Naturally, given the years of suspicion that preceded the introduction of the cameras, and the extra suspicion that the staid have of the flamboyant, strict rules were laid down about where the camera’s snout could wander. General, wide-angle establishing shots of the House are permitted, but thereafter the director must (for the trial period, at least) follow a set of guidelines designed, according to your point of view, (a) to emphasize the solemnity of the proceedings or (b) to drain events of all possible drama. Thus, the camera must remain on a speaking MP for the duration of his or her speech; cutaways to other Members—reaction shots—are permitted only if an MP is specifically referred to in the course of the speech; coverage of the press or public galleries is not allowed, nor are pans across the benches; finally, in cases of disorder the camera must either settle for a picture of the Speaker calling the House to order or else revert to a wide shot that does not include a sighting of the fracas. As a set of rules to discourage showmanship and eye-catching bad behavior, it no doubt has its logic; but it reminds the impartial viewer of the stern guidelines that once governed burlesque revue at the old Windmill Theatre. Showgirls were permitted to be naked so long as they didn’t move; if anything wobbled, it was against the law.
Not surprisingly, MPs have already begun to exploit the restrictions imposed upon the camera. If reaction shots depend upon the naming of an MP, then the speechifier may be tempted to casually throw in the name of a Member on the opposite benches who is ostentatiously not paying attention. And if the camera is otherwise to be held loyally on the speechifier, then it must also be held on the small cluster of people (members of the same party) beside and behind him or her. This leads to a technique known as “doughnutting,” whereby those surrounding the speaker behave as if they had not heard such a riveting speech since Henry V addressed his troops before Agincourt. Doughnutting presents a problem for the smaller parties, and in the beginning the Liberal Democrats were seen to surge en masse (the masse being no more than half a dozen) into the Chamber as soon as one of their number was about to make a televised speech. “Doughnutting!” cried the other parties. Not at all, explained the Liberal Democrats; it’s just that when one of us makes a speech, all the others like to listen…. There is also the ploy of “negative,” or “poisoned,” doughnutting. This occurs when a dissi dent member of a party is attacking his own front bench; in such circumstances, loyalists surrounding the dissident might yawn, scratch, fidget, shake their heads in vigorous negativity, and generally make with the body language.
The launch of “MPTV,” as it is known, comes at a point when Mrs. Thatcher has been Prime Minister for ten years and the leader of her party for fifteen; by the time she takes the Conservatives into the next election (in 1991 or, at the latest, 1992), there will be first-time voters who since their earliest years of sentience will have known no other Tory leader (and hence no other Tory tradition—for instance, the liberal Conservatism of the previous leader, Edward Heath). The opposition parties—which effectively means only Labour, the others having retreated once more to rump status—have known a decade of schism, bickering, and impotence. But now, for the first time in years, the Labour Party is ahead—well ahead—in the opinion polls. And if the political ice packs are breaking up in Eastern Europe, why not at home? Seen from the Opposition benches, Mrs. Thatcher is an outcast among her fellow EEC leaders, cannot boast the cuddly relationship with Bush that she had with Reagan, is incapable of flexible response to the speedy unraveling of Eastern Europe, and remains as dogmatic and doctrinaire in her eleventh year of office as she was in her first. On MPTV, the Labour leader, Neil Kinnock, likes to begin his questions, “Is not the Prime Minister totally isolated in her position on…” Again and again, Labourites seek to present the Prime Minister as out of touch even with her allies—a leader surrounded by gibbering yes-men who conceal from her the realities of the world.
Isolation, however, is a matter of viewpoint. There was a bubble of excitement at the end of last year when, for the first time in her fifteen years, Mrs. Thatcher was challenged as the leader of the Conservatives. There is a provision in the Party’s rules for an annual objection, but this was the first time anyone had wanted—or dared—to stand against her. Sir Anthony Meyer, an elderly, wettish backbencher with no obvious political future, put himself forward: he was the sacrificial rabbit, the twittering canary thrust into the coal mine to test the noxious air, or—to submit to the correct animal cliché—the stalking-horse. He wasn’t expected to win; what would be interesting was the manner in which he lost. If he raised, say, 80 votes (out of a possible 374), then the great she-elephant would be seen to be wounded. If he raised enough to force a second ballot, then the real candidates would emerge: lone predators driven crazy with hunger after chewing long grass on the back benches; carnivorous front-bench pack leaders waiting for the first stumble.
