Fawlty Towers Page 15

  In itself, the idea of characters mistaking one person for another, or pretending to be other people, is an age-old comic conceit — one finds the device employed over and over again in the classical comedy of Molière, Holberg and others. In Fawlty Towers the supposedly ill and puffy-faced Sybil is impersonated by a reluctant Polly. But in an extended sense, mistaking a person for someone else is an almost instinctive reaction on Basil’s part, and a major source of ensuing conflict.

  There are basically two methods by way of which the dramatic tension peculiar to the Towers reaches its painful climax. One leads up to a fatal peripeteia (turning point) about midway into the drama, where the dreaded and semi-foreseen catastrophe becomes incontrovertible fact, so that every effort must be made in the way of damage-limitation to prevent total havoc. (See for instance Basil’s hectic ‘second half’ activity in The Builders, The Anniversary and The Kipper and the Corpse). The second entails a race against all odds to avoid a cataclysm at the end of the road. (The Hotel Inspectors, Communication Problems, Gourmet Night and, of course, Basil the Rat.)

  This latter episode is particularly revealing — a brilliant example of the mastery and maturity of dramatic purpose and style that the series had acquired at the very moment of its termination ... In this episode the two modes of creating dramatic tension and final release are combined. The peripeteia occurs at the moment when even Basil realises that the rat, his namesake, is loose on the premises — “Well, let’s have a little Basil hunt, shall we, and then we’ll deal with the sackings later on!” The final cataclysm would surely have been that the health inspector actually finds the “filigree” hamster on his dining table. Both prophecies are fulfilled, but there is one redeeming quality: IT WASN’T REALLY BASIL’S FAULT THAT THE RAT GOT LOOSE IN THE FIRST PLACE!

  Significantly, and perhaps surprisingly, Basil the Rat ends on a rather happy note. All the Tower’s denizens join forces to avert the impending death-sentence (there is a definite risk that the hotel would have to close down for good were the health inspector to detect a rat loose on the premises). As they succeed in this somehow — we might assume that the health inspector will not recover from his torpor until it has become too late for him to make further inquiries into what he actually did see inside the biscuit tin. It is as if all the inhabitants of the Towers are determined to seal the last moment of their imaginary existences with sphinx-like smiles as they pronounce in unison: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

  In spite of the agonising drama and the intense psychological distress pervading the series, the putative last episode almost seemed to confirm what the American producers of a transatlantic sequel had hoped to convey to their modern unprejudiced audiences, namely that the people in the show were, after all, “all right folks” ... Luckily such is not the case. Basil the Rat was only the last episode to be televised, not the last to be produced. In great secrecy a thirteenth episode was written and filmed during the autumn of 1979. It was meant to be the first in a new series of six shows, but its real fate was to become the last episode of all. Considering its ominous title, this is none too surprising. It was named The Robbers.

  8

  THE THIRTEENTH EPISODE

  In 1999 I visited London for various purposes of little or no interest to my readers. There was however one encounter during the course of the visit that changed my life, and may from now on change the lives of other people too. I had gone to The Red Parrot pub in Piccadilly to meet some friends I hadn’t seen in years. We found each other as congenial as ever, and competed in downing beverages of every possible kind and description. I remembered an old Monty Python sketch in which the gang orders drinks made from live animals liquidised in a household mixer. I recalled that one of the drinks was called a ‘Harlem Stinger’. An unknown member of the Python species opted for something less ‘ducky’, and someone then quenched his carnivorous thirst by ordering two Harlem Stingers, taking the precaution to ask the bartender to go easy on the lemming ...

  Animated discussion of the Pythons eventually led us to the subject of Cleese and Fawlty Towers, and I observed that it was a great pity that there were never more than the twelve episodes. One of my friends replied, “Oh, but that’s not true. There’s at least one more episode.” “You’re kidding me,” I said, and simply refused to believe him. “Well, let me prove it to you then,” he replied, taking out his cellular phone. After talking for a minute, he put the telephone back in his pocket, and said, “He’s coming.”

