Upstairs Downstairs Remembered: 25th Anniversary (1996) - full transcript

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Wait.

Wait a minute.

Come back here.

Walk over there.

Now back.

Your shoes are squeaking.

But I bought them special, Mr...

They are squeaking!

Now, away you go,
and soften them up.

There is nothing more
intolerable at a dinner party



than a footman with
squeaky shoes, go on!

Let's hope they
don't squeak today.

Welcome to Eaton
Place, the stately setting

for "Upstairs, Downstairs,"
the most famous

British drama series ever made.

For 5 years and 68 episodes,

this was home to
the Bellamy family,

their servants,

and all the many
dramas they shared.

In this special program,
we'll be turning back the clock

to find out what went
on behind the scenes...

The problems, the pressures,
the good times, and the bad.

I look back at those
early episodes now,

and I see not only the
character floundering,



but I see an actor playing
the character floundering,

so between us, there's
not a huge impression,

I don't think, being made.

"Upstairs, Downstairs"
will always be part of my life.

I so enjoyed my time there
and it meant so much to me

that obviously I
took a lot of that

into the next job, as
I have taken part of

"Upstairs, Downstairs"
with me always.

Oh, yes, I mean,
this is the program

I have to thank for my career.

I'd been to a
fortuneteller in Brighton,

and she said,
"You'll get a break,

you'll get your break when
you're wearing a long dress."

Oh, I loved playing Daisy.

She was, you
know, a bit of a rebel

and a bit tricky and a
bit grumpy sometimes,

and very vulnerable, of course,

coming from an
appalling background.

I got loads of advice.

"Oh, you mustn't
put up with all that.

Stand up to Mrs. Bridges."

I never seemed to sort of
crack it with the good-looking,

young, female fraternity.

It was always some little
old lady with a blue rinse

who wants to hug me
and sit me on the edge

of the mantelpiece
and love me forever.

"Upstairs, Downstairs"
told the story of the life

and changing times
of one British family,

the Bellamys,
and their servants,

from 1903 to 1930.

The series was the idea
of two actress friends,

Eileen Atkins and Jean Marsh.

Jean played the faithful
family maid, Rose.

Eileen Atkins and
I sat in her kitchen

feeling a bit poor,

and we thought,
"Why don't we try

to think of an idea for
a television series?"

And so then, over a
period of weeks and months,

we discussed various
ideas, but always thinking

that we would stick
to what we knew.

Eileen's parents were
quite old when she was born.

Her mother was 46 or 47,

so her grandparents
were very old,

and she was showing
me a stash of photographs

from really almost
the turn of the century,

and there was a photograph

of servants standing by a
bus, and one of them was

a great aunt or something,
or maybe even only an aunt,

and we thought we would
write sort of little outlines

I used to dream of all
kinds of future for myself.

I never thought I'd
end up in service.

It's not so bad. It's safe.

You know where you are and
what's going to happen next.

The outside world is dangerous.

Or perhaps it only seems so
to us because we're ignorant.

You know, if you
could read and write,

you would not be so frightened,

and then perhaps
you'd behave yourself.

There are so many
things I want to do and be,

and time passes so quickly.

You've got to learn to accept...

They were not so far
different from stage plays,

so that the writer
really had more...

Had more power,
had more control,

had more influence,
in fact, just made

the whole thing up themselves.

Very few people overlooking you

or telling you what
you could or couldn't do.

The technology was more limited,

so there was less you
could do, but, in a way,

I think there was much
more energy and animation

because we were all given
such a free hand, really.

To do long scenes that breathe
and to have words is wonderful,

and today, it really
seems, you know,

five sentences and they cut,
five sentences and they cut,

and I think that's
very condescending

to an audience's attention span.

This was as good
as live television.

You were doing great,
big 20-minute scenes

without a break, and
I just can't imagine

that being the case now.

You can actually
hear the old camera

sliding across the
floor on some of them.

You've got some very
odd ideas about men, Rose.

A technician's strike
meant that some of

the early episodes had to be
recorded in black and white.

I think you've got
too much imagination.

I haven't imagined

the kind of life
we're living here,

living everything
through them like we was

vegetables that had no feelings,

helping them put
on their clothes,

admiring their finery,

wearing their stupid
second-hand clothes.

Well, I don't want a
second-hand life, Rose!

You see, the first series
really established it.

It was very strong,
truthful, quite brave.

Sit down and listen to me.

I do my work as best
I can because one day

I mean to be a proper
lady's maid to a proper lady.

Now, Mr. Hudson runs this
house like a clockwork machine,

and Mrs. Bridges
may be an old cow,

but she cooks a dream,

and her meals are a
pleasure to put on the table.

