The Good, the Bad and the Boring – Part Four

Victor Borge. Image: Reiner Hersch

The Great Dane sat across from me at the lunch table. It was the mid-1980s, and Victor Borge and I were to do an interview at the hotel in Wellington where he was staying during a tour of New Zealand.

The waiter appeared beside us to take our orders, and Victor indicated that I should order first. 'I'll have the Beef Wellington please,' I said, knowing that this was the posh Parkroyal and that the meal should be excellent. The waiter turned with a raised eyebrow to Denmark's greatest export after Carlsberg. 'I'll have a club sandwich.'

If I could have shrunk myself to disappear into my seat I would have done. Or, in hindsight, maybe I should have just changed my order there and then, say, to a dry cracker. Unfortunately I didn't.

So here he was, the world-famous pianist-comedian who for years had had audiences in stitches by combining musical excellence with comedy genius, playing with – and destroying – the English language while also doing the same with some of the world's greatest piano pieces. Mozart, I suspect, would have loved the humour of it.

The Clown Prince of Denmark.
Image: Jesper Jurcenoks

We chatted about Borge's musical background, and yes indeed he was, like Mozart, a prodigy. He had started learning the piano not long after he'd learned to walk, thanks to having parents who were also accomplished musicians.

Our meals arrived – Victor having had to wait for his humble sandwich while the chef prepared my Beef Wellington – and we tucked in. Rather like Hercule Poirot, Victor Borge personified the word 'dapper'; he was neat, trimmed, precise, tidy, with a twinkle in his eyes, and he was the perfect gentleman. Despite my asking him all the same questions that he'd been asked a million times by interviewers the world over, he answered them with good humour.

I asked him, 'What is the secret to your comedy?' He smiled at me and said, conspiratorially, 'If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret!' and smiled.

As I've mentioned in the previous articles on famous people I've interviewed, not all of them wanted to talk, or even be there, but I'm happy to say that the Clown Prince of Denmark was totally professional and fully engaged in our conversation. The following day I received a message from his son (with whom he was travelling) saying how much his father had enjoyed meeting me and doing the interview. I'd never had such a compliment from a celebrity before and never received one again. I suspect it said more about him then me, but hey, what a gent.

Another gentleman it was a pleasure to meet was astronomer, science broadcaster and

Carl Sagan. Image: Michaerl Okoniewski

author Carl Sagan. By the time he visited New Zealand in the 1980s he was already well known for his astronomy programmes on TV and was, arguably, the most famous name in science communication at the time.

In the UK, astronomer Patrick Moore was, as host of the BBC's long-running Sky At Night programme, also famous, and I interviewed him around the same time. While Patrick was dishevelled and lovely (and signed some books for me), he was a complete contrast to Carl Sagan. Patrick Moore fitted the stereotypical 'boffin' description, with his wildly effusive method of speaking and machine gun-delivery. I don't think anyone could fit so many words into an interview as Moore did.

Sagan on the other hand was more calm and measured, but also more outspoken. This worked for him as a science communicator because not only was he capable of simplifying difficult concepts for a lay audience, he wasn't afraid to address some of the big questions, such as the role of God in the universe. Patrick Moore stuck more to astronomy as a discipline, but they both shared success as communicators and as enthusiasts.

Sir Patrick Moore.
Image: South Downs Planetarium

The main difference was that Carl Sagan achieved global popularity (ref. his acclaimed series and book Cosmos) and some notoriety, to the point that Harvard refused to accept him either on their staff or as a serious astronomer. They disliked the way he popularised astronomy, but I thought he was the bees' knees.

As with Victor Borge, Sagan graciously put up with my questions, which I’m sure he'd answered a billion times before, and – being an experienced broadcaster – he was a dream to interview, knowing just how long to make his answers, just when to stop, or when to elaborate as required.

As I think I've mentioned, most of the famous people I interviewed have since died (not necessarily as a result of meeting me, yet who knows?), but Carl Sagan passed away at the obscenely young age of just 62. Patrick Moore and Victor Borge are also no longer with us, and nor is Marcel Marceau...