  This was how I came to meet the BBC’s former Public Relations Manager William G. Morton. He had been employed by the BBC in the late 1980s, working his way through the film archive and the library to a position as an assistant editor, before becoming head of the PR department. The fabulous story he had to tell went all the way back to the early days of his apprenticeship, deep down in the air-conditioned media catacombs, where he was registering production data and storing films in endless rows.

  One day he was charged with the task of transferring the entire Fawlty Towers series from one part of the archives to another, and with the official computer registration of this transportation as well. Among other things he had to count the numbers of reels and cassettes, and make sure that all the films really were where they were supposed to be. When he took up one of the films to check that it contained number 12, The Hotel Inspectors, he suddenly experienced a powerful impulse to watch it. He did so, came to the end of the film, and was just about to turn the machine off, when he noticed that the music started to pick up again, and the hotel sign was shown, this time reading “Slutty Bowels”.

  He was utterly astonished. What followed wasn’t just a trailer or odds and ends of previous shooting sessions. After The Hotel Inspectors the film simply continued with an entire thirteenth episode. He told his superiors about his find, but nobody seemed to want to talk about it. He finally heard from the Transcription Service that all rights for the series now resided with John Cleese and Connie Booth, and that as far as the BBC were concerned, the contract with the Cleese-Booth Foundation specified the broadcasting of twelve named episodes, no more, no fewer.

  But there is one more show, William insisted. Whereupon the definitive answer came, “If we have it in our archives it shouldn’t be there. We don’t own the rights, and it should be removed.” Before anybody else could ensure that these orders were carried out, William cut the film out and smuggled it through security when he went home that same evening.

  That November evening in 1999, we were all invited to his flat. Here I saw the thirteenth episode of Fawlty Towers in its entirety — an absolutely spectacular, cut version that lasted for a good forty-five minutes. We were all speechless after that. It was like seeing the holy grail come into tangible existence. It was a truly wonderful episode, the quintessence of Fawltyism, marvellously acted and suspended in mid-air, to oblige its audience to go on, to continue building its own Tower ...

  With the splendour of that vision, there was even an accompanying script — and don’t think for a moment that I didn’t try to obtain a copy of the cassette! But William didn’t want trouble, and so the filmed version was to remain a secret for a few select people in the world (such as myself!). The script, however, was a different story. Or rather, it was the same story. But I did have the audacity to sneak into his hallway and copy it in his fax machine while he was asleep in some young woman’s arms, and had consigned everything else in his flat to the gods and his friends’ discretion.

  When I think about it, I wonder if perhaps that was the greatest mistake I ever made in my life, not to steal the tape that time. I could have done it. And William wouldn’t have noticed until the next morning. But he was a friend of a friend, so I didn’t.

  The script however, was salvaged and I hereby take the risk of evoking the wrath and vengeance of Bill Morton for having betrayed and used him as a vehicle of my own wicked and unscrupulous ambition.

  But what the heck! Because of your timid
ity, millions of people all over the world has been deprived of the last Basilean dispensation; you have monopolised the holy grail; you have decided to let humankind perish in utter darkness. Well, Bill, I cannot remain a privileged sectarian on that point. My goal is to shed light and to pave the way for the master. In other words: Up yours William! Here it is!

  THE ROBBERS

  First of third series. According to the text on the cover, scheduled to be broadcast on January 9, 1980, BBC 2, but never aired. No explanation why.

  Basil Fawlty

  John Cleese

  Sybil Fawlty

  Prunella Scales

  Manuel

  Andrew Sachs

  Polly

  Connie Booth

  Terry

  Brian Hall

  Major Gowen

  Ballard Berkeley

  Miss Tibbs

  Gilly Flower

  Miss Gatsby

  Renee Roberts

  Mr. Sleece

  Jeremy Sutherland

  Mr. Wickeed

  Ron Parsley

  Mr. Underhill

  Clive York

  Mrs. Underhill

  Patty Masham

  (It is shortly before noon. Basil is alone in the hotel lobby.)