We're no bottom
of the ladder, see?

We're the wheels of the car,

and we're content
it should be so,

'cause the master's
a proper gentleman

what we really like and
respect and does his work right

in the Houses of Parliament.

And my lady's a
beauty and very genteel,

and we feel that
we, this whole house,

is a part of London society.

London society.

It's the parrot house at
the Zoological Gardens.

London society, I said,
and London society I meant.

Now, that's the hub
of the empire, innit?

The empire on which
the sun will never set.

I had to turn
myself upside-down,

because in no way
am I either a monarchist

or an admirer of the empire.

But Nicola Pagett

had spent most of
her childhood abroad,

where she grew up
surrounded by servants.

I knew the attitude.

Not that I had it as a child,

because one lived in
the kitchen as a child.

Servants weren't people
to be ordered about,

they were the
people you talked to.

Because, I don't
know, you talked...

That's where the action
was, in the kitchen.

But I understood the
concept of servants,

so it wasn't something I
had to research about how...

I could watch adults
ordering servants about.

Don't cry, Miss
Lizzie, please don't cry.

It's not as bad as you think.

You've got it all...

- Don't you tell me, Rose.
- Miss Lizzie?

And don't call me Miss Lizzie.

I'm a married woman, married,

which is more
than you'll ever be!

What?

At least I've tried!

I've offered myself, but you,

you've never offered
yourself to anyone,

so how can you give me advice?

- I wasn't trying to.
- You and Thomas.

You think I didn't
hear you late at night,

teasing him and then stopping?

Let me tell you, Rose,
that unless you're prepared

to give yourself utterly

and risk making
a fool of yourself,

you'll never get
anything in life!

You'll end up
withered here inside.

I mean, look at you already!

At least I'll never
end up like you!

And they wrote it for
us, and we didn't know...

I don't know that they knew, it
was a sort of subliminal thing.

They got to know the
actors, and they wrote

what they sort of
felt we were like.

So it was never that
difficult to play the part.

You never know, I
don't think, with acting,

how much of what is
transmitting is something that's

inherent in you or something
that's built into the story

and it's best you don't know.

He was a sort of scowling
creature, James, initially,

and one of the reasons
I think he never sort of

smiled or laughed was
because of this moustache.

I've never liked the sort of
restriction on the upper lip,

literally the stiff
upper lip, but actually,

if you smile, you feel the
spirit gum sort of cracking

and you have a feeling
it's going to come off.

Not good things to have.

I can only remind you, sir,

that I believe the
master would not wish it.

Not today, sir.

And let me remind you, Hudson,

that whatever your
private views may be,

in the absence of my parents,
I am in charge in this house.

Now Miss Forrest
is my guest for lunch.

In the situation, I expect
my orders to be obeyed.

Yes, sir.

Then do as you're told.

Yes, sir.

There's something
in the way that people

who are accustomed to
being obeyed have a way

of giving orders... to waiters,
to butlers, to footmen...

That is wonderfully imperious.

I find it absolutely repulsive.

A glass of water.

I simply can't do that.

I have to say, oh, excuse
me... If you're passing the tap,

could you possibly give
me a glass of water?

No, I, I... giving
commands is not my forte,

and I did try out for a
chap called Peter Riley...

Feel that, Peter Riley.
This is your moment.

And he had a way
of giving orders...

rather peevishly, and...
But with absolute conviction

he would be obeyed.

"Get me a record
token and run my bath."

And he wouldn't...
Never entered his mind

that he wouldn't be obeyed.

And I suppose he was the
nearest I could find for a prototype.

If you're going to
believe in characters,

you must have them show
the black side of themselves.

I mean, me, Jean Marsh,

I'm vile as well
as jolly and sweet,

and you must have that,

and I think we were
allowed to early on.

The first series sat on a
shelf for six long months

because London Weekend
controller Cyril Bennett

was convinced
it would be a flop.

And he said, "Well, I'm afraid
they'll switch off in thousands.

I'm sorry, it's very pretty,

but it's just not
commercial television."

They put it on
quite late at night

because they didn't
think anybody would be

in the least interested in it.

Just watching it and
getting this sort of frisson

and knowing you were
really on to something

and that everywhere all
these people were watching it

and feeling, "Well,
that's rather good,"

or not wanting to turn off.

Again, I mean, 25 years ago,

there were fewer
television programs,

so if you had something
on one of the channels,

a lot of people
would be watching it,

and it did make an actual...
Some sort of cultural impact.

The series was a
hit, but then, talk of

an "Upstairs, Downstairs"
film, though never made,

caused a major
character to quit.

And everyone was
going to be in it,

and my character was going
to be an American cousin

and they were
going to get rid of me,

and I was so, I thought, "Right,

even if they are, I'm not
going to do another series,"

and I stuck to it too.

