Interview: Denys Blakeway, TV producer (Evening Standard)
By David Rowan
FORGET all that nonsense about dumbed down TV: this, apparently, is the golden age of serious programming. The summer schedules might be packed with reality shows and cheap makeover formats, but the man behind The Major Years and Niall Ferguson's Empire insists that highbrow has never had it so good.
"I don't go along with the view that factual television has been dumbing down and is going to the dogs," says Denys Blakeway, the acclaimed documentary maker who last week sold his production company to Bob Geldof 's Ten Alps group.
"Quite the reverse, in fact. The quality of factual television is now probably higher than ever. You just need to watch documentaries made 10 years ago to see the massive leap forward in quality." This robust endorsement of his company's prospects might make you wonder why Blakeway, 48, ceded control after a decade for just £400,000, to include £250,000 of its assets, plus a limited profitshare if its programmes do well.
Not bad for a profitable 20-person business that turns over £2.2 million. But Blakeway Productions faced a dilemma being mirrored across the independent sector, where power is shifting relentlessly towards the big players. With new Ofcom guidelines giving "indies" more control over their programme rights, broadcasters are less willing to pay a documentary's full up-front costs. And that, for a niche production house like Blakeway, means endless rights negotiations before the first scene can be shot.
"What is really awful, and the reason I've sold the company, is the business of the thing," says Blakeway, in his assertively firm if occasionally self-deprecating tone.
"I've loathed being a businessman, hated every single minute of it, and the financial side has been absolute purgatory. That's why I'm absolutely thrilled to be bought by a company that can take that burden from me. They came along like a white knight, and the great thing is we're keeping our brand and continuing as we were to make our programmes."
But in an industry where an indy such as Hat Trick can sell a minority stake for £23 million, hadn't his mistake been simply to underprice himself? "All I've wanted to do is make good programmes, not become immensely rich," he says. "Otherwise I'd have run Blakeway far better and not as quite such an idiosyncratic company."
BOB Geldof 's commercial gamble is that today's appetite for reality television is on the wane. "Times are changing fast in the British TV industry, particularly at the BBC, and we believe there is a shift from the lifestyle TV which dominated the past five years back to higher quality factual material," Geldof explained when the deal was announced. "People want to see reality on TV, rather than yet more reality TV."
Blakeway, who made his name with landmark series such as Thatcher: The Downing Street Years, agrees that broadcasters are turning more serious, particularly the BBC, which is seeking the renewal of its charter. "Television-goes in great waves of fashion-and the reality wave will probably-soon break," he says. "But what Channel 4 has done so brilliantly is to find room, beyond Big Brother and Wife Swap, for us to make Empire with Niall Ferguson and his next series about 20th century conflict. Look, we've just made a programme for them about the Resurrection, in which the Bishop of Durham sought to prove that it actually took place. It's extraordinary to have a channel with that and Big Brother. And long may it last."
What is changing, however, is the financial viability of the small indies. A company desperate for a commission will accept onerous terms - "like the fruit suppliers to the supermarkets", with ever smaller margins. "You need access to capital, help with distribution, the business acumen to negotiate and exploit rights. You have to find your own capital and risk it on projects rather than getting fully funded commissions. It's all very well, but I came into this business to make programmes." Blakeway's history programmes, for instance, might be commissioned at between £120,000 to £180,000 for a 50-minute slot.
"That sounds like a lot of money," he explains, "but the real cost of making a high-quality, all-bellsandwhistles programme, with a presenter and archive film, is £220,000 to £250,000. Increasingly, you're having to find the difference yourself. Plus, things are more competitive than ever. If you have an idea, you can be certain that many other people will be developing the same idea and will probably have suggested it to a broadcaster before you." Put like that, independent production sounds a gruelling existence, reliant to an absurd degree on reputation and personal contacts.
"It's not like you're a firm selling widgets, which can sell its goodwill or customer base," explains Hamish Mykura, Channel 4's commissioning editor for history and a former Blakeway Productions director. "It's one or two clever, talented creative individuals, without whom you're left with a couple of computers and desks."
MYKURA thinks selling out is a good move for Blakeway, but is not convinced by his former colleague's professions of financial amateurism. "Actually, Denys is rather a shrewd businessman." Blakeway lives near Newbury with his wife, who works in children's publishing, and three daughters, aged 15, 12 and eight.
After university he had a stint on the New Statesman before joining the BBC as a trainee in 1980. He worked mainly in documentaries and current affairs, and a passion for history was sparked when he discovered archive footage while making a Nationwide series on Pacific nuclear tests in the 1950s.
He left in 1990 to make a series about the Falklands war, went on to work with Thatcher and John Major, and more recently has ridden the history boom which began with Simon Schama.
His own personal high point was profiling George VI for BBC2's Reputations - although the Thatcher series gained him most attention. "She was very easy to deal with, never once voiced concern about how she might be attacked by former colleagues, and never wanted any editorial control," he recalls. "John Major was a bit more sensitive - he found criticism very hard to deal with, and TV was purgatory for him. I have a lot of sympathy." As Blakeway prepares to focus on the programmes rather than the bills, he is in no doubt that the current wave of consolidation heralds the end of the small programme maker.
"The big independents want to grow and become real businesses, but the inevitable result will be to squeeze out the one-man bands, the niche operators toiling away in their attics to produce high quality television for the love of making the programmes. I wouldn't advise anybody to set up an independent company on their own now," he says. "I certainly wouldn't do it if I was starting again."
