It’s thirty years since the first ever episode of The Vicar of Dibley. As a television comedy about a woman vicar, it was designed to be a groundbreaking series at a seminal moment in the history of the Church of England. It was also funny – and sometimes rude. But, as David Hendy writes, the fictional Reverend Geraldine Granger, played by Dawn French, was just one in a long line of comedy priests that have appeared – sometimes controversially - on 麻豆社 television over the years.
On Thursday 10 November 1994, British television viewers were transported for the first time to what the Radio Times called 鈥渁 perfect village somewhere in England鈥� 鈥� a village where, as we can see here in the series鈥� opening scene, 鈥渘one of the villagers are quite ready鈥� for the arrival of their brand new vicar:
Religion has never been an easy subject for the 麻豆社.
Its Founding Father, John Reith, was the son of a church minister and famously touchy about it. In the 1920s, one of his lieutenants declared, without hesitation, that 鈥淲e are living in a Christian land.鈥� Yet one of Reith鈥檚 other lieutenants said that broadcasting was 鈥� even then - 鈥渁n entertainment medium鈥�. And if comedy is on the 麻豆社鈥檚 programme menu, so too is poking fun 鈥� especially poking fun at figures we see as too serious for their own good. Comedy also tends to work best when it identifies something that audiences recognise as true.
How, then, has our national broadcaster navigated the choppy waters of representing the figure of 鈥榯he priest鈥� in its comedy programmes over the decades? How has it attempted to create characters that might be funny and realistic?
The Green Book Era
In 1948, the Corporation gave every impression of wanting to duck such awkward questions altogether. Its 鈥榁ariety鈥� department published a set of guidelines for writers and producers which became known as the 鈥楪reen Book鈥�. The document鈥檚 overriding message was clear:
Programmes must at all cost be kept free of crudities, coarseness and innuendo.鈥� As for the portrayal of religious characters, it banned 鈥渁ny sort of parody鈥� of Biblical figures, and jokes about 鈥渞eligious ceremonies of any description.
One regular contributor to the Variety department who laboured under these sweeping restrictions 鈥� but who always tried to find a way around them 鈥� was the humourist Frank Muir. In this interview for the 麻豆社 Oral History Collection, he describes his testy relationship with one particular producer at the time:
鈥淒affy Parsons鈥�
In the 1960s, producers were increasingly determined to circumnavigate restrictions that were more than a decade old. And producers in television were even more determined to do this than their colleagues in radio. So by 1967, it no longer felt especially daring to launch a comedy programme all about priests and their funny ways.
The series 鈥� All Gas and Gaiters - began in January 1967, with an episode called 鈥楾he Bishop Gets the Sack鈥�. But there鈥檇 been a pilot episode eight months earlier, as part of Comedy Playhouse, the 麻豆社鈥檚 testing ground for new comedy. 鈥楾he Bishop Rides Again鈥� established All Gas and Gaiter鈥檚 all-important setting: the fictional St. Ogg鈥檚 Cathedral. It also featured its three leading characters: the archdeacon 鈥� a man who likes his sherry 鈥� played by Robertson Hare; the bishop 鈥� a bit of an old bluffer 鈥� played by William Mervyn; and the good-hearted but rather na茂ve and bumbling chaplain, the Reverend Mervyn Noote, played by Derek Nimmo.
When the series proper was launched the following January, one TV critic reflected on what he called the 鈥渟illy ass鈥� characters he鈥檇 just watched. The typical Catholic priest, he pointed out, often did well out of his fictional portrayal:
Producers see him as a man of the world with a taste for whisky, a classless, lovable man, with a tongue on him perhaps but with a heart of gold.
The Anglican was less fortunate. He 鈥� and it was very much still a 鈥榟e鈥� in 1967 - might be benign, even scholarly. Switched-on he was not. So in Dad鈥檚 Army - another series that began in the late-1960s - we saw, for instance, the wimpish, gullible and sulky 鈥楻everend Timothy Farthing鈥� alongside his absurdly sycophantic verger.
In All Gas and Gaiters, Nimmo鈥檚 Mervyn Noote offered viewers yet another unworldly and ineffectual creature, complete with fluted voice and Cambridge accent.