It's really petty.

In fact, with Nicola,
with Elizabeth Bellamy,

she'd done almost
everything possible

except stand on her
head and read Greek

that a young lady of quality
could do in that period.

Meanwhile, another
upstairs actress

was about to hand in her notice.

I can't allow Mrs. Bridges

to be carted off by the police.

It would kill her.

Besides, I have an important
dinner party to give next week.

How can you think about
dinner parties at a time like this?

Because I have to, Richard.

So Rachel Gurney's Lady Marjorie

was given a one-way
ticket on the Titanic.

I read the script and I
said, "This is ridiculous."

I said, "It's comical,
it's so awful,

it's so sentimental.

How can you even do it?"

And in one bit of the
script, it had Lady Marjorie

going down on the
Titanic, and then soon after

we knew she'd gone down,

I think Patsy Smart,
playing her maid,

walked into the
kitchen soaking wet,

but she was soaking wet
because it was raining outside,

and I said, "Has she swum here?"

Miss Roberts!

Well, I was wrong.

It's one of the most
successful episodes,

the Titanic one.

Rachel Gurney lived on to
regret her decision to leave.

She said to me, "I think
I've made an awful mistake."

And I said, "What do you mean?"

And she said, "I ought to
be staying in this series."

And I said, "Oh,
Rachel, it's too late.

Only Commodore Cousteau
could give you a part now."

Chris Beeny, Edward the footman,

was nearly forced out
of the series for good

when he was involved
in a terrible accident.

And to be precise, November
27, 1972, at 9:30 AM,

I met with a head-on
collision on my motorbike.

I met with a car.

We generally assembled in
the control room about 10:00

and started the dress
rehearsal at 10:30,

and all was fine, and
there was a telephone there,

and I'd never really
looked at it before.

I think it was red, and it
was like the sort of one

on the Prime Minister's desk,

and the White
House, and all that.

I looked at it,
suddenly it rang.

We all did like this.

And the body takes over, shock,

and you don't know what's...

And I knew I couldn't get
up, for the one reason that

my motorcycle boot was
looking at my face like that,

and my foot was still in it.

I said, "How serious is it?"

And they said,
"Well, we aren't sure

if he'll live 'til lunchtime."

The only thing to
do was to recast

with a girl and say that the
footman had gone on holiday.

Casting director Martin Case

suggested an actress
called Jane Carr.

By luck, she was at home
when the phone rang.

She was whisked to the
studio and made up and dressed

by about 1:00, and by 1:30,

she was on the stage
and had learnt her lines.

There weren't all that
number of lines, luckily.

She didn't have a big
part in that episode,

and by 2:00, the cast involved
very kindly had come back

from their lunch hour and went
through the scenes with her,

and we started recording
as usual and finished at 7:00,

and that was that.

Should we tell?

No.

It wouldn't do.

You can only tell on people
under you, not over you.

I mean, they're all
for writing me out.

I mean, I can remember
how they got over the episode

is the fact that
Mr. Hudson said,

"You remember, my
lord, Edward fell down

and broke his leg and he
is... It will be a while yet."

And that was it.

And as far as the
public were concerned,

never to be seen again.

Practically every bone
in my right-hand side

was fractured or smashed.

When I came back
into series three,

I couldn't run up and
down stairs or hold trays.

You know, joining "Up,
Down," as we called it,

could be a very
daunting experience,

a bit like belonging to
a very exclusive club.

I was christened Hazel Patricia.

Hazel.

Because you've got Hazel eyes.

No... I think it was my
father's love of shrubs

that made him choose my name.

That first episode,

I remember very
little of any of it.

I think I did it in terror.

I think I did the first
three or four in terror.

I was far too frightened
to talk to anybody

unless it was lines
that I'd learned.

I think what stopped
the scariness

and stopped it very fast

was that, A, everyone
was terribly kind,

and B, the whole
attitude of the series was

nobody took
themselves too seriously.

I am responsible for

the domestic
running of the house,

and I intend to stay here and
help Ruby prepare the meals.

Yes, you are responsible for
running this house with dignity,

as mother did, from
upstairs, not messing about

in the kitchen like
a scullery maid!

How dare you!

You will do as I say and
go up to the morning room.

As my wife, you
owe me obedience!

Well, don't you
owe me something?

What?

What's the matter with you?

If you don't understand that,

then perhaps it's just
as well our baby died.

Just as well.

She was a very,

very good influence
on the series.

It was a brilliant idea to bring
in that middle-class element.

I liked it very much when
she got things wrong.

That was quite good.

I liked her because she was
vulnerable and she was human.

If you'll excuse me
mentioning it, madame.