(Evening Standard, June 2 2004)
FORGET all that nonsense about dumbed down TV: this, apparently, is the golden age of serious programming. The summer schedules might be packed with reality shows and cheap makeover formats, but the man behind The Major Years and Niall Ferguson's Empire insists that highbrow has never had it so good.
"I don't go along with the view that factual television has been dumbing down and is going to the dogs," says Denys Blakeway, the acclaimed documentary maker who last week sold his production company to Bob Geldof 's Ten Alps group.
"Quite the reverse, in fact. The quality of factual television is now probably higher than ever. You just need to watch documentaries made 10 years ago to see the massive leap forward in quality." This robust endorsement of his company's prospects might make you wonder why Blakeway, 48, ceded control after a decade for just £400,000, to include £250,000 of its assets, plus a limited profitshare if its programmes do well.
Not bad for a profitable 20-person business that turns over £2.2 million. But Blakeway Productions faced a dilemma being mirrored across the independent sector, where power is shifting relentlessly towards the big players. With new Ofcom guidelines giving "indies" more control over their programme rights, broadcasters are less willing to pay a documentary's full up-front costs. And that, for a niche production house like Blakeway, means endless rights negotiations before the first scene can be shot.
"What is really awful, and the reason I've sold the company, is the business of the thing," says Blakeway, in his assertively firm if occasionally self-deprecating tone.
"I've loathed being a businessman, hated every single minute of it, and the financial side has been absolute purgatory. That's why I'm absolutely thrilled to be bought by a company that can take that burden from me. They came along like a white knight, and the great thing is we're keeping our brand and continuing as we were to make our programmes."
But in an industry where an indy such as Hat Trick can sell a minority stake for £23 million, hadn't his mistake been simply to underprice himself? "All I've wanted to do is make good programmes, not become immensely rich," he says. "Otherwise I'd have run Blakeway far better and not as quite such an idiosyncratic company."
BOB Geldof 's commercial gamble is that today's appetite for reality television is on the wane. "Times are changing fast in the British TV industry, particularly at the BBC, and we believe there is a shift from the lifestyle TV which dominated the past five years back to higher quality factual material," Geldof explained when the deal was announced. "People want to see reality on TV, rather than yet more reality TV."
Blakeway, who made his name with landmark series such as Thatcher: The Downing Street Years, agrees that broadcasters are turning more serious, particularly the BBC, which is seeking the renewal of its charter. "Television-goes in great waves of fashion-and the reality wave will probably-soon break," he says. "But what Channel 4 has done so brilliantly is to find room, beyond Big Brother and Wife Swap, for us to make Empire with Niall Ferguson and his next series about 20th century conflict. Look, we've just made a programme for them about the Resurrection, in which the Bishop of Durham sought to prove that it actually took place. It's extraordinary to have a channel with that and Big Brother. And long may it last."
What is changing, however, is the financial viability of the small indies. A company desperate for a commission will accept onerous terms - "like the fruit suppliers to the supermarkets", with ever smaller margins. "You need access to capital, help with distribution, the business acumen to negotiate and exploit rights. You have to find your own capital and risk it on projects rather than getting fully funded commissions. It's all very well, but I came into this business to make programmes." Blakeway's history programmes, for instance, might be commissioned at between £120,000 to £180,000 for a 50-minute slot.
"That sounds like a lot of money," he explains, "but the real cost of making a high-quality, all-bellsandwhistles programme, with a presenter and archive film, is £220,000 to £250,000. Increasingly, you're having to find the difference yourself. Plus, things are more competitive than ever. If you have an idea, you can be certain that many other people will be developing the same idea and will probably have suggested it to a broadcaster before you." Put like that, independent production sounds a gruelling existence, reliant to an absurd degree on reputation and personal contacts.
"It's not like you're a firm selling widgets, which can sell its goodwill or customer base," explains Hamish Mykura, Channel 4's commissioning editor for history and a former Blakeway Productions director. "It's one or two clever, talented creative individuals, without whom you're left with a couple of computers and desks."
MYKURA thinks selling out is a good move for Blakeway, but is not convinced by his former colleague's professions of financial amateurism. "Actually, Denys is rather a shrewd businessman." Blakeway lives near Newbury with his wife, who works in children's publishing, and three daughters, aged 15, 12 and eight.
After university he had a stint on the New Statesman before joining the BBC as a trainee in 1980. He worked mainly in documentaries and current affairs, and a passion for history was sparked when he discovered archive footage while making a Nationwide series on Pacific nuclear tests in the 1950s.
He left in 1990 to make a series about the Falklands war, went on to work with Thatcher and John Major, and more recently has ridden the history boom which began with Simon Schama.
His own personal high point was profiling George VI for BBC2's Reputations - although the Thatcher series gained him most attention. "She was very easy to deal with, never once voiced concern about how she might be attacked by former colleagues, and never wanted any editorial control," he recalls. "John Major was a bit more sensitive - he found criticism very hard to deal with, and TV was purgatory for him. I have a lot of sympathy." As Blakeway prepares to focus on the programmes rather than the bills, he is in no doubt that the current wave of consolidation heralds the end of the small programme maker.
"The big independents want to grow and become real businesses, but the inevitable result will be to squeeze out the one-man bands, the niche operators toiling away in their attics to produce high quality television for the love of making the programmes. I wouldn't advise anybody to set up an independent company on their own now," he says. "I certainly wouldn't do it if I was starting again."
(Evening Standard, June 2 2004)
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