It was funny, or so our TV critic thought, simply because 鈥減retentious people are funny鈥� and the Church of England 鈥渨ith its curious clobber and fancy titles invites ridicule.鈥� As for the reaction of the Church itself, the Provost of St. Mary鈥檚 Cathedral in Edinburgh suggested that the 鈥渄affy parsons鈥� of All Gas and Gaiters proved one thing above all else: that mockery remained 鈥渢he commonest weapon against Jesus Christ and his followers鈥�.
The wider critical response to All Gas and Gaiters was, to say the least, mixed. What offended many newspaper reviewers wasn鈥檛 some frightening lapse in moral standards by portraying clerics in this gently satirical fashion. In 1967 there were plenty of other things to unsettle the especially sensitive TV viewer: the long-haired hippies of the 鈥榮ummer of love鈥�, the 鈥榯urn on, tune in and drop out鈥� rhetoric of the counter-culture, campus sit-ins, protest marches 鈥� the kind of things sometimes lumped together by an older generation and placed in the category of what Anthony Burgess 鈥� after watching just one episode of Top of the Pops - called Britain鈥檚 鈥渋gnoble descent into mindlessness.鈥�
From a comedy point of view, the deeper problem with All Gas and Gaiters was that it represented a style already past its sell-by-date. 鈥淚 cannot say I found it very funny, or indeed, funny at all鈥�, the Guardian critic wrote, before adding 鈥渕ost of the little old ladies I know like it鈥�. It gave off 鈥渁 comforting air that everything is as it always was and will never change 鈥� It is cosy, full of open fires and lovely old rooms with fresh flowers from the garden and tea and crumpets about to be served.鈥�
It seemed, though, as if cosy tea-and-crumpets was exactly the kind of stuff lots of viewers wanted. All Gas and Gaiters ran for a grand total of five series, only ending in 1972.
Unsurprisingly, the 麻豆社 thought it wise to come up with a spin-off of some kind. So in September 1968 it launched Oh, Brother!, set in the fictional Mountacres Monastery and featuring Nimmo in the starring role of Brother Dominic 鈥� who, though now a northerner, was still clumsy and inept:
Oh, Brother! clearly mined much the same seam of gentle farce as All Gas and Gaiters. But it ran for only three series. A monastery was perhaps simply too closed a setting for the variety of fresh material required to sustain a programme over the long-term.
It wasn鈥檛 until 1986 鈥� more than a decade later, and in the middle of Margaret Thatcher鈥檚 premiership - that Nimmo once again appeared on the 麻豆社 in full religious garb. His vehicle this time around: a comedy called Hell鈥檚 Bells, set in what the Radio Times described as 鈥榯he cosy cloisters of Norchester Cathedral鈥�.
By now, Nimmo has been elevated to the role of Dean. And in the first episode, 鈥極n Your Bike, Pilgrim!鈥�, his character, 鈥楧ean Selwyn鈥�, faces the arrival of a new Bishop, played by Robert Stephens 鈥� a man with outspoken socialist ideals. Note the backdrop in this opening scene. In one of its more radical departures, the tea-and-crumpets have been replaced by tea-and-toast鈥�
Hell鈥檚 Bells lasted just a single series -a telling moment in the history of TV priests. Behind the scenes at the 麻豆社, senior programme-makers would gather for their weekly 鈥楻eview Board鈥� to discuss the last seven days of TV output. When they did so in the summer of 1986 and came round to discussing Hell鈥檚 Bells, the judgments were damning 鈥� as these two extracts from the minutes reveal:
Tearing up the rule books
鈥楧ire鈥�. 鈥榁ery unfunny鈥�. 鈥榁ery thin indeed.鈥� It鈥檚 safe to assume that Hell鈥檚 Bells鈥� shortened life was a belated recognition by Britain鈥檚 broadcasters that the earlier stereotype of the Anglican priest had run its course.
But perhaps wider changes behind-the-scenes were having an effect, too. The department charged with making the 麻豆社鈥檚 religious programmes 鈥� programmes such as Songs of Praise and Everyman on TV, or Thought for the Day and the Daily Service on the radio 鈥� had no direct responsibility for the Corporation鈥檚 comedy output, of course. But attitudes revealed in one corner of the 麻豆社 sometimes offer clues to attitudes in other parts of the machine.