Yes, Rose?

Well, Lady Marjorie
always used to say,

"No diamonds in the country."

Thank you, Rose.

Except if it's for a
big, formal party,

or a ball, of course.

These?

Most appropriate.

She worked very hard on
her own makeup and props.

She said, "Well, somebody
like that won't have

any really good taste
and a terrible hairdo

and too many bags and
umbrellas and rings and things,

which a lady wouldn't have."

And she was quite
right and did it...

And gradually changed
it as she got more firmly

in the saddle at
165 Eaton Place,

she gradually
changed the hairdo,

had less knickknacks,
and became almost a lady.

Another of the great
characters was Ruby,

the poor old kitchen maid.

Ruby?!

Ah, something nice for
our supper, eh, Ruby?

What in heaven's name is that?

Well, it's for thickening
the Irish stew,

Mr. Hudson, for
upstairs' dinner.

Only, well, I can't read
Mrs. Bridges's recipe.

Her handwriting's
all falling over.

What can't you read?

Well, it says, "Mix flour and
add an ounce of" summat...

That word there.

Here, let me see.

"Mix flour and add an
ounce of butter and rub well."

It's butter.

Oh, I am daft.

I thought it said "bitter."

So I poured in a jug of ale.

I'll have to start
again, won't I?

You certainly will, Ruby.

I was an out-of-work
actress at the time

and very broke.

When my agent told me I
had the interview in Wembley,

I panicked.

I didn't have the
money for the fare.

So it was... those days, we
had Green Shield Stamps

and cigarette coupons,

and I went to a little shop
in Southhampton for my fare.

At the end of the interview, I
thanked them all for seeing me.

I felt very sophisticated,
very grand.

I elegantly sailed
out through the door,

smiled at the very
sophisticated receptionist,

wandered out through the door,

discovered I'd walked
out through the wrong door.

I was in the backyard,
and I was too shy,

too embarrassed
to go back again.

So I climbed over the wall.

She was an innocent.

She was conditioned
not to think for herself.

What's this?

More tea, please, Mrs. Bridges.

You've had two already.

Well, Rose has had three.

Two cups is quite
enough for you.

You keep your place, my girl.

If Mrs. Bridges said,
"Ruby, chop the parsley,"

she would chop the parsley.

She wouldn't
dream of washing it.

I feel she was like a clown
falling on the banana skin,

constantly trying to
please, wanting to please,

and it never quite came off.

I don't think I've ever met

a more stupider
girl than you, Ruby.

You never listen.

It goes in one ear,
out of the other.

And look at you.

Just look at you.

Torn stockings, dirty hands.

I fell over on
t'backstairs, Mrs. Bridges.

Fell over?

One day you'll fall and break
your neck, and good riddance.

Two of the best-loved
cast members

were Gordon Jackson, who
played Hudson the butler...

Named after a brand of
Edwardian soap, would you believe...

And the lovely Angela Baddeley.

Dear old Angie.

She played Mrs.
Bridges the cook.

Our guest of
honor, Mrs. Bridges,

is to be none other than
His Majesty, King Edward VII.

The King?

Defender of the
Faith, Emperor of India

and the Dominions
Beyond the Seas.

- The King!
- In person,

and that's for your ears
only at present, Mrs. Bridges.

Oh, good gracious me,
why ever didn't you say so?

Oh, God bless my soul!

The King of England is
coming to dinner here?

Oh!

Well, firstly you say "Angela,"

and what comes what to
me is this wonderful smell

of attar of roses.

She always...

And it was a monumental
character performance.

There was this very
petite, infinitely chic woman

who would suddenly be
padded up and with a wig

and the padding
and stuff would...

Would really transform
herself into this

benign, little old cook.

She was a stickler for detail

because she knew
that period so well,

and she wouldn't let anybody
get away with anything.

If a word was out of period,
if it was a modern word,

she would say, "No,
no, they never used

that word in those days."

And even with looking at the
things we used for cooking,

if there was something
that wasn't of that period,

she would say so.

She had a good eye.

Jenny Tomasin was
very nervous always,

and she did smoke quite a lot.

And one day they were
waiting... She was waiting to go on

and she was smoking, and
Angela was sort of beside me

just before the scene started,

and she said, "That Ruby...
She smokes too much, that Ruby."

And she'd forgotten she
was actually Angela Baddeley.

She was speaking in
completely Mrs. Bridges's voice,

which I thought was
rather charming, really.

There was always
such a great smile

when you walked in with Angela.

Angela always
cheered up the day.

She knew everything
about everybody,

and in the cast
too, and she would...

We would sit together on
this lumpy sofa at rehearsals

like two good little women,
swapping all the dirt.

