Television Roger Lewis
As a mimic, Michael Sheen can reproduce show-offs like Tony Blair, Kenneth Williams, David Frost, Brian Clough and now Chris Tarrant with an accuracy to rival Mike Yarwood. He knows how to work the teeth and jaw, and give an arrogant tilt to the head, and he quite nails these people's manner and style; duplicates their nasal voices. There's enough of his own self left over, too, to give an actual thoughtful performance; attend to script nuances.
Sheen was exceptional in Quiz, Stephen Frears's latest exploration of an English scandal. In a blond wig, fake tan and terrible shiny suits, with all the buttons done up, Sheen's Tarrant was all too credible as a television parlour-game host, glazed with boredom at the meaninglessness of General Knowledge, but more than happy to puff on a cigar and bank his generous fees.
Matthew Macfadyen played Major Ingram as bashful and rather affecting. If the drama had any force, it was to convince us of a total miscarriage of justice. It was hard to believe that the videotape of extracts, edited by the production company, with amplified splutters and enhanced camera angles, was admitted as evidence – the volume of coughs and noises had been deliberately manipulated. And what was Mark Bonnar, as the television executive, doing sitting in the public gallery of the courtroom, if he'd been subpoenaed as a prosecution witness?
I actually admired the diligence and ingenuity of the people who tried to work out how to beat the system. It was the producers who were venal, popping champagne corks as Ingram's life was ruined. Apparently, with today's computer technology the contentious footage could be examined in greater forensic detail. An appeal must be heard; a retrial ordered.
Like Sheen, Stanley Baxter was a great impersonator, and he loved climbing into a frock to become a Hollywood star – Bette, Mae, Ava or Ginger. Fond of displaying his long legs, he was more of a drag queen than a pantomime dame and, despite his fastidiousness, the months of rehearsal, the Glasgow accent was always apparent. Nor was there much he could do about concealing his pinched, tense face and bottle-opener of a conk. He was a clenched performer, hard and ambitious.
Comedy National Treasures: Stanley Baxter was a lavish tribute, with Miriam Margolyes, Barry Cryer and Rory Bremner chuckling obligingly at clips. But it was all very historical. Arthur Negus, Simon Dee and Gordon Jackson are not topical names, and Baxter's careful impressions now fall flat. Nor have I ever much liked musical dance sequences, not even when Morecambe and Wise did them – these tiresome spectaculars. So I am not a good judge; not an enthusiast. On the other hand, why isn't he Sir Stanley Baxter?
Van der Valk is back, with Mark Warren, whose eyes look in several directions at once. It was thoroughly formulaic, like Inspector Morse in Amsterdam. There was even a comical pathologist. Like Morse, Van is morose, lonely, crabby and has difficulties with girls. Any girl he quite likes is revealed as having links with organised crime – so he's a rubbish judge of human character and behaviour. By the way, I once met the
original Van, Barry Forster. A frightful shit, exactly like the serial killer he'd played in Hitchcock's Frenzy.
I watched In My Skin because the foul-mouthed granny was played by the wonderful if cylindrical Welsh actress Di Botcher. It was all about Cardiff schoolgirls being beastly, and how one of them, Bethan, coped with a terrible home life by inventing a fictional existence for public consumption – nobody can come back for tea because, for example, a conservatory is being built. In actuality, her mother was a sectioned schizophrenic and her father permanently slurped from tins of cheap cider. Gabrielle Creevy as Bethan was mournful and tormented.
Phobic about watching or listening to myself, I wasn't able to look at Peter Sellers: A State of Comic Ecstasy, in which I am a talking head, but my family assure me I wasn't a total embarrassment. My scene was shot in a suite at the glorious Royal Victoria Hotel in St Leonards-on-sea, the windows festooned with theatrical velvet.
The producer's next project is Dusty Springfield. When I once said in a newspaper that Dusty had one of those big lesbian chins, the better to go bobbing for apples with the vicar, instead of realising I was making a silly joke, po-faced readers made complaints to the Home Secretary. I have a feeling this is what I'll be remembered for. People – complete strangers – still bring it up.