Christopher Rush
Prologue of Distinction
Where did that great genre of television the mini-series go? In its heyday, the mini-series brought us some of the best moments, characters, and stories ever to hit the small screen. From the mid-1970s to the mid-1980s, British and American studios created some of the most memorable programs television has ever produced, many of which are still far superior to the programming of regular episodic television popular today.
It would be helpful to narrow the subject of the argument at hand. I am decrying the loss of the extended, multiple-part mini-series. In doing so, I am discounting the presence of otherwise fine but comparatively short two-part broadcasts of what are essentially long made-for-TV movies – thus, respectable but limited productions such as 1996’s Gulliver’s Travels and 1998’s campy but decent Merlin are excluded from the conversation here. Plenty of networks (too many) have created these 180-minute mega-movies in recent memory (10.5, for example), and they are not worth considering here. Similarly, we can forget lengthy Bio-pics and serialized adaptations of Stephen King novels. Stephen King fans may object, but they are not the grand, sweeping mini-series which we are currently exploring. The kinds of series that fall in-between these broad categories (two-part super-sized movies and multiple-part sweeping epics) such as 5ive to Midnight and the recent remakes of Dune and The Prisoner as well as mini-series that became episodic TV series (V, Battlestar Galactica, The Starter Wife), while more expansive and developed than the two-part productions, still fail to capture the grandeur, impressive narrative, and sustainability of the mini-series of old. Has the interest level in creating lengthy, quality productions truly soured on the American and British television audience and major networks?
True, Turner Network Television is trying to do its share, with Caesar, Nightmares and Dreamscapes, and Into the West, though they are not very long even for mini-series. The BBC is doing its best as well, but most of its output lately has been simply remakes (how many Jane Austen and Charles Dickens adaptations does one need? seriously, another Brideshead Revisited?). Another aspect that makes British mini-series somewhat difficult to assess is that so many of their regular series are only 6 or 8 episodes per season (or fewer), thus differentiating between a regular series and mini-series is challenging. Even so, they are not the same.
We would be remiss to ignore the handful of lengthy mini-series produced of rather fine quality in the last decade or so: From the Earth to the Moon (1998), The 10th Kingdom (2000), Band of Brothers (2001), Taken (2002), Angels in America (2003), John Adams (2008), and, perhaps, not that any of us have seen them, The Pacific and Pillars of the Earth (2010). Thus we have eight substantial mini-series in the last twenty years, since the “last of the mini-series” War and Remembrance in 1988-89, and five of them have come from HBO. In Britain, aside from the Beatles Anthology documentary series, the definitive Pride and Prejudice adaptation in 1995, and the House of Cards trilogy in the early ’90s (though they, too, are still short), as mentioned above, nothing much has come out lately other than previously adapted novel remakes. Where did the grand mini-series go? Did War and Remembrance, truly, finish it off?
The Golden Age of British Mini-Series
Ignoring, as we’ve said, the recent trends of brief four-to-six-part BBC novelizations (though the Alec Guinness versions of the John Le Carré novels Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and Smiley’s People are certainly worth seeing when you’re older), let’s look at some of the better British mini-series from the glory days. This is not intended to be all-inclusive, nor a complete treatise on the history of British mini-series, merely a brief exploration of some of the high points of the genre long ago.
The Golden Age of British mini-series began with The Six Wives of Henry VIII (1970), the multi-BAFTA winning series that focused on, as its name intimates, Henry VIII’s six wives (3 Catherines, 2 Annes, and 1 Jane Seymour – not of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman fame, of course), one per episode. Relative unknown Australian actor Keith Mitchell got the role of Henry VIII, in part thanks to the patronage of his discoverer Laurence Olivier. Part of the success of the series came from Mitchell’s ability to span forty years of Henry’s reign, from virile 18-year-old monarch to 56-year-old tyrant, bloated and diseased. Though some critics panned its thematic portrayal of Henry as the lonely, misunderstood but reasonable man, the series established the BBC’s ability to create “ambitious and historically authentic costume drama,” according to David Pickering. Real Dr. Who fans (and by that I mean fans of the original series incarnation) will recognize Patrick Troughton, the Second Doctor – possibly the best incarnation – in a supporting role. The following year saw the successful sequel, Elizabeth R, winning 5 Emmys (not that that is our standard for quality here). Its remarkable historical accuracy and high quality production values are evinced by eponymous actress Glenda Jackson, who shaved her head for authenticity’s sake instead of wearing a bald cap and wore 200 different dresses in six episodes. With due respect to Helen Mirren and Jeremy Irons, the 1971 mini-series is far superior to the two-part 2005 version.