Colin Morris, a former Methodist missionary, had joined the 麻豆社鈥檚 Religious Broadcasting department in 1977 and stayed for the next nine years 鈥� most of that time as its head. In an interview recorded for the Corporation鈥檚 own oral history collection, Morris, a lifelong advocate for inclusivity, explained how one of the programmes he managed, Everyman, was introduced precisely in order to show the relevance of religion to everyday social issues:
There was a generational changeover in comedy, too. And in the mid-1990s it coincided with one of the most tumultuous transformations then taking place within the Church of England itself: a move to allow women priests.
For programme-makers, this was too good an opportunity to miss. And The Vicar of Dibley was conceived as a determined 鈥� if light-hearted 鈥� piece of advocacy for this new departure. Its writer, Richard Curtis, admitted to having a 鈥渂ee in his bonnet鈥� about the ordination of women after attending a friend鈥檚 wedding 鈥� as he explained in this 1995 edition of Everyman. In the programme, we also see Joy Carroll, one of Britain鈥檚 first ordained women and the real-life inspiration for Dawn French鈥檚 lead character, 鈥榯he Reverend Geraldine Granger鈥�:
The 鈥渃onfrontational approach鈥� Joy Carroll talked about in that clip wasn鈥檛 really the 麻豆社鈥檚 preferred style, either. But Richard Curtis wasn鈥檛 interested in creating a shrinking violet.
As he gleefully noted, Joy Carroll herself was 鈥渁s naughty and irreverent and 鈥榣ike us鈥� as you could hope.鈥� The character of Reverend Geraldine Granger - feisty but with a weakness for wine, chocolate and romance - was also all too human, all too fallible. And part of The Vicar of Dibley鈥檚 appeal was the guaranteed supply of slightly risqu茅 gags and saucy dialogue it managed to smuggle onto primetime television under the sheep鈥檚 clothing of a cosy setting.
You can see a typical slice of it here in the opening scene of the 2004 Christmas Special, when the Reverend Granger turns up for a village committee meeting that鈥檚 already begun without her:
Crucially, as Wendy Sherer shows in her own ground-breaking research, Geraldine Granger finally provides us with a vicar who is no longer the butt of every joke.
Dawn French鈥檚 character was sharp-witted. In a village where it was almost everyone else, no matter how 鈥榣ovable鈥�, who was either foolish or odd, she was often the lone voice of reason. Ultimately, she was also the voice of compassion. Her parishioners might drive her to distraction. But in the last resort, she would never condemn them. Despite her frustrations and occasional doubts, here was a vicar who might get the better of those who oppose her. But she was always dedicated to her calling.
Here, in that 1995 Everyman documentary, we see Dawn French in conversation with Joy Carroll. The actor clearly felt the generally warm reception the series received offered her scope to push an already rambunctious and worldly character even further in future series:
And push it, the series did 鈥� though not just over Dawn French鈥檚 role.
Paul Nicholson, the real-life vicar of the church in which the series was filmed - in the village of Turville, Oxfordshire - claimed in an interview that the character of Geraldine Granger sowed 鈥楥hristian seeds鈥� by 鈥榙oing things鈥� 鈥� demonstrating 鈥榝aith in action鈥�. It might be true, as its producer, Jon Plowman, explained, that Dibley was essentially 鈥渁 show about a quirky community and about the difference between rural and urban Britain鈥�. But its co-writer Richard Curtis was keen to create a vicar who didn鈥檛 always avoid controversial social and ethical issues. Reverend Nicholson himself, usually on hand to advise the programme-makers, was a life-long champion of the underprivileged 鈥� a campaigner for radical policies to tackle poverty and homelessness. And over the twelve years in which the series was screened, it鈥檚 no surprise that themes of social justice regularly informed the plotlines.
Was the rather delightful village setting of The Vicar of Dibley, the very best location for exploring issues like hunger or poverty, though?
The 鈥榬eal-life鈥� Reverend Granger, Joy Carroll, was a London vicar, and told the Everyman documentary team in 1995 that, unlike her fictional counterpart, she couldn鈥檛 ever see herself working in the countryside. 鈥淚 have a keen interest in people鈥檚 social welfare 鈥� as well as issues around justice and equality鈥� she explained. 鈥淭he city seems to be the place where these issues are at the forefront.鈥�
And it was the city 鈥� inner London, to be precise 鈥� where the next fictional television priest would pop up on the 麻豆社, when, in 2010 it introduced to 鈥楻everend Adam Smallbone鈥�, the lead character of Rev.
