Michael Crawford makes Frank Spencer’s accidents worth watching, with physical precision that survives the repetition. Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em is good slapstick, though its dependence on one man’s incompetence makes small doses advisable.
Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em is good slapstick built around a character who becomes wearing if we spend too long with him. Frank Spencer means well, and Michael Crawford makes that decency essential to the joke: we need a reason to keep caring after another accident. Raymond Allen, the programme’s creator and writer, gives him a dependable source of trouble in his own incompetence. At thirty minutes an episode, the arrangement works more often than it irritates.
Michael Crawford does not play Frank as someone who deserves whatever happens to him. His light touch allows foolishness to coexist with an innocence that remains appealing, even when another mishap seems inevitable. That is harder than it sounds: too much calculation would make Frank a nuisance, while too much helplessness would make the laughter feel cruel. The performance keeps us interested in how he will cope, which is useful when the broad shape of the joke is already familiar.
We laughed at the stunts, then worried about the person doing them. It is the visible risk in Michael Crawford’s physical comedy that causes the change: the mishap may be Frank’s, but an actor still has to perform it. The comedy gives us permission to enjoy his discomfort without quite removing our concern. That is a substantial achievement in slapstick, where elaborate accidents can become impersonal, and it gives the programme an appeal beyond affection for its central character.
Sydney Lotterby’s direction is strongest in the physical comedy, where it matters that we can follow Frank’s predicament as it develops. We can understand the trouble instead of simply waiting for the next impact, and that makes the anticipation enjoyable in itself. Raymond Allen’s writing helps by giving the accidents a consistent cause in Frank’s attempts to cope. We know enough about the man to recognise why he is having difficulty, even when the physical ingenuity is what holds our attention.
Michele Dotrice, as Betty Spencer, has the less conspicuous task of giving us someone to attend to beside Frank. Her presence matters because a programme centred so firmly on one performer risks making everybody else seem like a delay before the next accident. There is less room here for a second character to develop comparable comic freedom. That imbalance is understandable, given the attraction of the stunts, but it also narrows the pleasure.
Repetition is the larger limitation. Once Frank’s good intentions and poor co-ordination are established, too much of the comedy can be anticipated before the physical details arrive. Raymond Allen can vary the trouble without always varying our response to it, and the smaller jokes have a harder job beside such demanding physical work. We found our attention drifting when the prospect of another mishap had to do the work of a fresh idea.
A sitcom can make room for several equally funny people, and we do miss that variety here. As slapstick, however, this has the considerable advantage of an actor who makes physical incompetence look painfully plausible. The thirty-minute length helps, giving the routine a natural stopping point before familiarity takes too much away. Give it an episode, and resist the temptation to treat the next one as compulsory.
