My indistinguishable mutterings may be heard at https://soundcloud.com/user-868590968/rta027-episode-27 - this is the hopefully more distinguishable text version...
PODCAST 7 – DIXON OF DOCK GREEN
Evenin’ All
If some young whippersnapper was to tell me that,
after working for over twenty-one years on four hundred and thirty-two episodes
of one of the most popular television series of its time, the powers that be would
only keep thirty-two of ‘em, I’d probably fetch him a clip ‘round the ear ‘ole and
send ‘im on ‘is way, after soundly reminding him not to be so daft.
But, you know, when I looked into it, d’you know,
that’s exactly what they did.
I don’t know why I bothered, I really don’t. You
Doctor Who fans don’t know you’re born! I don’t know, you serve all those
years, do your duty, and what thanks do you get, I ask you? Anyway, more than sixty
years on, there’s still some bloke harping on about it all, despite the best
efforts of those very powers that be…
The lack of a
comprehensive record of “Dixon of Dock Green” lurking in the archives means
that, even if you wanted to look at the life of Officer George Dixon, Constable
of Dock Green nick, between the years of 1955 and his retirement at the grand
old age of eighty-one in 1976, you don’t get much of a choice, other than that
one where he forces a bent copper played by Paul Eddington to strip off his
uniform before being marched off in shame back to the station, and, if you
really want to learn anything very much about his origins, you have to go to
the cinema.
Still, where’s the
harm in that? What could possibly go wrong by taking a swift trip to the
cinema?
Well, according,
to the rather marvellous British film called “The Blue Lamp” made five years
before the series began, way back in 1950, when George Dixon was still working
at Paddington Green, he got himself shot and killed by some young tearaway waving
a gun around in a picture house doorway.
Oh…
“The Blue Lamp” is
a rather wonderful old British movie and is well worth having a look at if you
get the chance. Yes, it is in Black and White, which I know is a barrier to
lots of people nowadays, and yes, it portrays a rather idealized view of the
police force from a far more innocent age, and, for those who find that sort of
thing hilarious, perhaps it’s not for you, but there is something rather
wonderful going on if you’re prepared to give it a chance.
After the swinging
of the Rank Gong, and the iconic Ealing Studios caption card, our introduction
to Paddington Green nick is via the very Blue Lamp of the title, although
obviously, it’s in shades of grey in that peculiar way that Black and White
films with colours in their titles had a clever knack of simply ignoring; “The
Scarlet Claw…!”, “The Woman in Green…!”, “The Blue Dahlia!” – all resolutely
grey and it’s really not a problem.
The words “Police
Station” are written upon that very grey lamp and, as we pan downwards to
street level, the credits – including the one for Director Basil Dearden - are
overlaid over a stolen car in a hurry, being chased through streets the like of
which are not seen nowadays, by a police car filmed in a very cinema verite
style with no music, just the sound of the police car bells, the screeching of
tyres, and the blaring of the wireless car radios, ironically making it all
feel a little bit like “Z Cars”.
After this high
octane opening, and an on-screen acknowledgment of grateful thanks to the
actual police force, after a montage of car chases, fighting, shooting,
horrible death of an innocent elderly man, over a montage of newspaper
headlines, and the Old Bailey, a somber voiceover intones about the crimewave
and the words of “Mr Justice Finnemore” are heard telling anyone who’ll listen
that the best cure for a crime wave is more bobbies on the beat, before we are
introduced to Police Constable George Dixon, as played by lovely old Mister
Huggett himself, Jack Warner, a amiable veteran of 25 years service, crossing
the road to give directions to a tourist, and Andy Mitchell (as portrayed by
Jimmy Hanley), a fresh young copper accompanying a “lost” child who wise old
Dixon spots immediately as a littlun well known for trying it on for the
possibility of getting given a jam bun down at the station.
So far, so very
cosy.
Life at the Police
station all seems pretty cosy, too. A singing drunk gets charged and we
discover that it’s nineteen forty-nine, and this very polite bunch of coppers,
fine upstanding citizens to a man and woman, enjoy nothing more than a meal in
the canteen and a nice game of cards before heading out to do battle with the
forces of darkness.