The next group of mini-series begins with the joint British-Italian Moses the Lawgiver (1974) starring Burt Lancaster and Irene Papas. Despite the cast, the series has more or less faded into the forgotten past, unlike its unofficial sequel, 1977’s controversial Jesus of Nazareth. Featuring the “who’s who” of the ’70s (at least the A- list, plus some “fading stars” of an earlier era), Franco Zeffirelli and Anthony Burgess’s version of the Gospels leave out quite a bit, add in a few things, and, of course, provoked the ire of Bob Jones III in Greenville, South Carolina (who, to be fair, probably should have seen it before he got upset). It is certainly never acceptable to purposefully modify Biblical truth (it isn’t good to accidentally modify Biblical truth either, of course), but one thing Christianity has been very good at in the 20th and 21st centuries is over-reacting to situations without actually understanding the thing to which it is reacting – not a very impressive way to demonstrate a personal relation with the Logos Who is Agape to a moribund world. In 1987, before most of you were alive, TV Guide called Jesus of Nazareth “the best miniseries of all time.” I’m not so sure. Some might be put-off by the fact the Monty Python troupe used the sets for Life of Brian the following year, but few people probably know that. The final part of the trilogy, A.D., came out in 1985, featuring another collection of famous actors and actresses – one of the best aspects of these classic mini-series, back when the world actually had real, trained, quality actors and actresses (something sorely lacking today) – perhaps the rest of the A- list (admittedly subjective, and I’m open to correction). Thematically, A.D. follows Jesus of Nazareth in that it primarily covers Acts and the lives of Peter and Paul. It, too, was adapted by Anthony Burgess from one of his books. Alternatively, A.D. is a companion piece to I, Claudius from a decade before, in that they both cover, in part, the reigns of Emperors Tiberius (by James Mason in his final role), Caligula, Claudius, and Nero, though, obviously, from different narrative perspectives. Featuring music from Lalo Schifrin (of Mission: Impossible fame – the series, not the reboot movies), A.D., like its predecessors, leaves some Biblical elements out and adds subplots and characters in. Ironically, A.D. won an Emmy for Best Film Editing, ironic because its original 12-hour version (about 9 without commercials) is still not available, only a 6-hour super-edited version is, though not on DVD I believe, and only from local Christian bookstores – if at all.
If pressed to make the ultimate list of all-time mini-series, a sort of “Mount Rushmore” of mini-series, without question I, Claudius would be on it. Perhaps more impressive than compiling a cast-full of stars, much of I, Claudius’s cast became internationally known stars (though, admittedly, Britain knew most of them from previous work already). Winning 3 BAFTAs (though not for Best Series) and 1 Emmy for Art Direction, I, Claudius covers, through the frame technique, the beginning of Augustus’s downfall with the death of Marcellus through the death of narrator Emperor Clau-clau-claudius. For 1976, I, Claudius pulls few punches, and should probably be watched by more mature audiences (and not the video game industry’s definition of “mature”). This excellent series features one of the greatest, most underappreciated actors of our day: Brian Blessed as Caesar Augustus. No one does bombast like Brian Blessed, but his final scene is one of the finest, most sublime performances of its kind (don’t take my word for it – watch it yourself, when you are old enough). Brian Blessed has recently-ish enjoyed a resurgence, thanks to Kenneth Branagh’s Shakespeare Troupe (not that he has ever been out of work). Another treat is seeing John Rhys-Davies and Patrick Stewart, most beloved for their heroic roles, acting as very un-heroic characters here. Siân Phillips and John Hurt are frighteningly believable in their roles as Livia and Caligula. The sensationalism of the subject matter makes for sensationalistic television, which is why I suggest this one be watched later in one’s emotional/spiritual development, but it would still be difficult to under-praise this remarkable mini-series. Oh, and Derek Jacobi as the eponymous character – need I say more? Perhaps one final note: neither of the DVD releases is fully uncut and complete (which is odd, considering that is, in part, what DVDs are for), but the most recent release (with photographs of some actors on the cover) is even more edited time-wise than the older DVD set with the mosaic design. Try to rent the older edition, and be patient for a Blu-ray completely unedited and restored version.