She was very amusing.

You know, Edward,

being in service is not
unlike being in the army.

Our masters, like the
officers, are not always right,

and they sometimes blame us
for things which are not our fault.

But we are not
expected to answer back

or to bear any grudges,
because those are the terms

we accept when we enter service.

Maybe that's why I didn't
like being in the army.

He had an air about him
that was just magic to watch,

and I learnt so much.

He was so direct, you know.

"You're going to
come in"... He was so...

I mean, I think I'm precise.

I like it...

But he is just
unh! And so exact.

He was a perfect man to have as

the kind of lead in a way.

He very much held
people together.

He was a very, very kind man.

He was very generous,
he was very generous,

sort of shoving me
forward, things like that,

if he thought there was
a shot that I could get.

Gordon came up to me
with a box of chocolates,

said, "Oh, it's your
first-night present."

And I said, "Oh,
thank you, Gordon,

it's very kind of you,
but it's only a small part,"

and Gordon said,
"There are no small parts,

only small actors."

And he was so right, and I've
based my whole career on that.

He was a very,
very nervous actor.

He would learn his
lines mainly before

he came to rehearsals,
which we didn't,

and the whole process
made him very, very anxious,

and once we knew this, we
were very protective of him.

We would keep an
area of quiet around him

or we would run through
lines, just to look after him,

to make his life as
peaceful as possible.

If he could see what you
were trying to do as an actor,

he would find a way of
getting it... of helping you to it.

And he would just
every now and then say,

"Try it looking out
the window, or"...

Just a little, tiny something,
and you think, "Oh, yes."

Let me put it this way...

You couldn't be bad
with Gordon Jackson.

Between them,
Hudson and Mrs. Bridges

ruled their own tiny
empire... The kitchen.

The kitchen was
a good place to be,

around the kitchen
table, during rehearsals

or even in the studio days,
because they'd all be down there

quite like the sort of
show, kind of bitching about

the visiting artists and
life in general and things.

We had lovely, untidy,
real brown loaves

and socking great
lumps of cheese,

real cheddar,
big slabs of butter.

It was all much healthier.

The eggs and bacon
cooked by Angela Baddeley,

you know, on the set,
there was a practical thing,

and the poor upstairs people
had grouse that had gone off,

and all their food was
painted with glycerin

to make it look good,

and it was sitting
around forever,

and they would come
on to our set and say,

"Can we have some
bread and cheese?"

And we'd say, "No,
go away, it's ours."

You know, "Be off with you."

And after we'd finished a
take, we would continue eating,

much to the dismay
of the camera crew,

who would immediately,
"Silence on the floor.

Stop clattering those
knives and forks around."

Perhaps the most
famous and repeated

"Upstairs, Downstairs"
episode told of the night

the King came to dinner.

It was based partly on its
writer's personal experience.

Well, yes, there was
an occasion where

the Prince of Wales,
Edward VIII Prince of Wales,

came to dinner
often in our house,

and one had a sort of vague
idea of remembering the maids

sort of practicing curtseying
and all that sort of thing.

We were all sort of sent for
downstairs when he came to tea

or came in for a drink after
playing golf with my stepfather.

We used to produce our
exercise books like children did,

and he used to look
through all these pages

of sums and mathematics
and things and say,

"Jolly good, you know,
jolly good, you know,"

and that, so when we
got upstairs to the nursery,

my brother and I used to call
him "Jolly good, you know."

We all learned how
a household prepared

for something that grand
and how hard they worked.

And we were shown
the details, too.

That was the great thing.

And we had people
from Buckingham Palace

to come and show us
what to do and how to stand

and where to go.

Angela looked at
me and said, "Jenny,

we're far too tidy, both
of us, and you especially."

Makeup came
along, "Oh, no, no, no,

you're absolutely perfect."

Angie and I looked at
each other and went... no.

Is that done then, Mrs. Bridges?

Oh, stop asking
silly questions, girl.

And give me the vinegar, quick.

She wouldn't have
had time to be tidy.

So Angie and I just threw
egg all over ourselves, flour.

I dipped my hand in
flour and went like that,

pulled my hair out,
'cause I'd got tufts of hair.

It was too late for makeup
to do anything about it.

The cameras
rolled and we did it.

No! No!

He can't! He can't be dead!

He can't be dead!

He's the only man
I've ever loved!

He can't be dead! He can't be!

At the end of the fourth series,

"Upstairs, Downstairs"
was everywhere.

Its estimated worldwide
audience was 300 million.

And in Britain, it was
never out of the top ten.

You could buy the books,
the music, the magazines...

You could even
buy the marmalade.

