Article
Christmas culture
Culture
4 min read

TV’s search for the perfect Christmas special

Sitcoms rely on expectation and conventions. Here's the one rule that gets broken at Christmas time.

James is a writer of sit coms for TV and radio.

Dressed in camouflage uniforms and makeshift costumes, soldiers create a nativity scene
Bluestone 42 Christmas Special, 2013.
BBC.

There are rules to sitcoms. I should know. I’ve been writing sitcom scripts for over twenty years. This includes two Christmas specials (Miranda and Bluestone 42). When you start writing a Christmas episode of a sitcom, you look back to Christmas specials you saw as a child. Soon, you are aware that there are certain expectations for a Christmas special. You also realise you can break one of the rules of sitcom. 

Before I explain what that is, let me give you the basic rules of a TV sitcom. Essentially you need three things: Characters; conflict; and a confined space. Each episode has a beginning and a middle and end, but the characters must end up back where they started. 

The characters in a sitcom are in conflict. They have contrasting viewpoints, seeing the world very differently. And they are confined, unable to walk away from each other because they are family (Think Del and Rodney in Only Fools and Horses), or they have to work together (Think Sir Humphrey and Hacker in Yes, Prime Minister) or they all live in the same suffocatingly small village (Think Geraldine and Alice in The Vicar of Dibley). 

Each week, the characters have quests. They conflict. The story plays out in the same reliably predictable but surprising way. Del Boy has another get-rich-quick scheme; Sir Humphrey tries to stop Hacker from changing anything; and the Vicar of Dibley keeps trying to help Alice and the idiots who surround her. That can’t change, even in a Christmas special. 

It’s not for a twenty-first century sitcom writer to say that the Greeks didn’t know anything about theatre, but wow. Modern audiences would not stand for this totally unjustified divine intervention.

At Christmas, however, you can have your characters go on a journey. That’s quite a popular option. But the journey has to be arduous – like the journey to Bethlehem – and might involve a pregnant woman (think The Royle Family) – like the journey to Bethlehem. But your characters could go on a road trip in any episode. That’s not the rule you have to break. 

Your Christmas special might be centred around your character’s own version of what constitutes ‘the perfect Christmas’. These expectations must be met, but the lesson is normally that it’s all about who you’re with, not what you do. In the Bluestone 42 Christmas special, the bomb disposal team in Afghanistan are away from home so trying to have a ‘normal’ Christmas with turkey and a nativity play in which yonder star turns out to be a mortar attack by the Taliban. But they’re in it together. 

Family is always important in a sitcom, but doubly so in a Christmas episode. In Miranda Series 2, our comedy heroine wants to do Christmas her own way with her friends, and not spend the day with her embarrassing and eccentric parents. But she learns a common Christmas lesson that family comes first, home is best, and no-one does Christmas better than your own family. Again, this is not a deviation from the normal rules. 

So, what rule does the Christmas episode break? It is cast iron law across all genres of television. It’s the Deus Ex Machina. That’s not normally allowed. Deus Ex Machina literally means ‘God from the machinery’. It’s a Latin term for what happens in Greek theatre. Actors representing gods would be suspended above the stage and at the denouement of the play, they would come down and intervene, so that everything is sorted out. 

It’s not for a twenty-first century sitcom writer to say that the Greeks didn’t know anything about theatre, but wow. Modern audiences would not stand for this totally unjustified divine intervention. If a character was about to be exposed by the annual Church fete and at the last minute, a thunderstorm out of nowhere rained off the whole event, you would start throwing things at the TV. If a character declared undying love to another and it was not reciprocated, the sudden discovery of a foolproof love potion in the third act would have the producer, director, the cast and even the make-up lady asking for rewrites. 

But at Christmas, God comes down from on high. So, in your seasonal sitcom special, you’re allowed a miracle. In fact, the audience are almost demanding a ‘Christmas miracle’. This is the time of year when magic happens. 

This miracle normally happens overnight because that’s when miracles happen. The Wise Men followed the star to the witness the child born of a virgin. Given stars were involved, we presume it was night time (although the text doesn’t say so). Marley and three Christmas ghosts visit Ebeneezer Scrooge at night. He is miraculously transformed by the experience. 

Christmas is a time when lots of people going to church who normally would not, but the vast majority of people in the UK do not go to church or worship God at Christmas. But the incarnation, that is story of God made flesh in Christ, keeps poking through and turning up whether we like it or not. If we won’t go to church to hear that story, God will send it through waves and wires and onto our screens in TV specials so that we all remember that Christmas isn’t just a time for family and traditions; it is a time of miracles. At Christmas, we allow ourselves the luxury of belief. 

Snippet
Culture
Digital
Education
2 min read

Shorter TED Talks are not the only way to learn

As education and entertainment blend, get ready for the unexpected.

Jamie is Vicar of St Michael's Chester Square, London.

A speaker stands beside a podium in front of a TED sign.
Elif Shafak.
TED.com

Are you going to make it to the end of this article? I'm aware, dear reader, that much of the responsibility for this is down to me. But spare a thought (or maybe an extra five seconds before returning to Instagram) for those wanting to communicate something of substance in today's abbreviated age. Take TED talks, for instance. 

The already bite-sized format has had another chunk gorged out of it. Elif Shafak, a Turkish-British novelist needed to trim her TED talks from 19 to 13 minutes. In the view of The Times' editorial,

'Packing the world’s knowledge into the time it takes to heat a pizza might seem ambitious. Sadly, it now appears to be beyond the patience of those thirsting for enlightenment.' 

It's worth us recognising that education and entertainment have blended in our consciousness ('E' in the TED acronym standing for 'entertainment'), with our era's pastime being consuming more information. And if we consider this, are our attention spans truly squeezed beyond the point of no return? I'm not so sure. We are also in the age of bloated films and slow-burn series. If we are invested in the entertainment we want, then we will cope. In fact, many theatres are doing away with intervals. The interval is a relatively modern invention. Susanna Butler writes that in Shakespeare's day not only did people have longer attention spans, but they could roam freely during the play. I suspect not many were distracted for long. For the information or entertainment provider, there's no excuse for being boring, or unnecessarily verbose. 

But if we free ourselves from being dependant on dopamine, and take the longue durée of our lives, we open ourselves to learning in a new way. That's not to say that we should give up an ever-present expectation for the next hit of knowledge. 

This is what it means when Christians are referred to as disciples: the word to describe an apprentice or student of their master. These disciples, to Rowan Williams,  

'take it for granted that there is always something about to break through from the Master, the Teacher, something about to burst through the ordinary and uncover a new light on the landscape.'  

This is the kind of expectation that doesn't front-load an Instagram reel with its best content in the first three seconds. It might be a quaint analogy, but as Williams writes, this has more in common with ornithologists. 

 'The experienced birdwatcher, sitting still, poised, alert, not tense or fussy, knows that this is the kind of place where something extraordinary suddenly bursts into view.' 

I'll keep this as short as I can. But any hope of discipline in attentiveness must be sparked by the sight of the one who has infinite attention for us. And all the time in - and out of - the world. 

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