The Stone Tape was my gateway Kneale. I’d turned six years
old a few months prior to its TV premiere on 25th December 1972, so
it was either this transmission or the repeat (2nd October 1973) that it first lodged itself in my head. Like the spectre that haunts the cellar
in the Kneale’s play this viewing engrained itself on my consciousness. As time
passed, unlike the ghost in The Stone Tape, these images in my mind’s eye began
to degrade until I could only recall abstract images or sounds; the dots that
chase Jane Asher down a corridor and up the staircase and the piercing sounds.
Oh, the sounds! An assault on my senses. The audio was the last of the memories
to fade with only intangible smudges remaining.
A few decades later I was reacquainted with Kneale’s play having sourced a
blurry VHS bootleg, several generations down from a master tape, that drifted
in and out of monochrome and colour. It was good to see the production again,
but it was not at a satisfactory viewing experience. The BFI finally released a
copy to DVD a decade or so later and I gobbled up this truly Proustian experience,
rekindling my interest in Kneale and his work, and starting me on the track to
eventually writing a book on his series Beasts.
In 2022 (Kneale’s centenary birth year and fifty years since The Stone Tape was
first broadcast) I introduced a screening of the production at my local
independent cinema as part of their Halloween season. It was in the smaller
screen, but to my surprise it sold out. As the play unspooled I watched the
audience, a good mixture of both old and young punters, who were enraptured by
Kneale’s technological ghost tale. Afterwards, a few people came to chat and I
remember one couple in their late sixties or early seventies. They had watched
the original broadcast as a newly married couple and had never forgotten it, and
so when they saw the screening advertised they travelled over thirty miles to
come and watch it together. It was part of their golden wedding anniversary
celebrations. It made me marvel at the power of Kneale’s story.
Now we have a new release of the Stone Tape, on a new media format that has
even more storage capacity (more than the research scientists of the play could
ever conceive), in a brand new limited edition blu-ray from 101 Films. The disc is presented inside a chunky rigid box sleeve
illustrated with new artwork.
There are three art cards with the cover design and two more
illustrations inspired by the programme, a thirty two page booklet with new
essays by Andy Murray and John Doran and a welcome reprint of the original
camera script for the play. This comes complete with the studio production
schedule and details of the shooting blocks. The cover of the script book is
based on the degradation that can manifest when photocopies are made of
photocopies which neatly calls back to one of the play's themes.
Together with the bluray disc these all fit together with a satisfying snugness
in the rigid box and are not plagued by being so crammed in that you struggle
to get anything out of the box. This has been an issue with several recent
boutique bluray releases recently. In summary the packaging is excellent.
The menu of the disc itself is simple and clearly laid out,
backed with a suitably atonal snippet of the Radiophonic
Workshop soundtrack. If you wish you can leave Jill Greeley’s dying scream on a
loop forever. The cover of the disc carries a warning that the production was
shot on video tape and that viewers should approach the material with empathy.
Whilst the upscaling does not work miracles it is perfectly well done
considering the lower definition of the archive materials. Scenes with low
levels of lighting perform well with none of the smearing seen on some other
archive TV releases. The audio is also presented well with no issues, in fact
it seems to have more clarity than before so you can enjoy all the shouty men
sequences even more now.
Extras wise we have a documentary on the legacy of the production, Children of the Stone Tape [1] (42 minutes), which begins with a compilation of all the hums, drones and screams that make up the audio landscape of the drama. This ably demonstrates what an aurally unnerving and assaulting experience the Stone Tape is. The documentary is a traditional mixture of talking heads and clips from the drama being discussed. The scope of interviewees is excellent taking in Stephen Volk, Mark Gatiss, Andy Murray and Jane Asher among others. Peter Strickland and Matthew Graham appear and discuss the importance of sound both in the TV version and their own radio adaptation. Volk explores how Gill’s character in the play is the only one in tune with the odd events rather than the bull headed male characters. Kneale also positions the genders in a similar fashion in his TV series Beasts. One of my favourite interviewees is Glynis Jones, sound recordist and co-composer of the soundtrack on the production alongside Desmond Briscoe, who offers some fresh perspectives and information on the play. The documentary also attempts to decipher what the stone tape theory actually is and which came first – the play or the theory? Howard Ingham explores the development of this idea and highlights T C Lethbridge as a central figure whose ideas may have also influenced Kneale’s wider body of work.
Next is Out of Darkness: A Visionary Manxman where Andy Murray visits and explores the Isle of Man for the very first time. This is moodily and artily produced and provides viewers with not only a glimpse of the Kneale document archive (which is heavily referenced in my book), but also snippets of original audio interviews, some great insights from Murray and other material. It is a strangely haunting, but fitting tribute to the man. There are also two commentaries. The first is ported over from the original BFI release and features Kneale with critic Kim Newman. The second is a new commentary by Jon Dear (from the Bergcast podcast) and writer/filmmaker Sean Hogan. This is a much chattier affair full of detail and observations which flows much better than the original with Kneale and Newman.
The release is lovingly crafted and curated, making it an essential purchase
for Nigel Kneale aficionados. All the Nigel Kneale fan wants for Christmas is for you to buy them this.
[1]
The title is a reference to the celebrated Folk Horror children’s TV series The
Children of the Stones.
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