According to the BFI (British Film Institute) TV 100, I, Claudius is the 12th-most popular British program of all time (as of 2006), which is mighty impressive, considering the series aired thirty years before the poll occurred (though the British have longer memories than Americans do, especially when it comes to “all-time” lists – that Fawlty Towers is #1 and Doctor Who #3 only proves their national discernment ability). What is even more impressive is that one mini-series ranks even higher at #10 – the definitive 1981 Brideshead Revisited. Winning 7 of its 13 BAFTA nominations, 1 of its 11 Emmy nominations, 2 of its 3 Golden Globe nominations, and the Broadcasting Press Guild award for Best Drama Serial, most people would seem to agree with the very high quality of this mini-series. Starring Jeremy Irons (nominated for a BAFTA, Emmy, and Golden Globe but won none) and Anthony Andrewes (who won a BAFTA, Golden Globe, and was nominated for an Emmy), who later starred in A.D. and Ivanhoe (as Ivanhoe), with a remarkable supporting cast of Simon Jones, Claire Bloom, Laurence Olivier (the Emmy winner), and John Gielgud (again, need I say more?), Brideshead Revisited is that rare amalgam of talent and patience – talent behind and in front of the screen, and patience from all parties concerned. Not only did ITV allow itself to be convinced to expand the project from a six-hour serial to a forty-week shooting script that became the 11-part, 11-hour masterpiece, but more patience was needed as Jeremy Irons got the part in French Lieutenant’s Woman, necessitating a long shooting hiatus until Irons eventually had to work on both projects simultaneously. Like the adaptation of Robert Graves’s I, Claudius and Claudius the God, this mini-series version of Evelyn Waugh’s novel demonstrates exactly what greatness can be accomplished transforming a worthy story from one narrative medium to another.
The end of Britain’s halcyon mini-series days came with 1984’s Jewel in the Crown (though some might argue for The Singing Detective in 1986, which I would be willing to concede if pressed). Jewel in the Crown took a different tactic from most of the other mentioned mini-series: instead of relying on renowned actors and actresses, Jewel simply cast the right people for the right roles and let the magic happen (though, again, like with I, Claudius, British audiences would recognize more of the performers than we would though not as many from the Roman epic – most likely the only person you’d recognize is Art Malik, the villain from True Lies and James Bond supporter in The Living Daylights). British audiences placed this series as their 22nd-favorite TV program of all time, which is especially noteworthy considering its cast of mostly unknowns. Even so, it scored rather well in major awards season: 5 BAFTAs (of 15 nominations), an Emmy for Outstanding Limited Series (5 other nominations), the Golden Globe for Best Mini-Series (another nomination), an International Emmy, and two Television Critics Association awards (Outstanding Achievement in Drama and Program of the Year). The series was its own “jewel in the crown” in the sense it culminated the early ’80s British renewed interest in its Raj past (highlighted by the films Gandhi in ’82 and A Passage to India in ’84). The 14-episode series covers the four books of Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet and recently was re-issued for a 25th-anniversary DVD release. For these mini-series classics, it is important to remember that no matter how advanced Blu-ray players and TV technology gets, only so much can be done with old film prints. Jewel in the Crown, fortunately, does not need much advanced upscaling or improvements: they knew in 1984 what George Lucas forgot when he decided to make Star Wars Episode 1: The Phantom Menace – quality production comes from quality acting, writing, and set/costume decoration, not special effects and technological wizardry. As World War II ceases and the Raj ends in India, symbolically enough Britain’s mini-series golden age comes to an end, to be replaced, as mentioned so often, mainly by short novelization serials.
