Marcella Evaristi
THERE was a time when theatrical agents would sniffily protect their clients from the reputation-damaging world of advertising. This sensitive protection from the vulgar voice-over could come expensive - in The Voice Squad (R4) I heard about an actress who lost #3000 in the sixties through her representative's purist delicacy about her calling. These days such distaste seems ridiculously dated; professional actors being understood to be more robust
and versatile creatures. And may be there's a more democratic
understanding of the need, when underpaid for art, to pay the mortgage with the welcome help of the odd voice-over.
But voice-overs are no longer considered the struggling artist's back-up. Big names with recognisable catch phrases or vocal quirks are heard selling everything; we've got very cool and ironic about it all. If an advertiser gets knocked back by a star the chances are it's because he's too expensive rather than too proud. So if you can't afford the #50,000 you need for Whicker, you can pay Whicker ten grand and get a chap in to do an imitation. Sometimes the unknown chap is better; Tommy Cooper once got replaced by a voice-over pro. An imitation distils the highly recognisable elements into a tiny unit of time: you could see why a true eccentric like Cooper could not trim and tuck his anarchy to suit.
The real professionals of the ''voice-over community'', as it was described, can shave one and a half seconds off a recording, immediately suss that only by substituting a long-vowelled Brummie accent would a script fit an animation, and generally intuit the style and shaping that's going to work.
Steven Punt's packed half-hour programme allowed them to shine as terrific anecdotalists; their verbal dexterity unhampered by excessive ego. I loved the story of the actress picking up her child from the playground and being surrounded by kids begging her to do her Caramel Bunny voice. But the high-point trophy, in spite of the hilarious squeaks of the Hershey talking peanut, has to go to the Orson Welles extract. This tape was priceless.
Orson was recording a voice-over for frozen peas and he was not a happy (genius) bunny. The disdain rumbled imperiously, the nervous attempts by the minions to dictate their requirements sounded like nervous birdies trying to reason with Mount Etna. finally, having talked over them continuously, Welles drawled with dark precision - ''could you tell me - from the depth of your ignorance - what you want?''
When one of the advertising people in the voice-over programme referred to the quality of irony which came into play with the use of DJs' voices, I thought I had misheard. Irony? DJs? but along came Wogan (R2) to prove me wrong. The morning after BBC2 had broadcast the toothless satire (with Stephen Fry playing the R2 controller as a pukka high-culture chap, a loather of populism, and a would-be assasin of the Director General), Terry was doing his Miffed At Not Being Mentioned party piece at which he excels. (He appeals to the universal fear of being excluded, of being deemed uncool and unimportant. It's the classic loser stance of the traditional comic, and he plays it brilliantly).
But there was a neat little critique nestling in there, not that he'd ever used such a R3 word. Not only had he shaved away the undeserved hype of In The Red but he'd got a laugh out of it. Which is more than the telly programme managed.
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