn to sort out in the next part of his Be-Atles biographical trilogy, no doubt. (Once he's got his forthcoming stage presentation Evolver: Sixty Two out of the way.) They played twice at The Majestic Ballroom on Westgate Road and twice at the City Hall (they were there, rockin' the effin' shack, in fact, on 23 November 1963. So, if you should ever happen to bump into Sir Paul and ask him where he was when An Unearthly Child was broadcast ... like as not he'll give you a funny look and rush off). When asked, neither Sir Paul nor Sir Ringo could remember which hotel it was that they stayed in when they wrote 'She Loves You' (which was a bit remiss of both, frankly - it is, after all, quite a famous song. Far more famous than famous Beethoven, who never did roll over, apparently). However, photographic evidence has recently emerged showing yer man Lennon between two rather excited-looking young ladies (both of whom appear to want to have a good, energetic, hard, if you will, twist and/or shout with Rockin' Johnny). This was, clearly, taken outside The Royal Turks Head (you can tell that because it's carved in sodding stone on the wall behind him). It's impossible to tell whether this was, indeed, taken on 26 June 1963 but, given that the popular beat combo's other three dates in Th' Famous Toon that year were in mid-January (when the entire country had been under two foot of snow since Boxing Day), mid-March (when the entire county was only just recovering from being under two foot of snow until the first week of March when the thaw started) and late November (when it was all wet and drizzly as it usually is in Britain in November), the fact that the sun is out in this photo clearly suggests June as the most likely candidate. Incidentally, dear blog reader, Keith Telly Topping was born on 26 October; the tickets for the 23 November jigg went on sale the following day (and, on the Monday morning, the front page of the local newspaper had pictures of the queue outside the City Hall stretching for bloody miles). It is to this blogger's eternal regret that his mother didn't get out of her hospital bed and go and queue up for a ticket. She was in The General Hospital, it was only few bus stops away. Although, given that she was forty three at the time, she might've been outside the popular beat combo's preferred demographic.
It has been a bad couple of weeks for some of this blogger's heores, dear blog reader. David Warner, Bernard Cribbins and now another important part of this blogger's youth has gone. Motown hitmaker Lamont Dozier, who wrote songs for The Supremes, The Four Tops and The Isley Brothers, The Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Kim Weston, The Temptations, Junior Walker & The All Stars and Martha & The Vandellas, has died aged eighty one. The news was confirmed by his son, Lamont Junior, on Instagram. As part of the Holland-Dozier-Holland songwriting and production team, he had many hit records and won Grammy awards. Their hits include 'Baby Love', 'Nowhere To Run', 'How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)', 'Heat Wave', 'Mickey's Monkey', 'Stop! In The Name Of Love', 'Can I Get A Witness', 'There's A Ghost In My House', 'Bernadette' and 'You Keep Me Hangin' On' to name but lots. Dozier, along with Brian Holland, served as the musical arranger and producer, while Brian's brother, Eddie, focused on the lyrics and the vocal arrangements. They shaped the famous Detroit label's influential sound, with songs such as 'This Old Heart Of Mine (Is Weak For You)', 'Reach Out I'll Be There', 'Back In My Arms Again', 'It's The Same Old Song', 'Take Me In Your Arms (Rock Me A Little While)', 'Love Is Like An Itching In My Heart', 'Standing In The Shadows Of Love', 'The Happening' and 'Jimmy Mack'. Born in Detroit in 1941, Dozier recorded a few unsuccessful records for different local labels before teaming up with the Holland brothers as the main songwriting and production team for Berry Gordy's Motown organisation. He was twenty years old when his first wife, Ann, introduced him to Eddie and Brian Holland one day in 1962. She was packing records and doing typing at the offices of Motown Records in Detroit, where the Holland brothers were among many aspirant songwriters and performers vying to come up with the label's early hits. Lamont, after mopping the floors at another label while trying to get his singing and writing career off the ground, had taken the offer of twenty five dollars a week from Berry Gordy, the money to be advanced against future royalties. Once he had struck up a working partnership with the Hollands, the trio wrote and produced million-selling songs that would help define popular music in the 1960s. Speaking to the Gruniad Morning Star in 2015, Dozier explained their successful but often arduous songwriting process. 'We'd get there at 9am and we would sometimes work until 3am,' he said. 'It was blood, sweat and tears. We pounded on the piano and put our ideas down on a little recorder and just worked and worked them out until we came up with things.' When asked what would come first, he added: 'Sometimes a basic melody, or a title. Lots of childhood memories came back to me and I started using them as song titles. I was considered the ideas man. Like, I had a bassline for [The Four Tops'] 'I Can't Help Myself'. That phrase, "Sugar pie, honey bunch" was something my grandfather used to say when I was a kid and it just stayed with me and went in the song.' After ending their working relationship with Gordy in late 1967, Holland-Dozier-Holland founded Invictus Records and then Hot Wax, producing further hits for the likes of Honey Cone, Dionne Warwick, Freda Payne ('Band Of Gold') and Chairmen Of The Board ('Give Me Just A Little More Time'). Dozier, who left the songwriting trio in 1973, went on to record a number of LPs as a performer himself, containing songs like 'Going Back To My Roots', later covered by Odyssey and 'Trying To Hold On To My Woman'. He collaborated with Phil Collins on 'Two Hearts' though we should probably try to forgive him for that. Dozier and the Holland brothers were inducted into the Rock and/or Roll Hall of Fame in 1990. Dozier's first marriage, to Ann Brown, ended in divorce, as did a second, in 1969, to Daphne Dumas. In 1980 he married Barbara Ullman, who died in 2021. He is survived by six children.
And finally, dear blog reader, the From The North Headline Of The Week award. Which, this week, goes to the Aplin website for their glorious We Bought A Twelve Pack Of Pot Noodles At The Car Boot, They're All Out Of Date & The Council Aren't Doing A Thing About It. Yes, dear blog reader, it is a joke story but it's a bloody funny one.
Meanwhile, in Tasmania, Launceston Thief Who Scooped Coins From Monkey Enclosure Pond 'Now At Risk Of Herpes'. Which does, rather, raise the question of what he was doing to the monkeys. The mind positively boggles.