Interlude of “Royalty”
One notable aspect of these great British mini-series is that most of the great series starred different main and supporting casts. This is mostly true in America, though America’s golden age of mini-series were heralded with two “kings” of the mini-series. By way of transition, a brief word should be said of Britain’s “prince” of the mini-series: Ian McShane. McShane is perhaps best known to British audiences as Lovejoy, the roguish con artist and antique dealer in the early ’90s TV series Lovejoy (though it began in 1986 before a four-year hiatus, not uncommon in Britain). McShane is probably best known to parts of America for his Golden Globe-winning turn as Al Swearengen in HBO’s Deadwood a few years ago. Before his recent serialized popularity, McShane was a “prince” of mini-series, playing supporting roles in several of the best series back in the day: Roots, Jesus of Nazareth, Life of Shakespeare, Disraeli, Marco Polo, A.D., War and Remembrance, and this year’s The Pillars of the Earth, though finally as a star, but not nearly as big of a star as two giants of the genre during its former prime.
I wonder, too, if part of the problem of the defunct genre is that the “kings of the mini-series,” Peter Strauss and Richard Chamberlain, are now old. Peter Strauss is sixty-three and Richard Chamberlain is, believe it or not ladies, seventy-six as of this writing. Many of you may not think sixty-three is old, but, frankly, it is – at least for heartthrobs and leading roles in mini-series. Neither of them have had much work lately, certainly not like they had back in their day. Strauss starred in the highly-acclaimed mini-series Rich Man, Poor Man (1976), earning an Emmy nomination and a Golden Globe (and winning Spain’s version of an Emmy for Best Foreign Actor); he starred in the longer sequel Rich Man, Poor Man II the following season, an adaptation of Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night in 1985, and Kane and Abel the same year, getting another Golden Globe nomination. And, of course, Peter Strauss starred opposite the one and only Peter O’Toole in the superb Masada in 1981, getting another Emmy nomination (he had won before for the TV movie The Jericho Mile). Rich Man, Poor Man was the first American broadcast of a regular serialized adaptation of a novel, and its success inaugurated the American golden age of mini-series, winning 4 of its 23 Emmy nominations and 4 of its 6 Golden Globe nominations. Like I, Claudius, Masada is both a recreation of a real historical event and an adaptation of a novel (Ernest K. Gann’s The Antagonists). Filmed on location at the actual ruins of the fortress in the Judean Desert, Masada got David Warner (another of the great underappreciated actors of our day) and composer Jerry Goldsmith Emmys. With Barbara Carrera (who earlier stared in America’s nonpareil mini-series Centennial), Peter Strauss, and the majestic Peter O’Toole, ABC capitalized on the success of previous mini-series on other stations.
Richard Chamberlain (and if I have to explain who Richard Chamberlain is to you, you haven’t lived) was certainly the king of the late ’70s-early ’80s TV movies and mini-series. Chamberlain played a starring role in 3 of America’s “Mt. Rushmore” of great mini-series: Centennial (1978-79), Shōgun (1980), and The Thorn Birds (1983, 1996). Saving a discussion of Centennial for a later time (it needs its own article), let’s examine Shōgun and The Thorn Birds here. Shōgun, based on James Clavell’s novel of the same name, is the only American mini-series to be filmed entirely in Japan. The novel is rather frank, especially regarding various natural human processes from a Japanese perspective of decorum, and the mini-series presents a fair amount of that frankness, “breaking new ground” in American television (which isn’t necessarily a good thing, so again, a high amount of personal maturity is a good prerequisite for watching it and reading the book, but it is worth it, especially to see Chamberlain and the rest of the cast – Toshirō Mafune, John Rhys-Davies, with Michael Hordern and George Innes together again? Unstoppable.). Not only did Shōgun win 3 of its 3 Golden Globe nominations (including Best TV-series), 3 of its 14 Emmys (including Outstanding Limited Series), but also it won a Peabody Award – and that was back when winning a Peabody Award was difficult and meaningful. Shōgun was so popular during its initial broadcast a notable decrease in restaurants and movie theaters was documented – so was a rise in interest in sushi and Japanese restaurants after the mini-series. Aside from the technical achievements, Shōgun’s story is rich and complex, exactly what a great mini-series alone can provide: the struggle of one man alone in a foreign land, unrequited love, several varieties of religious conflict, the beauties of language and culture, epic warfare, political intrigue, and, oh yes, ninjas. James Clavell’s six-volume Asian Saga (of which Shōgun is the third written but first chronologically) is a great example of the fine quality of writing written in the late 20th century, along with the work of James Michener and Leon Uris. That these three authors are forgotten today, so close to their popular height, is a genuine shame on American culture. The fourth-written novel in the series, Noble House, was made into a short mini-series in 1988 starring Pierce Brosnan, fresh off his career-making turn as Remington Steele, and John Rhys-Davies (as a different character than in Shōgun). With great casts and writer, it is hard to go wrong, and Noble House and Shōgun do not.
