This article was first published in The Dundee Courier on 18 February 2017.
TERRY PRATCHETT: BACK
IN BLACK:
Saturday, BBC Two
ANDREW MARR: MY BRAIN
AND ME: Tuesday,
BBC Two
Human
beings are frighteningly vulnerable. Even the sharpest minds among us can be
assaulted without warning by the cruel lottery of fate. Two programmes last
week shone defiant glimmers of hope into mortality’s glowering visage.
They
focused on robust and somewhat eccentric characters who dealt with serious
illness – one fatal, the other life-threatening – with humour, pragmatism and a
healthy lack of sentiment.
The
phenomenally successful fantasy author Terry Pratchett died of Alzheimer’s in
2015. He’d lived with the degenerative disease for eight years, during which he
continued to write until he was no longer able.
His
final project was a memoir recorded with the assistance of his PA. Pratchett
never lived long enough to complete it.
Enter
TERRY PRATCHETT: BACK IN BLACK, a
charming tribute which sought to tell the story of his life in fittingly
irreverent fashion.
Wearing
the guise of a mischievous narrator, actor Paul Kaye, aka the prankster
formerly known as Dennis Pennis, rescued the
Discworld creator from the philosophical clutches of Death (coincidentally
the most popular character from Pratchett’s novels).
Armed
with trademark wizard’s beard, black fedora and nasal rhoticism – the result of
a childhood accident which, in Pratchett’s words, left him sounding like “David
Bellamy with his hand caught in an electric fire” – Kaye’s affectionate
impersonation would, one presumes, have delighted the man who inspired it.
He
led us through a prolific life and cynical/compassionate worldview forged by a
childhood in which Pratchett was told he’d never amount to anything, hence why
his distinctive form of satire was driven by an angry intolerance of hypocrisy,
snobbery and injustice. An indelible streak of “I told you so” remained with
him until the end.
But
if Pratchett could be cantankerous, an essential sense of decency was his
abiding characteristic. He never lost his amused yet sincere fascination with
the human condition, even when he was eventually felled by the kind of unjust act
of fate he always railed against.
Andrew
Marr is a kindred spirit. When he suffered a debilitating stroke in 2013, the
respected political journalist refused to kowtow to self-pity – which he
describes as “the most nauseating human quality of all” – in a way Pratchett
would’ve appreciated.
Despite
clinging to the celebrity-fronted “personal journey” blueprint so beloved of
modern television, ANDREW MARR: MY BRAIN
AND ME was, thanks to the wryly no-nonsense nature of its star,
refreshingly free of stage-managed catharsis. Marr’s journalistic eye ensured
that he never became the whole story.
Through
the prism of his own experience, he examined the available recovery options and
various neurological effects of the biggest cause of disability in Britain (the
inclusion of a post-stroke Marr interviewing former Secretary of State for Work
and Pensions Iain Duncan Smith wasn’t accidental).
“I’m
nothing special,” he insisted, as he met stroke survivors who made him look
relatively lucky.
Marr
believes two years of excessive work caused his stroke, but he appears to be
working as prolifically as ever. Slowing down just isn’t an option for this
intensely driven broadcaster, who cites painting as one his few sources of
solace. In one revealing moment, he expressed regret that he never attended art
school. A fear of failure sent him on a different course.
Yet
despite his candour, Marr’s Celtic stoicism remained admirably intact.
“I
know the BBC has a special contract where I have to burst into tears at one
point,” he smiled, “but I can’t do it. I come from Dundee.”