I believe that the
crew used to ask to be

on "Upstairs, Downstairs,"
and then one of the most

rewarding, really
rewarding things,

was that they would
come to rehearsals

that they didn't have
to go to just to be in on

what we were doing
and to get ideas,

and it was not unusual
for me to be approached

by not just the leading
cameraman or the leading sound

but other members
of the crew to say,

"Jean, if you could get
further towards the table,

we can get a much
better shot of you."

When you work in the theater,

the audience is the
last member of the cast.

But when you work
well on television,

the crew is the last
member of the cast.

And that was true about
"Upstairs, Downstairs."

In those days, you
had these vast studios

with almost like theater sets,

and you'd go from
one room to another.

So, yes, they were
very atmospheric,

and of course all the things
were absolutely genuine

and wonderful paintings
and bits of silver

and genuine old clutter
down in the kitchen

and pots and pans, and yes,
it really helped enormously,

and everything
was... It was rather like

being in a theater in
some ways, actually.

They used to bring
cakes and stuff in,

and I remember that Angela
brought lots of cakes in.

Maybe it was because
she was a cook.

We used to work 'til 3:00

and exist on kind
of biscuits and stuff.

And here we were,
rehearsing on the King's Road.

And we had... I mean, I'd
never had money like this before.

Not that it was... I
mean, looking back,

it wasn't much at
all, really, but to me,

it seemed untold wealth,
and we'd go shopping

and we were very trendy
and had the platform shoes

and the glitter.

It was the days of David
Bowie and silver outfits,

and we were... yes,
we were, I suppose,

fairly outrageous
one way and another.

The worst thing
about playing him

was having the short hair.

The short hair
was just appalling.

Everyone had long hair.

If you had short hair in
the pub in those days,

people thought you must
have come out of prison.

For Jean Marsh,

it was her short sight
that caused problems.

As I was cutting
these sandwiches,

I cut myself, didn't notice it.

There was blood on the bread,
the bread were like doorsteps.

Sometimes the cucumber
was thicker than the bread,

and the cameraman very
wisely slowly panned away

from the sandwiches
and kept on my face,

so you saw my
shoulders very busily,

and then when it was
over and they said cut,

there was a shriek of
laughter from the entire studio

when I looked... and then
I looked down at this pile

of mangled and bloody
bread and... it was disgusting.

I need a new dress.

I need lots of new dresses.

The corsets are
fab, they really are.

A, you fill really attractive
because your waist is like that,

you know, so you
feel very feminine,

and you've got to sit up
straight because you don't

have to think
about how you walk,

because you can't walk
any other way than properly

and you can't sit any
other way but properly.

I couldn't sit like
this in a wing collar,

I'd have to sit like this,

so this automatically
changes your attitude anyway.

The program had a
powerful effect on people,

and especially for the cast,

the divide between fact
and fiction was often blurred.

I remember one woman barging
in front of me in Sainsbury's.

I said, "Excuse me."

I'd only just popped to
get something I'd forgotten,

and she got in front
of me, and she said,

"Well, that will teach you
to be so horrid to Hazel."

And I went...

When we used to
go into the studio,

the crew would say, "" Ello,
Jenny, good morning, Jenny,

good morning,
Jean," and all that.

"Good morning, Mr. Langton.

Good morning, Miss Gurney."

There was definitely a
hierarchy, it has to be said.

Maybe we were on the defensive
because we were playing servants

and wanted to play
posh, I don't know.

There may be an element of that.

It's a reflection on the
effect it has on people.

We're all equal actors.

We're all sort of, you know,

and there we'd
be sort of better.

Jean used to find it
very rankling, I think.

There were working-class
dressing rooms

and upper-class dressing rooms,

and it's... I know
it's pathetic,

but the upper-class dressing
rooms had corners and windows

and free paper handkerchiefs,
and the other ones had

no windows and no
paper handkerchiefs,

and I never got one,
and I thought we should

always have a turn,

and one day I
went into the studio

and I lost my rag.

I just said... and I think
I lost my accent as well.

I used my old
one, I said, "Look.

Rachel Gurney may
be playing Lady Marjorie,

but she isn't a
bleeding lady, you know,

and I thought of the idea.

I think occasionally I might
get a corner room with a window

and free Kleenex."

And actually the man, you
know, who doled out the keys,

he said, "Fair dues,
Jean, fair dues."

So ever after,
we took it in turns

to have the posh dressing rooms.

The downstairs people
would do all the work

the stage management
should have been doing,

like changing all...
'cause, you know,

the strawberries have
to go down on that line

and the turkey has
to come in on that line

for the cameras
so it's all the same,

and we'd have to
do it again and again,

and John and Pauline
would be clearing up

and the stage manager
just sitting like that,

because they were servants.

John threw everything on
the floor, the knives and forks.

