They’ve not seen it yet, you know. Them over the road. We all heard there was a revival of Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads (Tuesday, 9pm, BBC One) in the works – filming in lockdown, on pre-existing sets at Elstree Studios; well, they can do anything these days, can’t they? – but they haven’t watched it yet. Well, it’s not been on. But I’ve got my ways. “Hello!” I said to them (he was up on that ladder, next to the fence). “I’ve got a BBC press login! I’ve seen all them new Talking Heads episodes, with Jodie Comer in them!”. Nothing. “Martin Freeman’s in it as well! Sarah Lancashire does one!” “Dunno what you’re on about, mate,” he says. “Are you that one who keeps leaving notes about putting the bins out?” “Yes,” I says. “And you can count on getting another if you keep putting your milk cartons in with the glass.”
I shouldn’t bother. He wouldn’t know Talking Heads if it hit him over the proverbial. Probably thinks Talking Heads is just what substitute teachers put on the video player when they don’t want to teach an English class. And he’d be right, in a way. But it’s more than that, Talking Heads: Bennett’s masterwork – inelegantly pastiched even now, in 2020 – a series of to-camera monologues that exist in a limbo-like west Yorkshire, firmly anchored in kitchen table misery and a distrust of human nature, shot through with darkness and illness and death.
Oh, here she is: madam. “Is that that one where the first act sets up a seemingly ordinary character talking to themselves, and the second reveals some secret horror or obliviousness that is slowly strangling the life out of them?” she says. “Something like that,” I say. “Then the third act leads to something profoundly, inescapably dark, leaving the character in a worse position than before we met them. Then the last line is some poetic non-sequitur said into the mirror with a single tear rolling down their cheek, that sort of thing?” And I says: “Yes, it’s called acting. Now about these milk cartons…”
Well, they wouldn’t get it. It’s not for everyone. Sometimes the theatrical just doesn’t translate to the screen. Well, it doesn’t translate to TV reviews, that’s for sure. There are some episodes where you can skip entire chunks – 15 minutes, I’m talking! – and still get the gist. You’ve got to be in the mood, as our Mary used to say. But they’re good, these remakes. Classy. Imelda Staunton does a turn that is so deliciously hateful your heart starts pounding whenever she flares her nostrils. Lancashire delves into an alcove so dark it actually takes your breath away. Jodie Comer goes on a bit, bless her, and Martin Freeman tries to do a Yorkshire accent but accidentally does a League of Gentlemen impression. But we forgive them. Well, they learned all those words.
She’s in there, with him, now. No, Talking Heads isn’t for them. Probably watching that Sky. “Football’s on, luv!” Well, it’s the kiddies I feel sorry for. Up all hours. Sugary drinks. I know because it’s in their recycling. Dr Pop: well, that shouldn’t be in here. Fanta? That’s the worst one. These are all plastics. Cut them up with scissors, you’re supposed to. Form little triangles out of them and put them in the black bin. Well, they’ll listen to me one day. They’ll listen to me then ...
