Entertainment or instruction?
Historians since the times of Herodotus have been caught on the horns of the dilemma between writing history that is amusing and writing history that is didactic. While the Greeks may have argued that the ‘truth’ lay in the value of moral instruction rather than any claims of objective representation of ‘what really happened’, and so were skillful at deploying all of the tropes of rhetorical color and literary eloquence to produce a persuasive, entertaining and plausible history, modern historians have been guided by the imperatives of telling it like it was. Despite the inroads of fashionable post-modern epistemologies, most practsing historians still uphold the virtues of avoiding anachronism, counter-factuals and downright fabrication. Turning history into the more modern media - radio and television - raises some of the same issues of the relationship between form of communiation and the purpose of communication once again. Or put it another way - if the medium was the message, what is history on the television for?
In the past few years I have had increasing contact with the ‘modern’ forms of media - radio in the first instance, and TV more recently. Of course every historian, having spent most of their twenties and thirties burrowed away in dark, damp and socially isolating libraries and archives, is only too pleased to discover that someone outside the precious world of academia is remotely interested in their subject. AJP Taylor used to tell a story of a colleague of his in the 1950s, who having been approached to speak on the BBC, inquired what the fee was, and on being told 20 guineas, uttered words to the effect that this seemed reasonable and produced a cheque for that sum. Still today most of us, flattered and niave in equal measures bend over backwards to offer our life’s work (and intellectual capital) for considerably less than fifteen minutes of fame, and probably far less than 20 guineas.
Historians tend to be cautious and careful in arriving at statements about the past - qualification after qualification usually moderates any bold interpretative claim. IN this mode historians are not popular with producers and directors. Simply, clear, unqualified statement, best spoken in words of as few syllables as possible, is the gold standard. In any case if you don’t say what they want you too the technology is advanced enough to trim sub-clauses, and simple words like ‘not’, ‘no’ and ‘never’. Although the historian might plead fidelity to the complex reality of the past, the director has a number of more pressing constraints - a budget, a target audience, a script and a point to make. Radio is perhaps more sophisticated than TV; certainly Radio 3 seems more bold in its indulgence of academic vocabulary - one highly entertaining programme on the origins of language in England, allowed myself and other contributors to whitter on at length, safe in the knowledge that they could edit our profound ramblings into some coherent and plausible point. When I anxiously pointed out that I’d made a mistake in giving one of the churchwardens of Dorset the wrong name, the producer simply shrugged his shoulders with the comment that it was a good story, delivered well and the details were rather irrelevant since more than likely none of the audience would know any better. Having pointed out that I knew better I gained no convincing reply - the conversation was broadcast in its incorrect form! The producer usually has the final say.
Having been approached by (usually) a relatively youthful and inexperienced researcher barely able to distinguish Henry Tudor from Henry Cooper, one may get past the first hurdle of simply giving all ones good ideas away to be used by someone else. Next follows the arrangements for recording - usually at horribly short notice in some god-fore-saken dank crypt. Over-preparation, anxiety and stage-fright commonly ensue. At no point will the filthy mention of money have been made. That comes later, much later (if at all), and usually in the form of a cheque for £37 regardless of the time, energy or effort involved. The recording itself is usually over in a flash - only on the way home does one think of all the clever, profoundly acute and intelligent off-the-cuff remarks that could have projected one into mediadondum(b). Then one hears nothing until some distant relative, or even more frequently another colleague’s mother-in-law reports having heard the broadcast on the worldservice at 4am.
Of course these are the bitter and twisted rantings of a disappointed man (not). My experience over the last few years has taught me a good deal. Working for radio is for love not money - one has a chance of engaging a broader audience in the excitement of studying the past. Most of this work is usually in the form of interviews - one can respond to sensible and intelligent questions, so it’s a question of giving one’s opinion is as succinct and as intelligible a manner to an interested but lay-audience. Useful skills indeed for anyone engaged in teaching and communicating with undergraduates. Television is different. The constraints of audience, budgets, time and editorial control are much more powerful.
Some years ago Channel 4 broadcast a programme based on one of my research projects - a social geography of the great plague epidemic of 1665 in London. The original work was innovative in that it exploited computer based techniques to create a huge database of mortality, social, economic and topographical statistics which allowed me to map the contours and epidemiology of the disease. The small book was profoundly technical, stuffed full of tables, graphs and statistical appendices - not an elegant read, but a contribution to historical knowledge nevertheless. When the producer approached me I was deeply sceptical that this dry material could be turned into a 90 minute drama-documentary. They did it. It is a powerful piece of modern history, and it attracted an audience of 3.2 million viewers. I answered email enquiries on the TV website for four weeks. Since then companies as far flung as New York have approached me to get involved in similar programmes. The programme dramatised a small part of my research - the everyday life of poor Londoners in a small alley off Fleet Street, called Cock and Key Alley. My database allowed a day by day reconstruction of the life and death of each of the residents in the various households. Occupations, ages and addresses allowed an intimate narrative. Whereas my book reproduced this material in the form of line drawings, maps and tables, the TV programme brought these lost lives to life. It was impressive - although fundamentally the programme failed to take on board the arguments that I had made from the data, that challenged the idea that the plague was spread by rats. As the producer said, this was too complicated to explain.
So entertainment or instruction? Judging by the reponse of the media and the public the programme was a success. Although one foolish journalist referred to me as a fifth member of the Bee Gees, the majority of reviewers celebrated the fact that history could be about ordinary people rather than the lavish costume dramas of the Royal and the Gentry. So perhaps regardless of the lack of historical analysis the programme has served an important function in communicating to a wider audience about the diversity of our historical past. Certainly I am now much more sanguine about being overly demanding.
It does seem that history is the new cooking, or the new gardening. On the back of the plague programme I was invited to present a two part series on the nature of the current monarchy (again for Channel 4). Here the stakes have been raised. As a presenter my role is to structure the programme, I have a script, I have to hit marks, and project the right tone (and raise the odd eye-brow to order). If I get it wrong, we do the ‘piece to camera again’ (and again). So a few week-ends ago, I spent my Saturday afternoon outside Westminster Abbey, repeatedly getting out of a hired Rolls Royce remeniscing about the Coronation of Elizabeth II, fighting off inquisitive tourist convinced I was minor (and shabby) member of the Royal family. No longer can I give my off the cuff opinion about the historical subject under discussion, but I have to craft a precise script and then learn it. These are skills far removed from the indulgence of adding yet another reference to any already heavily laden academic paper. But yet if this is a stepping stone to landing a series on the history of pirates, or working with Charlie Dymmock on an historical version of her gardening programme then so be it.
Justin Champion