In 1983, Richard Chamberlain starred in Colleen McCullough’s The Thorn Birds, Australia’s epic of unrequited love, a sort of Romeo and Juliet meets Great Expectations with a smidge of Gone With the Wind and lots of sheep tossed in the mix. With another remarkable supporting cast (Christopher Plummer, John de Lancie, Barbara Stanwyck, Jean Simmons and more), The Thorn Birds tells the story of young Roman Catholic priest Ralph de Bricassart and even younger Meggie Cleary (played by the one and only Rachel Ward). Few of these mini-series are comedies, certainly, but this one is more serious than most, at least it feels more serious, even though its scale is much smaller than others – the time frame it covers is actually longer than most others, strangely enough, but the small-scale focus on these characters makes the drama, the romance, and the heartache much more palpable and intimate. Sometimes one wonders if these stellar actors are, frankly, decent people – sometimes these “behind the scenes” featurettes tell us things about the actors and their attitudes to their work that we’d rather not know. Whether Richard Chamberlain is one of those actors is something I do not know, but I do know when the idea of making The Missing Years midquel came along in 1995, Richard Chamberlain was the only actor to reprise his role from the original mini-series. One’s reaction to The Missing Years will entirely depend on one’s sense of sentimentality, in a good way. The different cast, slight modification of the original telling, and the ending that has to fit back with the original story might put off some audiences; those that care truly about the characters and their struggles will appreciate more time with them (similar to how fans might react to the third Anne of Green Gables series). In one positive sense, though, The Missing Years may have helped the “rebirth” of the mighty mini-series, at least in a diminished fashion, coming within that long decade gap of full, epic mini-series between War and Remembrance and From Here to the Moon.
The Golden Age of American Mini-Series
Saving, as we said, the best, Centennial, not for last but for another article entirely, we shall conclude with a brief look at the other great mini-series from America’s golden age so long ago. Holocaust (1978) is an oddity: it won 4 Emmys including Outstanding Limited Series, starred Meryl Streep, Michael Moriarity, James Woods, David Warner, Ian Holm, and Vernon Dobtcheff (another of those character actors in just about everything, including Masada), but it is, obviously, about the Holocaust, and some consider its presentation wrong. It tried to present the brutality of the events but in a limited fashion for a television audience. NBC making money from advertising before and during the mini-series also adds to the distaste some have for it. Elie Wiesel, not that he is the only authority on the subject, called it “untrue and offensive” in the New York Times.
