There's a few teething troubles with getting Five-Centres going over at TVCream, so for the time being I'm here. Hope you are too.
In my slumber in front of Breakfast TV, I was jolted awake by a familiar voice. The nasal twang, the Brooklyn tones - that's right Dean Friedman's touring! I missed the actual interview because I had to actually leave the house (tsk!), but I'll be investigating. Who doesn't love Lydia?
So, we're just started watching Armchair Thriller, the Thames series from the late Seventies/early Eighties. Each 'thriller' is spread out over six episodes, something that would be unheard of today. They'd be stripped across the week or made into a 90-minute film. But these being only about 22 minutes long are perfect to watch all in one go. The opening credits still chill. Brrrrr.
We've only seen the first one, Rachel In Danger, in which a precocious yet quiet Scots girl arrives at Euston to be met by her father she's not seen for eight years. Unbeknown to her a terrorist acquaintance needs an identity so kills daddy but then the police come knocking about the girl sitting at the train station and their lives are intertwined. Nice shock ending too.
Of course it's very studio-bound, but there's some nice shots of London when it was really grubby and it's got an air of menace about it.
Can't wait for Quiet As A Nun. It's the only one I remember and it scares me even to this day.
Tomorrow I'll be talking about Magpie and why everyone thought Blue Peter was middle class. Did they not actually watch Magpie? It's funny the tricks the memory pays.
5 comments:
Good use of the Shimmering Strings of The Beyond synthesiser in the background music to Armchair Thriller, as I recall.
I used to like London when it was grubby, and preferably raining as well. Especially St Pancras station and the area round about. I was a keen black and white photographer then and it lent itself very well.
Mind you, I was at Leicester Square a couple of years ago and it's still grubby there, hardly a showpiece for the capital to be honest. Perhaps it's better now.
Not it isn't. In fact it's probably worse.
Ah, splendid.
That title scene used to put the fucking shits up me and no mistake.
I have hazy memories of two stories; "the one where" there's some kind of faceless nun up in an attic (I take it that's the one you've referred to?); and "the one where" some woman's dog goes missing and then it turns up floating in the Thames.
You've ruined the dog one for me now, AAA.
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