A FRIEND WHO thinks I am unduly harsh on commercial
tele- vision suggested I should watch the BBC's latest serial, David CoPperfield—praised by the critics—and ask myself what Would have been said about it if it had appeared on the rival channel. From a look at the second instalment, I can see what he is driving at. No less an authority than Mr. Maurice Wiggin says it is beautifully cast : 'the players might have sat for Phiz.' Indeed? Dickens's David in this episode was eight, and small for his age : the BBC's is eleven, and large for his. Dickens's Steerforth was around fourteen; the BBC's, I would guess, is rising thirty. These eccentricities might charitably be excused by the difficulties of casting a serial; not so the liberties taken with the text. Surely David did not comment on the flavour of Mr. Murdstone's hand, after he had bitten it !— though later, recollection of the bite set his teeth on edge. A small point : but why the change? And the delightful scene With the waiter was travestied. I would have thought Dickens a good enough script-writer without the need of 'additional dialogue' by some anonymous hand.
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