It is time (if not past time) to discuss the event that started it all: Alex Haley’s Roots. In January of 1977, by the eighth and final episode, approximately 80% of American homes had seen all or part of the mini-series, an unparalleled feat. The final episode is the third-most watched episode of television of all time (not including sports events, which shouldn’t count anyway) behind the “Who Shot J.R.?” Dallas episode and, as you hopefully know, the series finale of M*A*S*H, “Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen.” Roots won a Directors Guild Award, 9 Emmys including Outstanding Limited Series (and 28 more nominations!), a Golden Globe for Best TV-Series Drama, a Humanitas Prize, and a Peabody. Pretty much everybody is in it, especially the “who’s who” of African-American actors and actresses, so listing the supporting cast would take too long. LeVar Burton, perhaps the star of the series, is only in half of it, though no one seems to remember that. It’s hard to add anything to the discussion about this monumental success. Oddly enough, ABC was filled with trepidation over the series, airing it in eight consecutive days to prevent its interference with the forthcoming “sweeps week,” as well as disproportionately advertising the white cast and creating sympathetic white characters to ameliorate the mainstream ’70s audience. Haley covered the rest of his book in the 1979 sequel Roots: The Next Generation, though “generation” is a generous term since the series covers approximately 80 years (Roots itself covers about 120). By the end of the sequel, we actually see Alex Haley (portrayed by James Earl Jones) getting to the point of learning about his roots and his distant ancestor Kunta Kinte, bringing the two series full circle. It wasn’t too difficult to get stars to appear in this mini-series, thanks to the overwhelming success of the original: Henry Fonda, Olivia de Havilland, Ossie Davis, Andy Griffith, Harry Morgan, and even Marlon Brando wanted to appear in this sequel. It wasn’t nearly as “successful” as the original (only The Godfather Part II and The Empire Strikes Back were), though it did win another Outstanding Limited Series Emmy and a Supporting Actor Emmy for Brando. About a decade later, a Christmas-like TV movie Roots: The Gift came out as another midquel between the second and third parts of the original miniseries, with LeVar Burton and Louis Gossett, Jr. reprising their roles. It also became a kind of Star Trek gathering, with Avery Brooks, Kate Mulgrew, and Tim Russ playing supporting roles. Though Alex Haley died in 1992, his last book (completed by David Stevens) Queen: The Story of an American Family came out in 1993, with another mini-series adaptation that same year starring a young Halle Berry. With another star-studded cast (Danny Glover, Tim Daly, Martin Sheen, Ann-Margret), Queen concludes the Roots Saga with a different perspective, this time on the struggles of being a mixed-race woman before, during, and after the American Civil War. Unquestionably, Roots is the best mini-series of the cycle (though The Next Generation is almost twice as long), but putting all four works together creates a remarkable and unparalleled epic of American life from an authentic African-American perspective.
Riding the crest of the historical drama begun by Roots and continued by Centennial, Masada, and Shōgun, 1985 saw the adaptation of John Jakes’s North and South (book one). Starring Patrick Swayze in his prime with James Read (another greatly underappreciated actor of our day, though you might recognize him as the dad on Charmed), North and South continued the fine tradition of packing a lot of stars into nine hours or so of antebellum American life. Part of the series’ success lies in the fact all but two of the twenty-some main cast came back for North and South: Book II the next year, continuing Jakes’s trilogy with the middle book taking place during the Civil War itself. Nominated for many Emmys, Book One only won for Costuming. The driving conflict through the story, somewhat typically, is the story of two friends, one from the North, one from the South, who are torn apart by the Civil War. As trite as that may sound, books one and two are worth checking out for any Civil War buff or anyone who wants to see some of the last good American mini-series in its fading glory. As with The Thorn Birds: The Missing Years, part of the failure of Heaven and Hell: North and South Book III came from its comparative lateness in production, not until 1993. Patrick Swayze is not in it, for reasons made clear by reading the third book, though a few of the other main cast reprise their roles (which is good, since the third book takes place right after the second). For some inexplicable reason, the addition of Billy Dee Williams and the great Peter O’Toole did not help the critical reception of this mini-series. Perhaps the smaller budget and time frame (three parts instead of the six the first two parts each enjoyed) prevented the development and production that a quality mini-series needs. Even so, as with all sequels and trilogies, one’s definition of “success” could be in the eye of the beholder.
In 1989, the mini-series effectively came to a close with two final but great events: Lonesome Dove and War and Remembrance. Lonesome Dove became immensely popular, despite being a Western, and morphed into a franchise in itself with sequel novels spawned by the success of the original mini-series, sequel mini-series, TV movies, and two brief TV series. The original Lonesome Dove mini-series won a slew of awards (Larry McMurtry’s novel won the Pulitzer Prize in 1985), including a Writers Guild Award, a Western Heritage Award, 2 Golden Globes, a Television Critics Association Award, 7 of 19 Emmys, and more, though War and Remembrance won the Outstanding Limited Series Emmy that year. Lonesome Dove is one of those rare genre works that appeals to both critic and lay audience. I’m sure Robert Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones as the main actors didn’t hurt, made all the more impressive since they did all but one of their own stunts. The sequels and additions add to the mythos of Lonesome Dove much like Roots’s additional chapters, but Lonesome Dove the original mini-series stands alone and appeals to just about anyone, even those who don’t necessarily like the Western genre.