Everything in the
garden is not rosy, however, as PC Andy Mitchell does get a slight ticking off
from Sergeant Roberts of the CID (played by Robert Flemyng) for letting on to
him in the street earlier when he was trying to remain anonymous, for which the
young PC is suitably aghast, although this will serve him well later on in the
movie.
Peter Byrne would
pick up the mantle of the naïve young copper named Andy – this time called
Crawford - in the television version, and play the role as he progresses up the
ranks, for twenty years.
Displaying the
broad spectrum of life down the local nick, it turns out that despite being in
the very heart of that London, the Paddington Green force has a Welsh policeman
amongst its staff who, rather predictably in those post-war, post-forces years,
is known as “Taff” Hughes…
Over his card
game, “Taff’s been robbed!” quips George, displaying what we would now call
casual racism, but what was then simply matey banter, albeit matey banter based
upon the sort of social stereotyping that would get the police force into all
sorts of trouble over the course of the next several decades.
Or maybe I’m
reading far too much into it.
And so we get a
montage of scenes from ordinary life in a world now utterly lost to us, but one
that I find that I have a peculiar fondness for when I see it. I mean, I
wouldn’t want to live there, of course – who would want to live in a world
which we all know was so full of casual racism, sexism and homophobia? – but
it’s a fascinating, simpler place, and it intrigues me to see it in all its
monochrome glory, and wonder just how people lived when they lived like this.
We descend into
the dark underbelly of the London poor, a world of tenements, crowded houses,
drunks, wife beaters, broken homes, and people being brazen enough to remark
unkindly about boy coppers. It’s all fast cuts as we are introduced to this
hard life, where the daughter of one of those broken homes, Diana Lewis (played
by Peggy Evans) becomes a street-walking delinquent, and her friends, Dirk
Bogarde’s iconic “Tom Riley” and Patric Doonan’s “Spud” are the very epitome of
restless bravado, getting away with serious crimes because they’re young enough
to have no record. Unlike “professional” (!!!) thieves – I hope you registered
my astonishment at the use of the term - they are considered immature and prone
to sudden acts of violence, and, down in dodgy places like the local Pool hall,
the real criminals who hang out therein really don’t like them much, either.
Meanwhile, back at
Paddington Green Station, the shifts are changing, and one villain’s been
locked up for cruelty to a horse – Ah! Those faraway days when so much
transport was still horse-drawn – and the drunk from earlier is still in his cell.
The duty sergeant
says that he’ll make him some tea, and that single moment displays much of what
is about as far away from modern depictions of policing on television as it is
possible to get.
This bunch were
trusted, decent, fair-minded people to be looked up to and admired. Now it may
be true that the real police force were never quite as idealized as this film
portrays them as being, but…
And so, lovable
old copper, PC George Dixon arrives home and, like the lovable, honest chap
that he is, he’s invited Andy back for tea – without telling his wife there’d
be one extra mouth to feed, which, it appears, happens a lot to “Em”, presumably
Emma, his long-suffering missus, who, of course, is not long-suffering at all.
By means of gentle
hints about good meals and rooms not being easy to find in those post-war years
- the tenaments we saw earlier having already shown this – Mrs Dixon is
persuaded that “Bert’s old room” – which is how we find out that they lost
their son in the war – might possibly be let out to Andy.
Of course, it’s
only six months until George is due to retire and, whilst he hints at stopping
on, they would have to move out from this Police property themselves, which
seems rather alarming, when you start to think about it. Facing retirement and
homelessness at the same time. I guess it’s rather lucky that families in the
late 1940s didn’t really have all that much stuff to pack up and move.
There’s a lovely
little scene showing the relationship between George and Em, of the “Mustn’t
grumble”, “He never stops grumbling” variety which shows to us just how loving
they really are, despite having lost their son, and which only serves to
emphasise the genuine sense of loss that will be felt later on.
And whilst George
goes off to water his begonias, let’s take a moment to reflect upon the home
life of the “other” George Dixon, the one that we will eventually see in the
corner of our living rooms for nearly a quarter of a century some half a decade
later, in which George is a widower having lost his wife during a wartime air
raid, and has a daughter named Mary, and, instead of being on the very brink of
retirement, will carry on policing for another quarter of a century.
