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(1929–2012). British tv and film producer.
Anderson has now
been transported to the Great Space Precinct in the Sky, and hence cannot no
longer been punished for his innumerable artistic crimes against humanity,
which far exceeded the transgressions of other notorious producers of terrible
science fiction television like Irwin ALLEN
or Glen A. LARSON. In fact, the British adults who grew up
watching his series at the time when science fiction programs were scarce
strangely showered the aging Anderson with great affection, perhaps mimicking
my own inability to properly chastise Allen, the American producer that I grew
up with. But just as British commentators may be best positioned to offer an
objective commentary on Allen, perhaps only a brash colonial can provide an
appropriately scathing analysis of his genuinely execrable output.
One must begin
any assessment of Anderson with his many science fiction puppet series—The
Adventures of Twizzle (1957), Torchy the Battery Boy (1960-1961), Supercar
(1961-1962), Fireball X-5 (1962-1963), Stingray (1964-1965),Thunderbirds
(1965-1966),Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons, (1967-1968), Joe 90
(1968-1969), Terrahawks (1983-1986), and Lavender Castle (1999-2000)—and
as well as several feature films, some original, others compiled from series
episodes. These are noteworthy only as cautionary examples of the need to properly
match genre with subject matter. Stop-motion animation is a valid and
potentially lively art form, as demonstrated by many examples ranging from
George PAL's
Puppetoons to Tim BURTON's The Nightmare before Christmas (1993);
but using the technique to enact stories that could have been done just as well
(if not as cheaply) with live actors provides the worst of both worlds: the
animation must stay within the boundaries of pseudo-realism and hence quickly
becomes uninteresting, and the literally wooden performances of the puppets
deprive the story of any emotional impact. Even if one takes the nostalgia
factor into consideration, the enduring popularity of these programs—particularly,
the Thunderbirds productions—remains a mystery, at least
on this side of the Atlantic. The only thing one can say in favor of these
puppet series is that puppets kept Anderson away from productions featuring
human actors—which for the most part were even worse.
Anderson clearly
longed for the greater prestige—and greater profits—to be garnered from
such filmed dramas, but one cannot say that he had any aptitude for the form,
based on the evidence provided by his three most spectacular failures. The film
Journey to the Far Side of the Sun (1969) expends considerable effort in
order to take viewers to the more boring and unimaginative alien world
imaginable—an exact duplicate of our Earth. There is also, unforgettably, the completely
unwatchable Space: 1999 (1975-1977), with the Moon ludicrously drifting
through space at non-relativistic speeds yet somehow managing to reach a
different star system every week—a concept so insulting to the intelligence of
viewers as to defy comment, and a flawed scenario unredeemed by its consistently
idiotic scripts and inadequate, uninvolving cast led by the miscast Martin
LANDAU
and Barbara BAIN and
various subordinates. And we cannot omit his most recent and various subordinates. And the
aforementioned Space Precinct (1994-1995), while less scientifically
ludicrous, was hardly any better.
Still, one could
mount a defense of Anderson by citing these points. First, he initially became
acquainted with science fiction by serving as the sound editor for the absurd
and risible Devil Girl from Mars (1954), which may have provided him
with an inaccurate impression of the maturity and intelligence that the genre
demanded. And one cannot honestly claim that all of his works were terrible,
since I actually remember quite fondly the early episodes of his other major
series, UFO (1970-1973). It had an intriguing premise—that a
near-future world, having accepted that alien spacecraft were actually visiting
Earth, would establish an agency to monitor and investigate these sightings;
the special effects were impeccable; and even the acting was better that usual.
But Anderson proved unable to imaginatively develop his story, as later
episodes reveals that the aliens were People Who Look and Act Just Like Us, and
the show slowed down to stupefied inertia as the aliens increasingly focused
all of their energies on repetitive schemes to kill the show's hero, Stryker.
(One episode was even given the wildly imaginative title of "Kill Stryker!"
[1970]) In addition, Anderson's programs have consistently been praised for
their stylish visuals, though by all reports this was mostly the work of his
long-time collaborator Sylvia ANDERSON, and all of the program's eye candy,
once fully appreciated after about ten minutes of observation, could do nothing
to alleviate the mindrot of his consistently silly scripts.
Finally, British
commentators might celebrate Anderson on purely nationalistic grounds: he long
provided steady employment for scores of British actors and technicians,
boosted the national income by regularly exporting his products to other
countries, and heightened his country's visibility by offering a distinctly
British vision of humanity's future. Yet like the original Doctor Who
(1963-1989), Anderson's programs usually were more an embarrassment to the
Mother Country than an affirmation of its virtues. And patriots seeking to
celebrate British contributions to science fiction have no need to cite the
works of Gerry Anderson, since there are many productions they can be justly
proud of, including Patrick MCGOOHAN's The Prisoner (1967-1968)—still
the best science fiction series ever produced—the Quatermass serials, the
original The Avengers (1961-1970), the radio and television The
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series, and several other programs unseen
in America that I am sure, based on critical descriptions, are far better than
anything Anderson ever produced. Let us face the unvarnished truth: Gerry
Anderson was a man who had no ideas, was deathly afraid of ideas, and
consistently employed futuristic settings and special effects only as gaudy
ornaments to the hoariest, most imbecilic, and most cliché-ridden stories
imaginable. Not really a producer of science fiction films, he is actually a
vicious enemy of science fiction, and he should be recognized and condemned as
such.
Note: from Supercar
on through to Space: 1999, Gerry Anderson's then-wife Sylvia Anderson was
regularly credited as a co-producer, writer of episodes, fashion coordinator,
and puppet voice, as chronicled elsewhere; but since her contributions were as
noted mostly in the realm of visual effects, and since Anderson soldiered on
with identical ineptitude since their 1975 divorce, one can deduce that their
collaborations were largely Anderson's work, so he and he alone can properly be
blamed for them.
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