Review for Death at Broadcasting House

‘Death in Broadcasting House’ may be a bit of a stagey drama by today’s standards but the insight it gives into the BBC’s earliest days are quite wonderful, if entirely unintentional. As an historic document it is quite superb. Indeed, there’s even a moment when an autograph hound outside Broadcasting House’s doors declares to have ‘Mr. Reith’s’ – a name that probably sounds as distant as Disraeli or Napoleon to many youngsters today yet who was alive and well and at the helm at the time of this release some 80 years ago.



The print isn’t flawless by any stretch but is far better than we deserve to expect from such a slight film of this serious vintage. Network seem to be using the best prints possible and investing in good transfers in their current run of old British movies.




It’s also fun to see a young Jack Hawkins, replete with a clipped and nasally sub-Chumley Warner accent. In fact, the whole cast is hammier than a sausage roll. There are also appearances from Ian Hunter (the actor, not the young dude), Donald Wolfit and Broadway star Elsabeth Welch, all housed in the sparklingly new Broadcasting House. 

So what about the plot? Well, without giving the game away the film opens with a cast about to record a play about a murder. The cast is clearly somewhat dysfunctional with arguing and bitching sometimes overheard on microphones and the Producer (Val Gielgud, John’s big brother, who also wrote the screenplay) is clearly beside himself about some of the poor performances in rehearsals – particularly the death scream of the strangled man. So imagine what would happen if the man was strangled for real? After all he was in a booth all on his lonesome? And that’s exactly what happens, live on air and no one is any the wiser until the show is over and he’s found dead in the studio.



The remainder of this very short film (just over an hour) shows Detective Inspector Gregory unearthing one red herring after another until a particularly keen ear hears something in the background of the murdered man’s last words which have been recorded on acetate. Could it be the ticking of the murderer’s watch?


In the meantime, a slight sub-plot brings light relief as an invited member of the live audience (played by resident upper-crust buffoon Rodney Fleming)  bungles his way about the building looking for ‘Variety’ to no avail. 


Rodney Fleming: [to the lift-man] I'm looking for Variety.
Lift-man: That's eight floors down.
Rodney Fleming: But I've just come eight floors up!
Lift-man: Then it'll be sixteen floors down.

A fun movie with special interest for anyone who has a passion for early radio and the BBC. Well worth picking up.