The ballot showed that wherever else Mrs. Thatcher may be isolated, it isn’t within the Conservative Party. She received 314 votes, Sir Anthony 33; there were 24 spoiled ballot papers and 3 nonvotes. These last two items require some explanation. It may seem odd to outsiders that 7.2 percent of a party supposedly versed in and proud of the ways of democracy should prove unable to answer a simple question as to which of two individuals it prefers to see leading its party. Not the sort of behavior to set a good example to the electorate at large. Why should an MP spoil a ballot paper? Does it mean what it means when a voter does so in a general election: the anarchic addition of an extra name on the paper, a harebrained attempt to vote for more than one candidate, a scrawled obscenity? Apparently, it’s not so different. The most plausible explanation to be advanced for the spoiled ballot papers was that the Tory MPs in question didn’t want to support Mrs. Thatcher but didn’t want to confess their treason, either: by voting for both candidates (and thus invalidating their franchise), they could return to their constituencies and assure their more right-wing supporters that of course they had voted for Maggie, while all the time keeping their consciences warm.
The Labour Party, trying to look on the bright side, asserted that this result was exactly what it had wanted: the Prime Minister had been hurt but was still in residence. There is a certain plausibility in the Labour Party’s view that Mrs. Thatcher is the Tory Party’s greatest handicap (as well as in the Tories’ view that she is their greatest strength), but the sight of Labourites congratulating themselves that the Prime Minister will now definitely lead the Conservatives into the next election isn’t altogether convincing. Whom would you rather line up against in an Olympic final—a triple gold medalist whose practice times have recently been a bit disappointing or a novice substitute brought in at the last minute?
Labour has naturally greeted MPTV as an opportunity for public demonstration of what it had long felt certain of but had failed to get across at a general election: that the Prime Minister is a pigheaded extremist who has been systematically ruining the country for a decade. The time to make that demonstration is during an institution known as Prime Minister’s Question Time, which takes place at three-fifteen every Tuesday and Thursday. This is a moment in the process of government which Parliamentarians boast of: no such equivalent, they point out, occurs in the American system. The Prime Minister is obliged to appear twice a week before the Commons and answer questions for a quarter of an hour from Members on both sides of the House about her duties and the policies of her Government. This, they say, is the moment when a Prime Minister is potentially most vulnerable, when Mrs. Thatcher, reliant only on her briefing notes and her wits to handle anything that is thrown at her, may be “bowled out” by the Opposition. The Speaker acts as referee and game-show host, calling on Members seemingly at random (he usually alternates between sides of the House) while reserving up to three questions for Neil Kinnock, and one for the leader of the Liberal Democrats. This is a moment—both sacred and vital—in the democratic life of the country which at last was to be fully witnessed by the voting public.
Such, at
any rate, was the theory. The reality, now disclosed twice weekly live, is a bit less crisp and vibrant. For a start, there is tradition to be obeyed. Thus, each segment of interrogation is preceded by a nominal, not to say fatuous, question—about, for instance, what the Prime Minister is going to do that evening. In reply, she explains that she intends to dine with the Zambian Ambassador, then resumes her seat while the MP asks his “real” question. When the Speaker moves the House on to the next topic, the same opening question will be asked, whereupon the Prime Minister will rise, say, “I refer the Honorable Gentleman to the reply I gave some moments ago,” and resume her place again to listen to the proper query. There is a lot of standing up and sitting down during Prime Minister’s Question Time. When the first question on a topic has been dealt with, MPs will seek to “catch the Speaker’s eye” in order to ask a supplementary question. This involves leaping vigorously to the feet, looking hopefully in the direction of the Chair, and then relapsing onto the green leather benches, all except for the solitary Member who, by some brief and seemingly arbitrary justice, has been smiled upon by the Speaker. With approximately half the House rising and falling in this manner every thirty seconds or so, the effect is of a ragged yet persistent Mexican wave.