Searching for authenticity
Over nineteen episodes spread across three critically acclaimed series, Rev attempted the tricky balancing act of being funny while portraying as authentically as possible the working life of an urban vicar. The title role was played by Tom Hollander, who also wrote the series with James Wood.
Given the thoroughly contemporary inner-city setting, Hollander and Wood wanted to show that in a church such as the Reverend Smallbone鈥檚 St Saviour in the Marshes 鈥榳orking life鈥� meant a daily battle with the realities of poverty, loneliness, addiction, inter-faith relations, a crumbling church fabric, and 鈥� in the very first scene of the very first episode 鈥� a dwindling congregation:
Like Dawn French鈥檚 Geraldine Granger, Adam Smallbone is an all-too-worldly, all-too-human vicar - someone who smokes and drinks and swears. Like her, he鈥檚 dedicated to his calling. The social problems he has to deal with are on another scale, however: this is a time and place where, in terms of welfare support, the vicar was sometimes not just the last but the only resort. His power to change deep-rooted social problems are limited, of course, and by the third series Adam becomes increasingly vulnerable to severe doubts about his faith.
This darker tone was what distinguished Rev. from all its predecessors. It wasn鈥檛 recorded before a live audience. Nor was there any attempt to deploy a 鈥榣aughter track鈥�. Hollander even tried to remove some of the jokes. Above all, as the series producer, Hannah Pescod, explained, the programme-makers 鈥渄idn鈥檛 really make much up鈥�: its storylines were based on many months of observing and understanding and being in constant dialogue with real-life vicars running churches located right in the thick of the most challenging of social environments.
For all the messiness in Adam鈥檚 life 鈥� perhaps precisely because of the messiness in Adam鈥檚 life - we remained on his side. Here was a tragic figure we sympathized with, not least for his desire to change what, in the end, could not be changed. Here was an Anglican priest but also an Everyman. Here, quite simply, was A Good Man.
Perhaps only one question remained for television鈥檚 comedy scriptwriters. Were Britain鈥檚 viewers ready for a priest who might in some sort of way be A Bad Man? Were they ready, in fact, for a vicar with sex appeal?
Hot Priest
Fleabag, written by and starring Phoebe Waller-Bridge, was never about priests or religion or faith 鈥� at least, not in any direct way. But its second series, screened in 2019, introduced us to 鈥楬ot Priest鈥� 鈥� a part played with aplomb by Andrew Scott. His character was, as it happened a Catholic priest, not an Anglican. Which 鈥� recall those newspaper comments from 1967 鈥� gave the series licence to make him 鈥渁 man of the world with a taste for whisky, a classless, lovable man, with a tongue on him鈥�. It also required him to be celibate 鈥� which added to the sexual frisson after Fleabag鈥檚 main character first meets him during a family gathering at a restaurant:
鈥楬ot Priest鈥� quickly became the vicar as social media meme 鈥� a character chewed over and psycho-analysed in countless blog posts and newspaper articles. One columnist likened him to Colin Firth鈥檚 Mr Darcy stepping from a lake in a wet white shirt. Another called him 鈥渁n exploitative muppet鈥�.
Though Andrew Scott鈥檚 character seemed so brilliantly contemporary and fresh, he couldn鈥檛 really be classified as the 鈥榰ltimate version鈥� of British television鈥檚 comic priest. Between the two series of Fleabag, the 麻豆社 launched This Country, a series which features yet another vicar 鈥� the Reverend Francis Seaton - who, in many ways, seemed like a cross between Dibley鈥檚 Geraldine Granger and Rev鈥檚 Adam Smallbone: someone in a rural backwater tending, like a one-man social service 鈥� and with little thanks - to people who clearly got little help from their own families. Not so much a return to the original as a novel re-mix. There will, no doubt, be other versions we can鈥檛 yet visualise.
What connects all these characters - past, present, and future; ancient stereotypes alongside convincing takes on the real thing 鈥� is one thing above all others, namely the innate comic potential of an enduringly strange role. Beyond the exotic clothes and the sometimes arcane language, there鈥檚 the job. The hope of changing lives in a predominantly secular and material world in which you are vested with little real power. The need to forget for the sake of your own sanity that you are massively over-educated for the task of putting on a jumble sale.
They say the vital ingredient of all comedy is a healthy dose of tragedy. If that鈥檚 so, it would seem that the British television priest has long been the perfect tragi-comic hero.
Written by David Hendy Emeritus Professor, University of Sussex.