  Basil: (absent-mindedly fingering a small machine, and speaking to himself) Would you believe it? I mean, what’s the bloody point in having an electric razor if it doesn’t raze. It’s like my wife. The only thing she has to do is to work but she won’t. And you can’t even throw her away because the batteries that were supposed to make her tick are a threat to life on earth.

  Sybil: (from the bar) Basil!

  Basil: Yes, dear?

  Sybil: Have you put that calendar up yet?

  Basil: Calendar? (silence) Not as such, dear, but I shall immediately attend to your heart’s desire. (To himself) Don’t see the point. One year’s as rotten as the next. (Hangs it up and looks for the actual day,) Hmm, May 25th, the day of S:t Mary Magdalene. Her as well, eh? God knows what Christ saw in her.

  The Major: (arriving in the lobby) Papers arrived yet, Fawlty?

  Basil: Indeed, Major.

  The Major: (reading a headline aloud) “Thatcher Strikes Back Against Criminality.”

  Basil: Good idea. Pity being a woman can’t be made a capital offence.

  The Major: Well, they aren't all that bad, are they? Think of your wife.

  Basil: I was just thinking of her, Major. As a Minister she would make Hitler seem like a Boy Scout.

  The Major: Well, at least Baden Powell wasn’t German.

  Basil: No, thank heaven. They were spared.

  The Major: Well then, when’s the election?

  Basil: Election?

  The Major: I understood you to say your wife was running for office.

  Basil: Only in my private little concentration camp, Major.

  The Major: Well, I’m sure they’ll like her there (wanders off).

  Sybil: (entering the office by the back door) How many times do I have to tell you not to throw used batteries in the waste-paper basket, Basil? They’re a threat to Nature.

  Basil: They’re not the only ones.

  Sybil: Your dirty socks run them pretty close.

  Basil: Thank you, dear.

  Sybil: So are you going to remove them?

  Basil: I’m sorry, but they’re fused to my feet.

  Sybil: The batteries, Basil!

  Basil: Why don’t you do it, since you’re nearest?

  Sybil: Because I’m busy doing the bar inventory.

  Basil: And in thirty seconds the whisky’ll turn sour if you don’t order more?

  Sybil: No, but in half an hour it’s lunch, and all the staff from the Prophylactic Emporium will be here for their reunion. And that begins at 11:45 a.m. in the bar.

  Basil: Oh yes, I’d forgotten. The public announcement will be that thanks to them thousands of women have been able to run away from home and come back with coloured balloons. And now — let’s sing along and inflate the lot!

  Sybil: Oh Basil, don’t be so prudish. They pay awfully well because nobody else will have them, and since we have no other bookings today, there’ll be nobody except the Major and the Ladies around — they both used to work for them in London, you know.

  Basil: Yes indeed. I wonder what happened to good old Jack the Ripper. A great service to society, he was.

  Sybil: It’s business, Basil.

  Basil: (to himself) Yet they insist on calling it marriage.

  (Basil leaves, and returns with the batteries in one hand. Two rather rough and vulgar-looking men, Mr. Wickeed and Mr. Sleece, enter the hotel.)

  Basil: Oh, welcome. Go right in. My wife has just stuffed the canapes with birth control pills, and decorated the dining-room with French letters. It’s really quite inventive of her.

  Mr. Wickeed: We’re looking for a room.

  Basil: A double, perchance?

  Mr. Sleece: Yeah, we sort of want to relax a bit before lunch.

  Basil: Don’t you have homes in town? Or are you just sleeping on a mattress in the back of your delivery van?

  Mr. Wickeed: That’s right. And now we would like to be a bit more comfortable, if you see what I mean.

  Basil: (curtly) Check-in is at twelve.

  Mr. Sleece: We’ll pay for the extra day if we can get a room right away.

  Basil: But the rooms aren’t done yet.

  Mr. Sleece: Oh, that don’t matter.