This cumbersome method of seeking to extract information from and/or humiliate the Prime Minister is further weighed down by the knowledge that, apart from the Leader of the Opposition, no Member can come back at the PM if her answer is deemed unsatisfactory. The Tories, in any case, tend to ask their leader predictable, even toadying, questions, by which she is rarely stretched. At one of the first televised Question Times, for instance, the Conservative backbencher Dame Janet Fookes asked the Prime Minister, “Will my Right Honorable Friend take a little time today to reflect on … her own outstanding achievement as Britain’s first woman Prime Minister?”—whereupon Mrs. Thatcher willingly did just that. The exchange was more appropriate to the dying years of Ceauşescu’s Romania than to a Parliament that prides itself on plain speaking. The Labour Party, on the other hand, finds itself torn between (a) turning a question into a speech and (b) trying to bowl her out by asking something she might be unprepared for. Giles Radice, MP for North Durham since 1973 and a senior Labour backbencher, explains that the best way to do this is to invite her to reflect on the merits of something in which she is known to see no merit. “Would the Prime Minister tell the House what are the positive arguments for joining the Exchange Rate Mechanism?” might embarrass a Prime Minister who cannot think of any positive arguments, while annoying pro-Europe Tories, who disagree with her. Radice suggests that the Prime Minister is bowled out in this way about once a fortnight.
Whether or not the viewing public will notice that the Prime Minister has been dismissed is another matter. Television is not about what happens but about what is seen to happen. An image consultant who approached MPs before curtain-up estimated that their viewer impact depended on the following factors: 55 percent on how they looked, 38 percent on their voice and body language, and 7 percent on what they actually said. Although the House scoffed jollily when these figures were laid before it, MPs have nonetheless been taking backstage advice about suits (medium gray is recommended), shirts (nothing stripy), and ties (nothing too flash, nothing too dark). Whatever the long-term advantages of MPTV to the electorate, there’s no doubt that the first beneficiaries have been the dry cleaners and tie salesmen in the Westminster area. Balder Members of Parliament were even offered a free issue of papier poudré to diminish excess glare on the glistening pate; but cranial cover jobs seemingly have yet to find favor.
So far, MPTV has proved a modest, uncontentious success, even if Prime Minister’s Question Time is unlikely to offer a ratings challenge to The Oprah Winfrey Shaw, against which it is set. Nor has the fear of bad behavior come to anything (though it has yet to be tested by a Cabinet crisis or the run-up to a general election). Conservatives occasionally bellow “This is London, not Bucharest!” at the Labour benches, and Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition responds with cries of “Sleaze government! Sleaze government!” But these are no more than routine diplomatic niceties. The main focus of interest in the opening months has been on the front-bench exchanges between Mrs. Thatcher and Mr. Kinnock. When coverage began, the Labour Party had more to gain than the Tories did: for a start, television would show the Opposition properly at work (instead of merely debating in a studio); the two party leaders, each standing at his (or her) own dispatch box and backed by his (or her) own team, would be displayed with some sort of useful parity; and Mrs. Thatcher might prove vulnerable when she was unable to control the rules of engagement in advance.
Yet it may be that the Prime Minister has benefited more than the Opposition. The longer her reign has gone on, the juicier have become the rumors. She’s quite mad, people will assure you: paranoid; a megalomaniac; actually, it’s hormone-replacement therapy that’s done it—makes her think she can go on forever. When it became known last year that the Prime Minister every so often visits a nonmedical practitioner in West London and receives tiny electric shocks while sitting in a bath of warm water, this less than Churchillian behavior struck even some of her supporters as a bit quaint. But such whispers probably worked to her advantage: she only had to appear half normal on Prime Minister’s Question Time to seem reassuringly in control.
