Working on the chain gang (part 3)

Most people who’ve been inside a TV studio, particularly when the set is one they’re used to seeing on screen, remark that it looks smaller in real life. My reaction on being led into the Weakest Link studio was, if anything, the opposite. Sure enough, the familiar semicircle of podiums facing Anne’s console is relatively compact; but the set only occupies one end of the studio, which is much bigger than you see on TV and largely empty except for cameras and other equipment. This sense of size is enhanced by the fact that the walls are draped in black; once you’re on the set under the lights, the space beyond seems vast and impenetrably dark.

An enormous video projection screen, turned through 90 degrees into a portrait orientation, is suspended in the air just out of camera shot on the left hand side of the studio (from the viewer’s perspective). The graphic representation of the money chain that you see on TV is projected onto this screen, while underneath it is a digital clock showing the time remaining in each round, so that everyone, in theory, can see the state of play at all times. In practice it’s harder for contestants at the first few podiums to keep up, as they have to twist their heads round to see the screen. Those in the middle and to the right can look at Anne and also see the screen just by glancing upwards.

It had been decided in advance who would be standing where; numbered clockwise from the left, I was at podium number 3. We practised the opening introductions, which are picked up on the crane camera (a remote controlled camera mounted on the end of a long counterweighted jib that can pivot up and down, swing side to side and also telescope forward and back). The jib moves into position, the camera head rotates to face each contestant in turn, and a red cue light underneath prompts you to start speaking. Jimmy introduced himself as such, even though the nameplate on his podium said "James" – the name he’d given the production team. After a hurried interrogation, he admitted that he would prefer to be called Jimmy on the show, and the nameplate was whisked away to the graphics department to be altered.

We were asked to stand silently at our podiums for a few minutes while the cameras got close-up shots of each of us that could be dropped in as cutaways during editing. Besides the crane, there are several cameras on more traditional wheeled mounts which can glide noiselessly around the studio. Shrouded in black (and with operators dressed in black also), you can sometimes just catch a glimpse of these on screen as they move behind the contestants.

Just before we were about to start, one of the producers walked over to me and said, "If Anne asks you to do anything – you know, sing or anything like that – please would you go along with it? I know it might be embarrassing for you; but it looks so much better on screen if you have a go, rather than just stand there and refuse."

"Of course," I said, smiling gamely... then felt my stomach churning as she bustled away. Why had I been singled out for this particular request? I would soon find out.

When everyone was ready, someone shouted "Stand by studio" and a familiar figure dressed in black emerged from the gloom...

The Queen of Mean

The first thing that strikes you is that Anne Robinson is tiny (5'1", according to IMDb). The second is that, when not on camera, she speaks very quietly – or at least she did on this particular day (though even her onscreen performance seemed a little subdued compared with some editions of the show; perhaps she was tired or unwell). She stepped into position, looked round the semicircle, and smiled a little nervously at each of us in turn. "Hello Peter... Jo... Phil..." Some of the tension in the room evaporated; most of us even managed to smile back. We relaxed slightly. This wasn’t going to be too bad... was it?

"Right," said Anne. "Now let’s wipe those smiles off your faces."

The crane pulled in ready for a tight shot of Anne, the title music played and, on cue, she began her familiar opening spiel:

Welcome... to the Weakest Link! Any of the nine people in the studio here today could win up to ten thousand pounds. They don’t know each other; however, if they want that prize money, they’ll have to work as a team. But eight of them will leave with nothing, as round by round we lose the player voted the weakest link. Let’s meet the team.

At the end of her first sentence, the crane camera had swooped up into the air to reveal the entire set in a dramatic pullback shot. There was now a short pause in recording – the first of many – while it was repositioned for the introductions. Peter and Jo announced themselves, then it was my turn. This, believe it or not, is one of the most nerve-racking parts of the show. Contestants frequently say, "When Anne looks at you, your mind goes blank"; for me, watching this robotic camera suspended in mid-air as it swivels round to face you and having to speak to it is infinitely worse. When the red light came on, I was so transfixed that, as I finished speaking and the camera moved on, I realised I’d been speaking to the light and not to the camera lens (fortunately, it didn’t show on screen).

Mercifully, we got through the intro in one take (though Jimmy stumbled a little nervously through his) and the camera swooped out again. I’d always wondered how the crane avoids hitting Anne on the head as it does this; in fact, she stands to one side during the intros, stepping into position on her rostrum at the last moment as the camera recedes, appearing to the unsuspecting viewer as though she has been there all along.

Anne recited the rules, and we were away.

Round 1

The team made a fairly inauspicious start, banking a modest £420. Claire and Jennifer got one wrong each (though Claire banked £300 for the team), and poor Jimmy got two wrong. His first question was: "In maths, what is 98 plus 3?"; clearly very nervous already, he answered, "99". He immediately realised his mistake and tried to correct himself, but it was too late.