Worlds – even
these long lost worlds – are suddenly colliding and yet splintering at the same
time.
Anyway, the upshot
of all this is that Em invites Andy to stay and, by emphasizing that, at only
25 – the same age as their lost son Bert – he becomes a sort of surrogate son
to both of them.
At least for a
little while.
Still, life at the
nick goes on. Not the raucous hard-drinking life we’d later see from the
Sweeney boys and their pals, but in male voice choir practice, which is
mercifully interrupted by a request from that bloke who would one day be
Trenchard in “The Sea Devils” – Clive Morton - getting the night duty to fall
in leading to a mildly comical vignette of short scenes of life on the beat
during the hours of darkness – which includes a racy moment of a couple smooching
in a doorway being spotlit by a policeman’s torch, an officer reporting “All
Correct” to his sergeant, another tiptoeing past a sleeping workman in his tent
so as not to disturb him, a civilian fretting about his pregnant wife, and that
old classic, the cat sounding like someone up to no good.
And, whilst nasty
old Tom Riley - as played by a ridiculously young Dirk Bogarde - is still plotting
in his digs, Andy meets up with George on a street corner, wondering how to get
through the utter boredom of night patrol. George’s advice tells us a lot about
his fellow officers; one works on his pools coupon, whilst another is looking
at the stars. Dear old George Dixon, it turns out, works on little poems, and runs
through a preview of his “All Correct” schtick.
As he lights up his pipe, the sergeant appears, and they are both told off for
gossiping, and Andy is reminded that he no longer needs to be, as he puts it -
wet nursed before – Ha! Ha! – wheeling his bike off like the old gossip he is
asking George whether there’s any rain coming on, his famous Geraniums, and
whether he’s stopping on the force. George says it’s not fair on the missus and
this jolly, calm little interlude is interrupted by the close up---
SCREAM!
---of – it’s only Dora
flippin’ Bryan…!
There’s been a
robbery and, amidst the chaos in the house that was the scene of the crime, Dixon
covers his ears until peace is restored and gets a sarcastic “Thanks for all your
help!” in return. This really is a window into a lost world in which a domestic
escalates via cultured pearls, false names and infidelity, into the very seeds
of Dixon’s destruction.
And whilst a
wireless car – aah! – is summoned, and dear old Dixon promises to “try not to
make it embarrassing for” the errant jeweller who discovers that, whilst he was
playing away from home, the keys to his shop have gone missing. A robbery is in
progress in which Dirk beats up “Taff” Hughes.
At the scene of
the crime the CID arrive to give young Andy the lesson that “CID gets all the
fun” although, through a handily grabbed belt from a raincoat, they do at least
have a clue to work with.
Nobody seems too
worried about Taffy, though, despite his beating, and, through the
pre-walkie-talkie means of a police post – a kind of mini TARDIS – the sort of
amiable insults and gallows humour that got us all through the blitz keeps them
all calm and carrying on.
Another slice of
life living a policeman’s lot follows as the day routine is montaged from the
rudeness of being called “copper”, to Dirk and his pals plotting another score.
Diana, the daughter reported missing during that incident earlier is spotted by
Andy and escorted discreetly back to the station, after a discussion of
something else that speaks volumes of lost worlds, her identity card.
At the nick, Dixon
is dealing with a woman who is missing a dog, which leads to some chat about licences,
whilst Diana is handed over to the “Woman Police” under whose questioning she
cries some crocodile tears, declares her age as 17, and objects to the prospect
of being sent to a hostel.
Afterwards, as she
retouches her makeup, Roberts from CID spots her powder compact as being from the
jewel robbery, which he reports to his “he’ll be in the canteen” quip making DDI
who is only Bernard flippin’ Lee who would gain wider fame as M in the Bond
films much later on in his career.
Thanks to Mitchell
the net is already closing on Dirk and his pals, but it won’t be soon enough.
Roberts goes to the local pool hall to chat to a real – but honorable – villain
who, amidst giving him tips for the White City dog races, explains that he
really would grass these young upstarts up if he could.