In fact, everyone agrees that she has cannily altered her act for the TV camera. “We thought it would reveal Mrs. Thatcher as shrill and authoritarian,” Giles Radice laments. “But she’s avoided that problem. She’s totally changed her style. She used to roar like a lion, now she coos like a dove.” David Dimbleby, about the only political interviewer on British television who doesn’t approach the Prime Minister on all fours while loosening the collar to allow easier entry of the stiletto heel between the neck vertebrae, recalls, “She used to stand with her hands on her hips and bawl at the Opposition like a fishwife.” Now she has “completely changed her tone.” But even in this modified version, softened for television, her act remains a compelling one, as forceful as it is eccentric. She stands rather stiffly at the dispatch box, with swept-back hair, firm features, and an increasingly generous embonpoint thrusting at her tailored suit of Tory blue or emerald green; there, butting into the spray and storm of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, she resembles the figure head on the prow of some antique sailing ship, emblematic as much as decorative. She now sports a large pair of spectacles, which she often holds by the sidepiece while reading an answer, before whipping them off to give the Labour benches a basilisk stare. She has never been a great debater or a great emoter, but she remains a great presence. Just as in Jarry’s play Ubu Roi a single performer is sometimes called upon to represent The Entire Russian Army, Mrs. Thatcher seems aware that she is acting The Entire Conservative Party. And it is part of this role and condition that occasionally one has to peer over the parapet and listen to the distant catcalls of those misfortunates who for some peculiar reason have banded themselves into parties that are not conservative.
At Prime Minister’s Question Time the day after the first Vietnamese boat people in Hong Kong were sent back to Hanoi during the middle of the night, Mr. Kinnock launched a two-question attack that deliberately sought comparison with the forcible repatriation by the British in 1945 of Cossacks who then went to their deaths at the hands of Stalin. Was it not the case, Mr. Kinnock asked, that the Prime Minister in the present instance was the only person who couldn’t say she was “just obeying orders” in the matter of repatriating the Vietnamese—for the very reason that she herself was “the one giving the orders”? Cheeky stuff, but The Entire Conservative Party did not deign to rise even to this implied smear of “war crimes.” “The Right Honorable Gentleman’s remarks,” she replied majestically, “are feeble and nonsense.” Feeble and nonsense: neither the lack of subtlety nor the lack of grammar will probably do her any harm with the electorate. If the House of Commons, with its incessant background noise, its schoolboy rowdiness, its
dominant maleness, and its low level of repartee, often resembles nothing so much as the canteen in a minor public school, then Mrs. Thatcher is cast as Matron. She is the one who supervises the dinners and hands out the cod-liver oil; when Kinnock Minor accuses her of the worst crimes under the sun, she merely frowns slightly, as if he were making yet another complaint about the quality of her custard. For she has seen generations of boys come and go, some well groomed and courteous, others rough and uppity, and she knows that all of them, in the long run, will look back fondly on her legendary strictness. She is also familiar with the work of Mr. Hilaire Belloc, and knows that others, too, remember the couplet
And always keep a hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.
IT WAS FITTING that MPTV started up at the same time that London’s more traditional theaters gave themselves over to the winter pantomime season. Both these venerable entertainment genres attract sentimental homage; both regularly fall back on the oldest of plots, while intermittently updating their personnel; both are prone to infantilism. But, whereas the Mother of Parliaments can to some extent boast of its exportability, the pantomime remains stubbornly local. The British have managed to export some surprising things—cricket, marmalade, the humor of Benny Hill—but they have never succeeded in unloading the New Year pantomime on anyone else.
The panto has its historical roots in the harlequinade and was cross-fertilized by the Victorian music hall. In essence, it consists of a fairy tale—the story of Cinderella, Mother Goose, Aladdin, Dick Whittington—that, while drawing on a traditional narrative line, is constantly updated by topical references, often of a satirical nature. Its central modes are farce and melodrama, with large openings for the miraculous and the sentimental; it aims itself simultaneously at small children, who follow its twists with an awesome directness of response, and at their accompanying parents, who are wooed by coarse double entendres supposedly above the heads of their offspring. It includes two elements with powerful appeal to the British: cross-dressing (the principal boy is always played by a girl, and the Pantomime Dame by a middle-aged man) and comic animals (who aren’t played by themselves, either). It retains, if in an attenuated form, a worldview in which Britannia rules the waves and foreigners are a humorous supporting act. Finally, it boasts a promiscuous permeability to modern culture, so that at any moment the stage is likely to be invaded by some two-minute television cult that the parents have barely caught on to. Darth Vader outfits jostle with TV magicians, old Empire racism with Green jokes, and all is resolved with much audience participation and a join-in-or-die singsong. Perhaps, on reflection, it isn’t too surprising that the panto hasn’t caught on in other countries.