In 1983, Herman Wouk’s nearly 1,000-page Winds of War became a 7-part mini-series. Wouk, like Clavell and Michener, scrupulously researched his work (he recently presented the Library of Congress with digital copies of his 90-volume diary he’s kept since the 1930s) and so was rather verbose in his writing. Dealing with the major events of 1939-1941, Winds of War features another all-star mini-series cast and on-location filming around the world. In November, 1988, the last of the maxi-series began: War and Remembrance (Centennial and Jewel in the Crown are the other two major maxi-series of the great golden age of the mini-series, in descending time length), the conclusion of the WW2 story begun by Winds of War.
War and Remembrance is about 30-hours long; filming took almost all of 1986 and 1987. The series has 2,070 scenes, 757 sets, 358 speaking parts, and over 41,000 extras in Europe and America combined. Covering the rest of WW2, War and Remembrance, unlike Holocaust a decade earlier, filmed its Auschwitz scenes in the concentration camp itself, featuring actual Auschwitz-Birkenau survivors in those scenes. As Schindler’s List was to do later, War and Remembrance broadcast many of its Holocaust scenes uninterrupted by commercial breaks, and its depiction of the Holocaust received great critical praise. Some negatives were involved in the making of the program, however. Though some of the actors remained the same, including Robert Mitchum in the lead role (despite being 71 years old by that time and too old for his character), many of the main characters were portrayed by different actors, adding some discontinuity to the series. Mini-series veterans John Rhys-Davies and Ian McShane played supporting roles this time, and the cast (despite Mitchum’s age and the changes) was the last of the great ensemble casts of stars and renowned supporting actors, so the positives may outweigh the negatives for some audiences.
ABC gave two weeks of its broadcast schedule to the mini-series, surpassing the commitments needed for Roots and all other mini-series to date. That was feasible at the time, considering in 1989 only ABC, CBS, and NBC were major networks. After this mini-series, however, the cable revolution occurred, effectively ending any network’s ability (other than HBO later) to create and broadcast such mammoth programs. Through no fault of its own (except perhaps its extremely monumental size, some considering it the “war that never ends”), War and Remembrance was the last of the mini-series.
Epilogue of Irony
Thus, the appetite for the mini-series genre may have indeed been glutted and surfeited by War and Remembrance’s extreme utilization of the format; additionally, as just noted, the nature of the television industry and networks (as well as sponsorship involvements) changed dramatically shortly after its broadcast. It was to take almost an entire decade of television programming (with only short, comparatively minor productions in the meantime) before the mini-series as a successful genre was to return, thanks to HBO’s From the Earth to the Moon in 1998. As noted earlier, however, only a few mini-series of any substance have been created in the same span of time that saw dozens of quality productions in the golden age in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Has the American and British attention span been so utterly corrupted that it can’t even commit to lengthy, commitment-driven television programming, unless it is accompanied with HBO’s unspoken promise of graphic content possibilities? The success of John Adams recently should belie that notion. Even in the digital world, the epic genre is alive and well in various media: Michael Wood is still searching for myths and heroes, the Trojan War is still the subject of movies and novels, the small-screen has produced episodic series requiring the concentration of mini-series such as Lost and Babylon 5.
Perhaps the problem today is that the novels being written do not lend themselves to the majestic possibilities of the small-screen mini-series. So many of the great series as we’ve seen are adaptations of great works from great authors, all of whom are gone: Evelyn Waugh, James Clavell, Leon Uris, James Michener, Robert Graves, Alex Haley (Herman Wouk is still alive as of this writing but 95). Authors today seem to be writing for the potential of the big screen, not the small screen. Perhaps it is the movie adaptation that has killed the mini-series, which is a sad irony, considering only the mini-series and not the movie can do justice to the work. Perhaps if authors today wrote for the sake of telling a good story with meaningful characters and palpable conflicts and not for the potential movie rights and merchandising bonuses, the mini-series could return to its former greatness.
Redeeming Pandora 