Strange as it may seem now, there was a time when celebrities did not habitually charge you £10 for a signed photo at conventions. Indeed it was rather frowned upon; they’d get paid to appear at an event, fans would pay to attend and the business of signing stuff was part of the package.
Over in the US, things had been very different for a long time. I remember reading a Sunday Times Magazine article that “exposed” the strange ritual of the “nostalgia signing event” where seated rows of ageing stars smiled and signed and took cash or card payment but cash was most certainly preferred. No speeches, no “cabarets”, just cold hard cash for a scribbled a name on a ten-by-eight. I remember being slightly amazed to learn that stars as noted as Jack Lord, David Heddison and Al Lewis (well, I know who he is) were regulars at such events. The whole shtick of the article was, of course, that this type of event was somehow “beneath” them. Well, I mean, trading your signature for money, its not ethical is it?
All this would change in the UK one day in the late 90s with an appearance at a high profile convention by Robert Vaughn. Bob was well-used to the American system for signings and set right about it, signing, grabbing the cash and moving on to the next punter in the queue with nary a smile or UNCLE-dote. Shocked punters were sent away stunned by the surly efficiency with which Vaughn went about his task. Napoleon Solo clearly wasn’t there to have fun. To him it seemed to be…work.
Word spread fast among the genre fraternity (did I just say that?) that the Man From UNCLE was a dick. “Hey Adrian, did you hear about Robert Vaughn being a right dick!? Apparently he was charging for his autograph and not answering any detailed questions!” You’d hear this in comic shops, pubs, attic rooms, rainy alleyways and anywhere fans of cult TV gathered. Strike that: fans don’t gather, they “congregate” don’t they? Yes, wherever fans congregated the dickiness of Vaughn was the only currency worth trading: he was cold, he was mercenary, has was…a right dick. It was as though he has broken an invisible contract, had lifted a sacred veil, had defiled an unspoken chastity, had…you get the picture. History has proven them oh so wrong, of course, with anyone from Dame Diana Rigg to Peter Dinklage to Patrick Stewart to Billie Piper up for a quick & dirty cash-grab in Birmingham, Milton Keynes or some other convention hall near you (if you live near a major travel hub) . These days its all completely above board and those same fans who scoffed at Vaughn are now queuing up for the same experience from their favorite star. Robert Vaughn was right, “business is business”.
Of all the Gerry Anderson series, none embody this credo more pointedly than The Protectors. Having spent a decade as master of his own unique industry, creating and producing a string of hit sc-fi series, each one building upon the last to the final pinnacle of UFO, by 1971 he was suddenly out of work and in need of a gig. Having jettisoned his Century 21 studio and most of its technical staff the previous year, he formed Group Three, a slimmed outfit lead by himself, his soon-to-be ex-missus Sylvia and long-time production partner Reg Hill and started touting for work. Seconds later, who should pop out the oak-panelled wardrobe room but Lew Grade, his paymaster since Supercar and all-round legend of the “biz” we call “show”. Lew had a back-of-fag packet idea for yet another ITC international adventure series and Gerry could take it or leave it. He’d already secured Robert Vaughn for the lead and had his eye on UK actress Nyrie Dawn Porter, still a hot property from The Forsyte Saga, as co-star (no mention was made of Tony Anholt at this pivotal juncture, I suspect). Long story short, Anderson found himself waste-deep a personal nightmare called The Protectors, a series as “generic” as any that ITC put out but still a cut above the majority by dint of its slick production values, excellent European location work, a wonderful theme tune (“Avenus and Alleyways”) and genuinely sparky double-act from Robert Vaughn and Nyrie Dawn-Porter as Harry Rule and the Contessa Di Contini. In a sign of less-swinging times, the series ran at just 25 minutes (down from he late-60s standard of 50 minutes) and was shot on grainy standard 16mm film instead of 35mm (bet it would great on remastered Bluray though!).
By all accounts, Robert Vaughn hated the whole experience and Gerry Anderson in particular. You can read all about it in Anderson’s autobiography. But its interesting to muse that, if he was so unhappy with the production, Vaughn still agreed to a second series (a rarity for ITC) and was all set for a third when backers pulled out and the series was ended in 1973. Still, that’s two years of well-paid, jet-setting purgatory, Bob!
Most of the episodes seep into each other with few that really stand out (although the “Venice ones” always looked nice) but there is one, rather stunning exception: “Shadbolt”. A solo turn from Vaughn, almost entirely set on an early 70s inter-city train (think Get Carter and you’ll be there), it depicts a taught, cat-and mouse game between Harry Rule and great-coated hitman called Shadbolt (the superb Tom Bell). Starting with a striking early morning location shoot in an Edinburgh graveyard and ending in a quarry shoot-out via an unsettling one-to-one between Bell and mousy librarian Georgina Hale, “Shadbolt” is edgy stuff and easily the best episode of the series. Highly recommended even if you give the rest of The Protectors a miss. Just don’t pay any attention when the train locomotive keeps changing from shot to shot, they always do that in ITC shows.
No, I’ve never met Robert Vaughn but I’ve met a few people who have and I trust them when they say that these days he’s a lovely bloke. All those fans who dissed him? A right bunch of dicks.
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