Lunch – as it
regularly appears to be – is held at the Dixon house. It is, of course, a
rather poignant lunch, as it is to be the last, but none of them know that yet.
I wonder – this was one of the top box office films of its time, but was that
murder as shocking as the one in PSYCHO a decade later?
There’s some
chatter about whether George’s begonias would be good enough for Chelsea and
banter about compost and it is Andy who has to threaten to knock George and
Em’s heads together knowing that neither of them really want George to retire
at all.
Ha! Ha!
Oh.
Well, what would
happen to all the lunches and that nice room if he did…?
No, no! We are
still in less cynical times. That’s the difficulty with visiting these lost
worlds – they’re so lost it’s sometimes hard for us to truly appreciate them.
In the aftermath
of this revelation, George and Em have a little tiny bit of a row, but, on the
whole, theirs is a house of love and laughter and nobody has a clue what’s
about to hit them.
The clock is
ticking – In the music hall, Dirk and his wicked pal are plotting a cinema cashier robbery which is all set for
nine-thirty…
On his last
afternoon of life, George wins the darts match and the police choir all join in
as he performs his little “All Correct!” song in a really jolly community
spirit until they are interrupted and duty calls.
High comedy and
high drama being but a hair’s breadth apart, whilst Dixon is about to have his
date with destiny, the station is all found dog, bigamy and cigarettes, whilst
Two Ton Tessie O’Shea belts out Tom Riley’s alibi. On those ever so mean streets
of Paddington, there’s just time for one last “All correct” with the sergeant,
who also gets a darts match report, and seems happy that George will be staying
on another five years. They part with a cheery “Be seeing you!” neither knowing
that he’ll be lucky to get another five minutes.
Despite all of
their worst laid plans, Tom and Spud’s robbery gets interrupted – they are, as
the street lingo of the time would have it “rumbled” - and someone goes off to
fetch a policeman, and the policeman that they fetch is none other than PC 931
George Dixon and there is a short confrontation in the cinema doorway -
“Get back!” – “Drop
it!” - “I’ll drop you – this thing’s real!”
- so, not quite
forty minutes into the movie, PC George Dixon is shot twice – and not, despite
Tom’s pleas to Spud back at the music hall, where Tessie is still singing, in
his legs.
There’s a scream and
a shout of “You maniac!” and, via the terrible telephone and relayed to all
cars via the innovation of radio the news trickles out - George Dixon shot.
Back at music hall,
even Spud is aware of the grave consequences of their actions now - “I hope it was his legs!” as Tom Riley becomes just
as iconic a figure in British Crime Cinema as Pinky Brown in “Brighton Rock”.
Outside an operating
theatre, Mrs Dixon waits with young Andy, and is offered tea and, indeed,
sympathy, and everyone is “Very kind” and whilst the Doctor is upbeat about him
doing very well and having fine constitution – which we all now know will see
him though several decades more of police work, when Em asks to see him for a
moment the Doctor tells Andy the harder truth that really it’s 50/50…
George is last
seen sitting up in bed and receives both a kiss and a heartbreaking “Oh,
George!” from his wife and the film is now 43 minutes in.
Outside the
cinema, rubberneckers are watching forensics at work around a chalk outline that
speaks volumes. Questions are being asked, but all thoughts are on St Mary’s Hospital
as radio operators report in asking for “Any news on Dixon?” and are told he’s “A
little better” which is passed on to PC 814 Andy Mitchell when he phones in,
which is a relief to even the criminals who “Don’t hold with having him shot
all the same” – Lost worlds.
A kid called Queenie
who’s limited “No, no, nothing!” vocabulary speaks volumes about the changing
relationship society is already starting to have with the police finds the gun,
and whilst anyone brought up on CSI is screaming “Fingerprints!” at the screen,
and the neighbourhood kids do what neighbourhood kids always do, the couple who
witnessed the robbery are interviewed.
But, at 48 minutes,
we find out that George Dixon DIED…!!!