  Basil: I mean, it is eleven o’clock, just another hour. Well, suit yourselves, if that’s what you want, frolicking in other peoples’ lice and scabs. I can’t believe what the world is coming to ... (starting to hand over the form, then suddenly interrupting himself, seized by a suspicion). On second thoughts, what do you think this is — a red-light flophouse with rooms available by the hour? Of course, I should have known. Judging by your appearance I thought you must be from the YMCA, but now I realise ...

  Mr. Wickeed: (impatiently) What the hell are you talking about?

  Basil: Don’t you dare address me in that tone of voice! You scum, you perverts, you think you can just walk in here as calm as you like and ask for a room so that you can elope from decent society together? Don’t you know that you’re shunned like lepers all over Torquay? And just because we have the courtesy of allowing your reunion — I mean, I have never ever heard anything so utterly disgusting in my entire life!

  (The two men exchange worried glances, and are about to leave the hotel when Sybil enters from the bar.)

  Sybil: What on earth is going on here, Basil?

  Basil: I’ll tell you what’s going on here, my dove. These two mummy’s angels just minced in here hand in hand, as if nothing could have been more natural, and asked me to put them up in a double room for an hour.

  Sybil: Yes? And why didn’t you?

  Basil: (flabbergasted) What? Isn’t it enough that we have these buggers here for drinks? I’ll have to ask Chef to have all the glasses disinfected when they’ve gone.

  (Mr. Wickeed and Mr. Sleece look at him, totally bewildered.)

  Sybil: Aren’t you from the Prophylactic Emporium?

  Mr. Wickeed: No, no. We just wanted a room, just for the night. We’re ...journeying ... through the country ... but I guess, this might be ...

  Sybil: Not at all. Please stay. We have a nice double room for you, overlooking the sea.

  Mr. Sleece: But your husband thought we were some ...

  Sybil: Oh, don’t mind him. He wouldn’t know a Sunday school teacher from a serial killer on the loose.

  Basil: Oh, I see, you gentlemen are from the local Sunday school. Heart-rending tales of Jesus among the little boys, eh?

  Mr. Wickeed: Well, we prefer to see ourselves as charity workers. A bit like Robin Hood, if you see what I mean.

  Basil: (with a wolfish grin) But of course. Tax evasion and all that stuff. That’s what they finally got Capone for, wasn’t it?

  Sybil: Manuel!

  Manuel: (appearing from
the dining-room) Si? Si, señora.

  Sybil: Would you please show these gentlemen to room 16.

  Manuel: Qué?

  Basil: (to Manuel) Number 69, Manuel, jolly good luck with it! See it as a dream come true.

  (Sybil hands over the form for the two men to fill in. When Mr. Sleece with some difficulty begins to write she takes a closer look at his many tattoos, especially the anchor on the right upper arm and the dragon encircling the name Daisy on his chest. She also sees the three tattooed spots in the space between his thumb and index finger.)

  Sybil: Excuse me, but are you by any chance a sailor?

  Mr. Sleece: I guess you could call me that.

  Sybil: Oh, I have always dreamt of the freedom of the ocean, the waves, the salty breeze ... and those three dots on your hand, what do they actually stand for?

  Basil: Somewhere between eight and twelve years’ worth of prison, I should say.

  Mr. Sleece: (ignoring Basil, addressing Sybil with a vulgar leer) Faith, Hope and Charity.

  Mr. Wickeed: Especially Charity. Ha ha.

  Sybil: How romantic, all those seas and harbours ...

  Basil: Gonnorhea Bay, the archipelago of Syphilis, Port Buttocks.

  Mr. Sleece: (taking up his wallet, which Basil sees to be full of high-denomination notes) Oh, yeah, since we might be leaving early tomorrow morning, can we pay in advance?

  Basil: Absolutely no need. Dressed in lace, black stockings and not much else, my wife will bring you a breakfast tray with fresh roses from the garden at five o’clock in the morning. However, a small tip for any extra services on her part would be appreciated.