French mime artist Marceau, with his top hat, striped top and clown face (the trademarks of his character 'Bip') was world famous when I met him for an interview in the studio on our regional TV programme Today Tonight. My French wasn't even at intermediate stage at the time, but luckily his English was perfect, although I guess we could have done the whole interview in mime. I'm just not sure how I would have asked him how he got started in the 'art

of silence.'

Marcel Marceau as Bip.
 Image: Wikipedia

I'm not sure even if I asked him that out loud, otherwise I'm sure I would have remembered him telling me how he first used mime to entertain rescued Jewish children during the Second World War while he was secretly working for the French Jewish resistance.

What a fascinating man. And yet, the thing I remember most about him was his awful, awful wig. I'd met him before the programme in make-up, and could see then just how dreadful his rug was. It was curly, streaked with grey, but also filthy, matted even. I could hardly take my eyes off it, and yet here I was talking with a man who had been made a Grand Officier de la Légion d'Honneur in his native France and who had risked his life in the French resistance.

Needless to say, I never received any awards for my interviewing.

As an example of how naïve some of my interviewing was in the early days (early- to mid-1980s) go and read about my meeting with SpikeMilligan, a highlight of my broadcasting career but which disappoints me still as one of my biggest missed opportunities ever.

Mark Knopfler.
Image: Klaus Hiltscher, Wikipedia

There are quite a few other famous names that have been on the soft and squidgy end of my interviewing skills, such as Dire Straits' Mark Knopfler, Allan Clarke of the Hollies, and either Rupert Murdoch or Robert Maxwell (unbelievably I can't remember which!).

I've had a drink with the famous British character actor Derek Guyler, shared a flaccid and fleeting handshake with Kenny Everett, and I've had lunch with Clive Anderson. I've chatted (briefly) with Stephen Fry and had a more extended conversation on the set of Rivendell with Sir Peter Jackson. But now I'm just name-dropping, and there's not much to tell about any of those encounters.

Let me finish though by saying that, while many (if not most) of my televised interviews were bog-standard, unexciting and definitely not shock-horror-revealing, the best one I ever did, even though it was at the Avalon Television Studios, was without cameras and with no audience.

There’d been an industrial argument going on for weeks in New Zealand between the Employers' Federation and a national union, but negotiations had reached stalemate.

I was to interview two of the kingpins – Pat Kelly of (I think) the Cleaners' and Caretakers' Union and John Robertson of the Employers' Federation – live on camera. Again we were restricted to no more than about five minutes' duration, so it was unlikely I was going to be doing a ground-breaking interview.

Avalon TV Studios, New Zealand
Image: TVNZ

And so it proved; they both behaved extremely well, politely answered my questions, but hardly set the audience on fire with their blazing disagreements or opinions. They didn't shout or come to blows and I didn't have to referee. It was polite, sanitised, and – let's face it – probably boring. Until we retired to the TV One Club after the show for a drink.

Continuing to chat over a pint I asked Pat Kelly how the disagreement had started and what his concerns were. He told me and I turned to the Federation's John Robertson and said, “That sounds like a genuine grievance to me…” to which he replied, ‘Yes it is, but…” and proceeded to put his side of the argument. “That makes sense to me,” I said to Pat, who agreed it did, except…

And so it went on like a tennis match until in the end they were metaphorically shaking hands over the net and in accord with each other so much that I said it seemed there was enough common ground to progress out of the stalemate. Result!

From that day on I began to properly interview people by listening to them, but I never again had such a golden opportunity to solve a union dispute. And, I don't think I interviewed anyone famous again either.

If only I could go back in time, I would do it all differently. But that's hindsight for you.