The news of this
“rotten business” spreads and, when Mitchell hears the news “Dixon died 20 minutes
ago” (no doubt explaining all those claims that he’s shot twenty minutes into
the movie that persist), and Jimmy Hanley’s delivery “Died?” is heartbreaking,
especially as he then has to tell “Em”
The flowers feature
prominently once again in this beautifully played little scene, as Em wants
them to be the first thing he sets eyes on when he wakes up, and Andy has to
explain that George’s heart gave out. Broken, she automatically looks at the
flowers with a stoic “I’ll have to put these in water” and Andy can offer
nothing but the hopeful promise that “We’ll get him, ma…”
Her flat reply “I
expect you will” speaks volumes about love, loss, crime, and retribution, and
it is a truly devastating moment for the viewer as she turns to hug Andy when
she breaks down and cries over the huge loss.
When Queenie’s
vocabulary finally expands enough to explain where the gun was found, her
matter-of-fact “Will you be able to hang him now?” brings a dark shadow of
another thankfully lost world, and a cold shudder to my great big soft liberal
self.
And that’s the
last we really see or hear of PC George Dixon in The Blue Lamp.
If part one is all
about George Dixon, part two is all about Tom Riley and it becomes a police
procedural and pretty much the blueprint for just about every TV cop show ever.
Andy has to remain
steely as he deals with rude motorists making ironically cruel comments about
the criminals they ought to be chasing when they’ve lost one of their own, and criminals
appalled by this act of brutality (did I mention lost worlds?) assist with the
manhunt.
Witnesses are
unable to identify Tom Riley when he’s put in a lineup and, because this is
still the era of the decent copper, he doesn’t fall down the stairs when they
have to him go. He is, however, followed and, scared, he eventually ends up
being pursued in a glorious car chase through the streets of a truly lost
London by cars like of which we will not see again, and it stirs my heart to
watch this. A car crash brings a kind of justice to Tom’s friends and, whilst
he tries to hide amongst the crowds of White City, through the cooperation of
both police and villains, he is caught – and – of course – it is Andy Mitchell
– disguised in a borrowed overcoat who takes him.
Naturally, Andy
then gets told off about being out of uniform because he’s lost his tall hat,
and the running gag of Detective Bernard Lee pays off as he lights up a gasper,
and order is restored to everyday life in Paddington Green, at least for a
while.
On another day,
having pretty much grown up and become George Dixon himself, Andy is asked for directions,
life goes on as normal, and whilst we have learned a lesson about the bravery
of an ordinary copper, the picture pans right back to that big blue lamp.
And somewhere in
the very lost world of Dock Green, the spirit of PC George Dixon is stirring,
ready to spark back into life and mentor another young copper in about half a
decade’s time, and carry on as all those lost worlds of post-war London are
demolished and start fading from living memory except for those captured so
beautifully and vividly on celluloid,
That dear old PC
George Dixon managed to stagger on long beyond his natural retirement age, and
long after his particular style of policing was no longer fashionable, and continued
existing alongside more gritty “realistic” visions of the police force like “Z
Cars” is something of a small televisual miracle. After all, his final few
years on screen overlapped with “The Sweeney” and “Special Branch” – in fact
you could almost argue that it was “The Sweeney” that finally killed off George
Dixon a quarter of a century after his first screen death.
His legacy did
live on, however, when, in later years other tales of ordinary coppers started
being told on “The Bill” which also had the audacity to stick around forever in
television terms. As a coda, one of the nicer resolutions to the TV series
“Life On Mars” - in its later incarnation as “Ashes To Ashes” - was to take a
moment to make a nod of appreciation in the direction of George Dixon and, in a
roundabout way, imply that maybe his entire television life was also spent in
some kind of police afterlife.
You know, from time-to-time, people ask me why I’m so
interested in television from the olden days, when all of the modern dramas are
so slick and meaningful and full of super-realism, misery and helicopters
exploding…
On the whole I like my television programmes as they were
back then in simpler times precisely because they’re not full of super-realism,
misery and exploding helicopters.
Some of the nuanced acting that you used to see in
those simpler days can often move me in ways that all that shouting instead of
emoting in slick modern dramas simply fails to do, and if your top lips aren’t wibbling
when Em hears about what happened to George, then I doubt you’re ever going to
understand why.
Goodnight all.