He said, "What am I doing?"
He threw it on the floor once.

"I'm an actor,
this isn't my job."

It was a sort of
subliminal thing.

There are two families
living in this house.

There's us, the Bellamys,

and then there's
the family downstairs,

with father Hudson,
mother Bridges,

and their son Edward,

who's in the army now,
and so proud of him we are.

Then there's the
eldest daughter Rose,

who lost her young
man at the front.

And the two youngest daughters.

No, one's a
daughter-in-law, Daisy.

Married to Edward.

Who lives with her in-laws.

Yes.

Then Ruby, the
youngest, rather... simple.

A child.

Perhaps one day we'd
all be one big family,

not two.

In 1974, "Upstairs, Downstairs"

became the first
major television series

to dramatize the Great War.

For many of the cast
and crew, it was a personal

as well as professional story.

I know when my mother
died, we went through her...

All her jewelry and stuff,
and I think there were six

regimental badges that
people had given her

before they went
back to the front,

and I think she was engaged
to about four or five of them.

My father was killed in
France in the trenches

before I was born, two
months before I was born,

and all through my childhood,
I used to dread Armistice Day,

because mother was
always upset and in tears

and we used to have
to go to the cenotaph

for years and years,
and I always hated it

because it always
meant tears and drama.

One thing, though.

It's not just me, is it?

I mean, well, we're
all in this together.

Hundreds and thousands of us.

Daisy?

And I thought, the
nearest I can get to

my own personal
experience was my father.

He was at Ypres and
then went over the top,

and he was shot
through the face.

And it's very difficult to get
someone who's been through that

to actually open up,
and he really wouldn't

or didn't want to talk about it,

but I got a few horrific
things about loyalty.

And Charlie Wallace...

my pal, my best man.

We'd just got back to duty.

Big, heavy shell
burst right beside him.

He was trying to cut a
gap in the Boche wiring.

He went right up in the air.

When the smoke cleared, we
saw him hanging there on the wire

with his arm off.

Just up out there
all night, moaning.

I think there were millions of
interesting facets and themes

in that war series.

It was certainly our best.

I think that that
series would stand up

as a series about
the First World War

rather than a series of
"Upstairs, Downstairs."

And I remember a
scene in the dining room.

There can't be any argument,

any dispute that is worth
so many people's lives.

So much blood.

There's something
monstrous, evil, mad about it all.

And it's all bolstered up
by people here not knowing

what it's really
like, like some...

arsed confidence trick.

You see, even now, I can't
really tell you how awful it is.

We perpetuate the
lies even from out there.

The letters I've written to the
wives and mothers of my men.

"He died like a man,
instantly and in no pain.

His supreme sacrifice
will not be in vain."

I haven't written
a single letter

that didn't have
one of those lies in it.

And all the time, you
see, it seems to me clearer

and clearer that
they died for nothing.

It was breathtaking, really,

and I had some letters from
people who had obviously

been suffering in
isolation for decades,

and the letters
from them, saying,

"You expressed exactly
what I went through."

I'll always remember
Simon in that scene.

Always.

I understood and sympathized
with what the war did to James

and I became quite a lot
more affectionate about him,

and having slagged
him off all over the place,

I then got rather
defensive about him.

And looking back on him,

I'm really quite
fond of him now.

But the only character
actually to die in the Great War

was not James or Edward,
but poor, fragile Hazel.

In fact, it was the first
character in the whole series,

and I think almost the
only one, that I had to say,

"I'm awfully sorry,
you're going to die."

And it may sound quite
funny, really, but it wasn't.

I was very, very upset by it,

and I didn't know
how to tell Meg Wynn,

who was putting her
whole heart into things then,

so enthusiastic about
the part, you know, really,

so I asked her to lunch at
Simpson's-in-the-Strand,

and I think I waited
'til almost the cheese

and had another glass of wine
and glass of port and all that,

and eventually I said, "I've
got some bad news, I'm afraid.

Hazel's going to die in
the flu epidemic of 19..."

And she said, "Oh, don't worry."

She was very good...
"I did see you've done

almost everything
you could with Hazel."

I asked if I could have
a dramatic leave-taking,

and so they gave me
the best... I died of flu.

I didn't believe... I
mean, none of us believed

that there was a real
place for Hazel in the '20s.

Her journey had been completed.

The last series brought
the Roaring '20s to life...

Everything from
flappers and flying

to silent movies and
the General Strike.

James, we lost four
years of our youth

when we had to be
miserable and frightened

and watch all our friends
being killed one by one.

Well, they're dead, and there's
nothing we can do about it.

So, let's forget it and
have some fun, please?

All right, we'll have fun.

We'll have the most
stupendous party ever seen.