If you've enjoyed this, please check out my previous articles on famous people I've interviewed here:

Part One – Rowan Atkinson, Arthur Lowe

Part Two – Dave Allen, Barry Humphries, Jeffrey Archer

Part Three – Dr. David Bellamy, Douglas Adams, Mel Smith & Griff Rhys-Jones

Previously: Spike Milligan

Part Two - The Good, the Bad and the Boring

 Mike Bodnar continues his series on famous people he has interviewed...

And welcome back. In the last post I told you about my experiences with Captain Mainwaring (Arthur Lowe) and Blackadder (Rowan Atkinson), two completely contrasting people from the interviewer's perspective. This time round, more contrast, in the form of Irish comedian Dave Allen, the legendary Dame Edna herself Barry Humphries, and an obnoxious up-himself British author.

Dave Allen on stage. Image courtesy Extra.ie

Let's start with Dave Allen, the famous stool-sitting, missing-fingered, whiskey-drinking, cheeky-grinned Irish icon. In the 1970s, 80s and 90s he was a firm television favourite, his shows commanding huge audiences whichever channel he happened to be working with.

He was particularly popular in Australia, where he also had his own TV shows, but whichever country he was screened in his material often caused controversy as much of it took the mickey out of religion, and Catholicism in particular. I think we all remember how he used to end his shows, with: 'Goodnight, and may your god go with you.' That catchphrase pretty much summed up his attitude.

Dave Allen came to New Zealand in the 1980s for a tour, and his manager got in touch with us on the TVNZ regional news programme Today Tonight to ask if we'd like an interview. We thought about it for a nanosecond - and I don't need to tell you the answer.

Luckily I was in the hot seat at the time and got to know Dave (as I call him) over a period of three days while he was in Wellington. He was just as charming and likeable as he was on his TV shows, a very genuine person who was as interested in you as you were in him. 

His manager - Graham Atkinson - suggested I meet him first at the venue where he would be performing, the Michael Fowler Centre. The MFC - named after a former Wellington mayor - was a modern construction with an auditorium that part-encircled the stage. After curtseying to Mr. Allen and fawning over him I went with him and his agent into the auditorium as Dave wanted to see where he'd be performing. 

'Have you sold those seats there?' he asked Graham, pointing to the tiers behind the stage. Graham sheepishly admitted that some had sold, and Dave immediately said, 'No. Move those people somewhere in front. I can't have an audience behind me.' He wasn't angry or being awkward, he genuinely could not envisage how he could perform to or make eye contact with people who would be behind him. Graham nodded, although if the venue had sold out I couldn't see where he would put them. But anyway, who wants to go and see a Dave Allen show and spend the evening looking at the back of his head? I was on Dave's side.

Sure 'tis himself at Il Casino, Wellington, NZ

The next day I met St. David The Funny for an interview, over lunch at the iconic Wellington Italian restaurant Il Casino. The candid photo here was taken while the crew set up the camera and tripod, which is why he's looking somewhat bored or distracted. In reality he was great to interview, and once that was done we enjoyed a longer chat over lunch. (It turned out the owner, Romero Bresolin, had opened up just for us and had his chef come in early, so in fact we were the only ones there!)

The usual quid pro quo for interviewing a performer was that we would get tickets to the show, and this was the case with Dave Allen. (And no, there was no audience behind him, so Graham Atkinson somehow solved that dilemma!).

Not only did we get to see Ireland's funniest man perform live, he invited my wife and I and another couple we were with backstage afterwards for a glass of Champagne, before we then all went back to Il Casino for dinner along with his manager (who paid for everything!). It's one of the highlights of my broadcasting days to have found myself sitting on Dave Allen's left at dinner over a wonderful couple of hours, and I still have to pinch myself now to realise it actually happened.

To this day I can't remember what I interviewed him about, or what we talked about over lunch and dinner - unforgivable I know - except one thing that has always stuck in my head; during dinner he said, 'Mike, how do you know what you read in the newspapers is true?' I was surprised at the question but said something about newspaper content being factual because 'it must be', or something equally naïve. He pushed harder, 'Yes, but how do you know it's true?' I said that I'd worked in a newsroom for a while and I hadn't seen any evidence of news being falsified. He just smiled at that. I can't remember whether we reached any conclusions, but in hindsight he had come from Britain where the tabloids by then had well-established themselves as 'shock-horror' organs with inflated 'news' stories and sensational headlines, so maybe his experiences of the media and mine were on different levels.

