Jim Broadbent, in a long, fringed, black wig, doublet and tights, is brilliant as the Infanta’s translator. He was delightful company, funny and clever (I was cast alongside him again on Blackadder’s Christmas Carol when I was Queen Victoria to his Prince Albert). Brian Blessed thoroughly enjoyed his psychotic characterisation as Richard IV; on the set, he never knocked on a door, but just crashed straight through them, sending the set carpenters scurrying to build a replacement. The sound of his bellowing ripped through Television Centre. Well, some things never change, but he’s a dear guy.
Although I didn’t know many of the other regular cast members personally, I instantly liked Rowan Atkinson. The thing that fascinated me most was his nervousness. I don’t know if he still is, but he was extremely anxious and shy and he used to get angry with himself for getting things wrong. His stammer is not evident now — but he definitely had a faltering delivery then, and it used to infuriate him. He was such a good actor: he was his own fiercest critic. He was never nasty to anybody else, but he just couldn’t bear it when he made mistakes and would work himself into a frenzy. It was painful to see; his face would contort with rage at himself.
When I was in America, I went to the first night of his one-man show at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre on Broadway, Rowan Atkinson at the Atkinson. It was brilliant but I could feel that it wasn’t going down well with the audience — people just couldn’t understand his humour — and I knew he’d be terribly disappointed. After the first night party, everybody went to Sardi’s restaurant on West 44th Street. Rowan was already well known for Blackadder — the place was packed. Then the reviews came out and they were bad. It was fascinating to see how all the people at the party just drifted away — one minute the room was full of babble and a great throng of merrymakers, the next minute there were only about six people left, and I was one of them. I can’t remember who else stayed on, but it was a chilly experience because America does not like, cannot deal with, and is afraid of failure. Rowan was a failure that night. He has never been one since, but he was that night. I think it was the audience who failed him.
After a two and a half year break, Blackadder returned in early 1986. The second series was set in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. I got the call to play a new character, Edmund Blackadder’s aunt, Lady Whiteadder. Lady Whiteadder is one of my most memorable and much-loved characters — but Blackadder II almost didn’t get commissioned. Although the first series had enjoyed something of a cult success, it had been outrageously expensive to make, so expensive that Michael Grade, the BBC’s new network controller, had needed a fair amount of persuasion to give the new series the green light. But the terrifyingly charming producer John Lloyd wound him round his little finger — and the rest is history.
Blackadder II, however, was a much pared-back affair. The episodes were all shot in the studios at the BBC’s Television Centre in Wood Lane, using minimal rickety cardboard and wooden sets, in front of a live audience. Ben Elton came on board as the new writer and he also doubled-up as a (very funny) warm-up guy. We didn’t really rehearse our scenes any more than for anything else I’ve worked on — we did one rehearsal on camera, then we just went for it. The show was presented as it was and I don’t think it changed much from beginning to end.
Working for television with a live studio audience is a curious thing, because the spectators help you to time the laughs, but it’s not like acting for the stage: you have to act for the cameras. In fact, quite often the audience members watch it on a screen rather than actually being in front of the set itself, so while you are aware of their reaction, it’s your performance captured on film which matters. Filming on a small set, the camera men stand quite close to the action, and can zoom in close to focus on your face; so often, the real comedy comes as much from the close-up shots of the cast’s facial expressions (especially Rowan’s, of course, whose facial gymnastics are legend) as the fast-paced flow of the characters’ witty repartee. It’s a dual experience in that respect, and you must rely on your director.
I relied on Mandie Fletcher, the clever young director with eight years’ experience in theatre work, who had directed episodes of the BBC hit shows Butterflies and The Fainthearted Feminist, whom I hadn’t known previously but I grew to really respect and like. She later said: ‘I was put onto Blackadder as some kind of punishment by the Head of Comedy, I remember. I wasn’t that experienced then, and arriving was like walking into a public school halfway through the second term in the middle of a pillow fight.’[16] It reminded me rather of a much nicer version of Footlights so I knew just what she meant.
In Blackadder II, my episode is called ‘Beer’. Over breakfast with Lord Percy, Edmund receives a letter announcing the imminent arrival of his aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Whiteadder (my stony-faced screen husband was played by Daniel Thorndike, nephew of Dame Sybil and cousin of my lovely friend Diana Devlin), the two most fanatical Puritans in the whole of the kingdom. Thus ensues a catastrophic comedy of errors, with Edmund trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his insalubrious drinking pals and Lady Whiteadder apart. I loved every moment of it.
Lady Whiteadder: Edmund! I trust you have invited no other guests?
Blackadder: Oh, certainly not!
Lady Whiteadder: Good! For where there are other guests, there are people to fornicate with!
We had a lot of fun on the set because Lady Whiteadder was such an amusing character. She gave me flashbacks to my caricatures of the more ridiculous teachers at school. While I’m capable of quite deft pieces of characterisation and Blackadder was a clever comedy and a clever script, I will admit that my characters are broadly drawn — I may draw big, but I draw true. It’s hard to be subtle booming out lines like: ‘Wicked child!!! Drink is urine for the last leper in Hell!’ I particularly relished repeatedly slapping Rowan and Tim each time I boomed, ‘Wicked child!’
Lady Whiteadder resonated with people, particularly middle-aged men; I don’t entirely know why, because she is — not exactly a hypocrite — but a raving Puritanical nutcase. Perhaps it’s because she was so bawdy, without intending to be of course, especially when she’s getting her lips round that phallic turnip that reminds her of her wedding night with such evident relish. That’s the brilliance of Ben Elton’s comic writing; he is able to push something to the edge, and over the edge — Lady Whiteadder is definitely over the edge. Blokes often quote bits of script at me, more often than not: they loom up and boom in my face: ‘Wicked child!’ Thankfully, they don’t accompany that with Lady Whiteadder’s double thwack…
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