Of course we couldn't
age or we'd be dead,

and when we changed
the style into the '20s

and my... I had
to have a wig of,

you know, short, bobbed hair,

well, I didn't age, I youthed,

because it suited me.

I wondered if people
were watching, thinking,

"That woman is now 102."

We called it "Peter Panning,"

and so we never put
tremendous lines on...

Or tried, really,
to make them old,

and I don't think anyone
noticed or minded,

and I think it was the
right decision, really.

But the passing years did
cause real credibility problems

for father and son
characters Richard and James,

actors David Langton
and Simon Williams.

I figured that I
should be around 50

by the time we finished
and was putting in

a substantial amount of
gray hair and sort of trying

to make James a bit older,

and he'd be in the
adjoining makeup chair

sort of taking out the
gray, and I'd be putting it in,

and so we sort of ended up

looking more like
contemporaries,

and he didn't... I didn't think
he quite approved of that.

Mother lived in a different age.

We've moved on,
there's been a war!

Oh, don't use the
war as an excuse.

The war's got
nothing to do with this.

- Oh, hasn't it?
- We fought the war

to keep your mother's world,

to preserve certain
standards of decent behavior.

You're talking like an old fool!

What? How dare you!

A hopeless...

Yes, James, that is the
word exactly, "hopeless."

- What do you mean?
- You, boy, everything you do

seems to come to nothing...
Why? Can you tell me why you,

with all your advantages,
does it always end the same?

Robert Powell had said
it's a very good thing to die

in a major series,
and so when they said

we're going to do a
post-war series, a last series,

I said, "Yes, as
long as I can die,"

and they said, "We've
got a great idea."

Eternal loser James ended
his life in a Maidenhead hotel,

and millions of viewers
were left in shock.

And 165 Eaton Place
was no exception.

Oh, by the way,
we used to put a "1"

in front of the "6"
when we filmed it.

After James's death,
the house was sold off

and the series came to an end.

Despite higher viewing figures
than ever before, cast and crew

all felt they should quit
while they were ahead.

When we all decided to
finish "Upstairs, Downstairs,"

London Weekend controller
Cyril Bennett was furious.

He went mad nearly.

He said, "You can't,
you're absolutely...

You're letting the
company down, you're..."

I mean, he was really
very rude to me indeed,

and he said, "It's
absolutely monstrous.

You've gone quite mad.

It's a gold mine that's
plenty more to be dug out,"

and all that, and then he
pleaded and he said, "Look.

Here's a contract," he
said, "for the next ten years.

You can do two
half hours a week."

But he used to say to
me, "Don't go, don't go,

we'll call it 'The Rose Show. ""

"We'll double your salary.
We'll do all sorts of things."

I don't think he was serious.

"Upstairs, Downstairs"
was an award-winning,

much-loved international
television triumph.

It was a very new
area for a series,

to look at servants as
people, make them human.

There was a whole
society going on.

Nobody was lonely.

There was enough to eat.

You were warm, you were fed.

So I think watching the program,

whoever you were,
whether you were a duke

or someone who was
desperately out of work,

it sort of made you feel safe.

I mean, it was a fantasy,
but there was this house

in which everyone was included
and everyone was all right.

I do believe a great strength
of "Upstairs, Downstairs"

is that you can
dip into it again.

It's like a book
you can re-read,

a classic book.

And you can re-look
at one episode or five

and still find new things
in it and enjoy the familiar.

The whole thing was
a very happy business,

and I think friendships,
deep friendships can be made

in the heat of battle.

You know, it somehow is
a special sort of friendship,

and certainly making
"Upstairs, Downstairs"

was a battle, and I
think we all became

great friends, a
special sort of friends,

through that.

It was a remarkable cast.

The generosity, the help...

People would give you
little clues and little hints.

There was no feeling of
jealousy or resentment.

It was a lovely last
episode for me, really.

Very moving
and really thrilling.

The intention in
"Upstairs, Downstairs,"

the talent of everybody
shows on the screen.

It was simply very
good of its kind.

♪ Oh, what are we going
to do with Uncle Arthur? ♪

♪ A blinkin' stallion
is Uncle Arthur ♪

♪ And when he goes
a-strollin' in the park ♪

♪ Watch your step, girls,
especially after dark ♪

♪ Any old skirt's a
flirt for Uncle Arthur ♪

♪ He's over 80, but
how he can run! ♪

♪ "Give us a kiss,
me dear," he'd say ♪

♪ And tickle you
up the boom-di-ay ♪

♪ And say it was
just an harmless bit ♪

♪ A nice bruise on
you where you sit ♪

♪ A "Let me go, Uncle
Arthur!" kind of fun ♪ ♪

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