Anyway, it was one of those golden evenings and I feel very privileged to have had the opportunity to spend so much time in his company. Sadly Dave Allen died in 2005 at the relatively young age of just 68. He has gone with his god. R.I.P.

Hello Possums!

Dame Edna. Image: Wikimedia Commons

During the same era Australian legend Barry Humphries also came to town for a show, and
once again the opportunity for an interview was presented, but this time live in the studio. 

While Mr. Humphries was in make-up - getting ready as himself, not as Dame Edna - his manager took me aside and said, 'One thing: you are not to ask him about him being Dame Edna.' My disappointment must have shown on my face because I had indeed planned to ask him about 'being' Dame Edna. 'No,' asserted his manager, 'Barry doesn't want to destroy the illusion of Dame Edna as a real person. He will talk about her in the third person, but not as being a part of him.'

So that was that. I went into the make-up department and introduced myself, and Humphries was very genial, softly spoken and seemed keen to be there, something that wasn't always the case with guests who well-knew that TV appearances were all part of the publicity machine. His handshake was regal, in the sense that he offered his hand to me rather than shaking mine, but then I was, once again, in the presence of comedic royalty.

The real Dame Edna.
Image: Wikimedia Commons

The interview was, as usual on our limited-duration live programme, fairly short, but Barry Humphries was easy to interview and proved an entertaining guest. As instructed I didn't question him about 'being' Dame Edna; instead we talked about 'her' and her persona, and he really did talk of his character as a genuine someone else, as he did with Sir Les Patterson. In a way I'd rather have had him come on as Dame Edna so that I could have interviewed her about Barry Humphries, but I can't complain.

It was a lesson to me that actors with well-known on-screen personas do need to protect their integrity, and that a character, once established, takes on a life and credibility of its own. Mr. Bean would be a fine example, so too would Sacha Baron Cohen's Borat or Paul Reubens' Pee-Wee Herman.

Sadly I didn't get to go to dinner with Barry Humphries, but given that he's got multiple stage personalities we would have needed to book a very large table.

Jeffrey Archer. Image: Wikimedia Commons

You Wouldn't Read About It

And finally, the bad apple in this bunch: Jeffrey Archer, now 'Lord Archer'. However, when I met him in the 80s he was simply Jeffrey Archer, Author, having already by then written a clutch of best-selling mysteries and thrillers.

Archer was in Wellington to promote his latest novel, either The Prodigal Daughter or First Among Equals - I can't remember and have little interest in doing so. He came out to the studios for the live interview and I met him either in make-up or the Green Room before the programme and we chatted briefly.

He said to me, 'When I got off the plane earlier and met my agent I said to him, "If my book's not the first thing I see on the display stand in the airport bookshop, you're fired."' 

I nodded in agreement that yes indeed, such slovenly representation should be met with ruthless counter-measures, while thinking, 'What a prat.'

And in my opinion that's exactly what he was. I've rarely met anyone so self-centered, uninteresting or unpleasant in my life. The interview was pedestrian as I recall - I could summon up little enthusiasm for talking to him - and he rabbited on about himself endlessly. It was one of the few interviews where I was pleased that we were limited to only five minutes at most, and I suspect by then most of our audience had left their televisions to go and make a cup of tea, and wouldn't give tuppence to listen to him. In fact, not a penny more, not a penny less.

And no, I didn't find out if the agent got fired, and mercifully I didn't get to go to dinner with Jeffrey Archer either.

Coming up soon in Part Three: how I met Hitchhiker's Guide author Douglas Adams, almost had Dr. David Bellamy round for dinner, and how one of Britain's successful 1980s TV comedy duos turned out to be extremely unfunny...