My first question was: "In anatomy, on which ten parts of the body apart from the fingers and thumbs does a human being grow nails?" This is one of those deceptively simple questions that Weakest Link seems to delight in, where the wording is so convoluted that it takes a second or two to digest what it is you’ve been asked. I blanked momentarily, then with palpable relief answered, "Toes".

At the end of the three minutes, everyone had been asked three questions except for Claire and me who only got to answer two each. In the final seconds, Jo banked and then correctly answered her question just within the time; a split second quicker off the mark and I could have banked another £20, but if anyone noticed they didn’t use that as a reason to vote against me.

Once Anne had delivered her summing up, she left the set while we cast our votes. There is a substantial break in recording after each round (particularly in the early stages of the game) during which the producers work out the statistics and confer with Anne about whom she will interrogate over their performance. Also, Dave the floor manager walks round making a note of everyone’s votes. During this time, we had to continue writing (or pretending to write) on our boards for several minutes while the cameras moved around, getting shots of each contestant – which is why so many contestants add little doodles or fancy lettering to their votes.

The statistics were as follows:

The strategy used by the producers for deciding who are the weakest and strongest links in each round is complex and arcane. The primary statistic is the number of right answers; if that results in a tie, the number of wrong answers is compared, followed by the amount of money banked. After that, the rules vaguely state that "other statistics are taken into account". What these might be is a mystery; I suspect they simply make a random choice. Of course, it’s largely irrelevant who is statistically the worst player, as it’s votes that count (the names revealed by announcer Jon Briggs when the show is transmitted are recorded in post-production and not heard by the contestants); but the player deemed the strongest link gets to start the next round, which could affect subsequent game play (and they also have the distinct advantage of deciding who is voted off in the event of a tie).

In Round 1, Claire and Jimmy each had one right answer; but Jimmy had two wrong, making him the weakest link. Of the several players who got three right, Tim was statistically the strongest link, having banked £100.

Eventually, Anne returned to the set clutching some handwritten notes which she propped up on her console (look closely and you can often see these on screen, appearing as if by magic at the end of the voting), and delivered her familiar line:

Voting over – it’s time to reveal who you think is the weakest link.

Contestants are instructed to lift their boards simultaneously on the word "weakest", which looks tidier on screen, though in practice people often forget. The crane camera pulled in once more and, as the cue light glowed red, we each turned over our boards. Not surprisingly, it was an eight to one vote for Jimmy.

On screen, it appears that Anne immediately starts grilling the contestants. In fact, she turns to face her first victim and there is a pause while the floor cameras glide into position. Under interrogation, Tim revealed that he was taking a gap year before going to medical school, during which he was practising his archery and playing the drums in a band. Anne asked him to hum a tune; he obliged with a snippet of Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Chile. Then she asked, "Why Jimmy?" (meaning why had he voted for Jimmy); Tim misunderstood and, thinking she was still talking about his music, replied, "I like Jimi – I think he’s got a good sound."

Any voyeuristic pleasure I may have been feeling at Tim’s embarrassment was short-lived. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realised that Anne was turning to face me. I stood helplessly while the cameras were repositioned to point in my direction. Straight away, she threw me a curve ball: "So, Phil, whose voice can you be?"

I tried to brazen it out: "Anyone you’d like me to be, Anne."

"OK," she said, "I’d like you to be Tony Blair."

What the...? My mind raced. I don’t do impressions... at least, not professionally. At no time in my interminable research interview with Emil had I ever claimed to do impressions. Still, having been urged before the show to "have a go", I gave it my best shot. With what I hoped was a suitably sanctimonious voice and an open-handed gesture of appeal, I said, "No, you see, the thing is, we have to vote off the weakest link..."

Mercifully, Anne cut me off. "That’s Prince Charles," she said pityingly.

"I don’t have the ears for Prince Charles," I retorted. The torture continued for a while longer, with Anne eventually remarking, "So you can’t actually do anyone?" "No," I said, hanging my head in mock shame.

Then she asked, "Why Jimmy?" I took this bit seriously. We had been asked before the show to try to give genuine reasons for our choice of vote, rather than simply say, "I thought he/she was the weakest link"; and I wanted to play fairly and honestly.

"Jimmy got two wrong," I said, "one of which was a very easy maths question – I think he panicked a bit." Jimmy nodded ruefully, and Anne moved on. I breathed again; I’d got through my first exchange with the Red Snapper.

Eventually, Anne said the inevitable words, "Jimmy: you are the Weakest Link – goodbye!" and Jimmy left his podium. The Walk of Shame is, if anything, even more humiliating in the studio than it appears on screen, as the voted-off contestant has to do it twice – once for the wide angle shot, then again for the close-up tracking shot. As Jimmy returned to his podium for the retake, he smiled bravely around at the team and said, "Sorry everyone." He’d come a long way to be voted off in Round 1; I hope in retrospect he’d enjoyed the experience. The second take of the Walk of Shame is done with the crane camera; a crew member walks backwards alongside it, shining a powerful hand-held light at the contestant’s face. It’s a minor miracle that nobody falls off the set.