And a soldier.

Inktober # 25 - Sharp

White gel pen on black paper, A4.

From the @bluebellofbakerstreet’s prompt list for Inktober2020.

Many thanks to @sherlock-and-his-hedgehog for the reference picture.

BBC Sherlock Stamps + Bonus:

Happy 10th Anniversary, BBC Sherlock (2010-2017)!

Blackbird, Fly

Chapter 20: In the War Room

Read it on AO3.

- BBC Sherlock -

Body Language 2

Blackbird, Fly

Chapter 19: Little Man

Read it on AO3.

New interview with #MartinFreeman about #Breeders from the New York Times! 💙💙💚 (28/February/2020) https://www.nytimes.com/2020/02/28/arts/television/martin-freeman-breeders.html 

Martin Freeman: No More Mr. Nice Dad

After a career playing good guys and audience surrogates, the actor has created his own series, “Breeders,” a dark comedy about the agonies of parenting. Don’t make him come up there.

By Alexis Soloski

LONDON — “In nice sort of lefty, liberal circles, you don’t really talk about how you want to throw your kids out of the [expletive] window,” Martin Freeman said.

It was a gloomy Friday in early fall. In a few hours, Freeman would meet his own kids, then 11 and nearly 14, for a weekend of “probably just eating and kicking a ball around and normal, boring stuff,” he said.

But at that moment, he had arranged himself on a plush sofa in a private lounge of a ritzy hotel in a luxury corner of London’s Soho neighborhood. Between tidy bites of Dover sole, he told me how bringing up children, especially very young children, had often made him want to put his fist through a wall.

“It’s just hard,” he said. Minutes later, he elaborated: “You feel like you’re in a little prison, actually, and going mad.”

Freeman, 48, the English star of “Fargo,” “Sherlock” and Peter Jackson’s hobbit films, has applied that madness in “Breeders,” the tar-black comedy that he cocreated and stars in, which premieres on FX on Monday. He plays Paul, a London man married to Daisy Haggard’s Ally and blessed with two children, Luke, 7, and Ava, 4.

“I would die for those kids,” Paul tells his wife in the pilot. “But often I also want to kill them.”

“It’s a conundrum, isn’t it,” she says, “trying to work out which duvet to suffocate them with.”

“Breeders” joins recent Anglophone comedies like “Catastrophe,” “Motherland,” “Workin’ Moms” and “The Letdown” in its focus on the relentlessness of modern parenting. It also shows Freeman, an actor known for playing nice guys and the occasional nice hobbit, loosing the anger that he usually keeps coiled and letting his rage flag fly.

For Freeman enthusiasts, this might seem jarring. What’s a nice guy like him doing with wrath like this? But Freeman isn’t especially nice. Which he knows.

“I’m angry,” he said, with typical candor. “And a bit superior.”

His characters are, too, even seemingly benign ones like Tim in the British version of “The Office,” who defaults to contempt, or John Watson in “Sherlock,” who struggles with post-traumatic stress. (And yes, I asked him if he would ever make more “Sherlock” episodes. His answer: “Is that still on?”) Lift the rumpled hood and Freeman’s nice guys aren’t really nice at all.

“People just thought I was their best mate,” he said. “I’m really not. I’m not your best mate. That was always a shock to people.”

Which suggests that his “Breeders” character is less outlier than alter ego. When I asked how he differed from Paul, he thought for a bit. “I think he’s probably less of a [expletive] than I am,” he answered, using a very English obscenity. Freeman, who wore desert boots, cuffed jeans and an indigo chore coat, also said that he thought he dressed better than Paul. Fair.

Over lunch, Freeman alternated the occasional rant with acute self-awareness. He spoke much more frankly than most actors do, with brains and wit and the occasional joke so appalling that I could hear myself, when I listened to the recording of the conversation later, laughing in a way that bordered on hysteria.

“Breeders” began with a dream — an actual dream, a dream that felt a lot like life. In the dream, his children were making some terrific ruckus, and as Freeman walked upstairs to quiet them, he told himself not to yell at his children, that it wouldn’t help, that it would only make him feel worse. Then he yelled anyway.

The next morning, he told his then-partner and “Sherlock” co-star, the actress Amanda Abbington (they split in 2016), that he thought it would make good material for a very dark comedy. He had seen other shows about parenting, like the BBC’s “Outnumbered.” And as he watched them, he told me, he used to wonder why none of the parents “were ever threatening to break someone’s nose.”

“Because if you’re constantly, constantly, constantly being disobeyed, someone’s going to threaten to put someone through a wall,” he said. “And that’s real life.”

Is it though? I and most other well-meaning humans might wonder. Freeman knows how he comes across. “None of this is going to sound good on paper,” he said. “None of my interviews ever do.”

Let’s be clear: Freeman does not, he would like you to know, condone child abuse in any form. He has never raised a hand to his children; he doesn’t think that anyone should raise a hand to a child. Windows? Walls? Absolutely not. When he realized he was yelling too much at the people he loved most in the world, he went to therapy and it helped.

But the point is, he wanted “Breeders” to reflect his own authentic parental frustration, not some TV version. Speaking by telephone, Simon Blackwell, the series’s showrunner (and, with Chris Addison, another creator), described early creative meetings as “kind of a men’s therapy group,” with an emphasis on shared failures as parents, on the distance between the fathers they had wanted to be and the fathers they were.

The writers’ room was staffed entirely with parents. The show, as Freeman said, with expletives, “has to be shot through with the truth of what it is to be a parent, what it is to love that much and to be that angry and to be that tired.” Freeman’s most common script note: Make it less funny. Which the writers did, knowing that the actor’s tousled charm would soften a character who isn’t particularly soft, creating empathy Paul may not deserve.

“I’m not nice,” Paul says in that first episode. “For 30-odd years I was convinced I was nice. But I’m not. I’m nasty.” Fatherhood taught Paul that. It taught Freeman that, too.

Still, what the actor candidly, maybe even too candidly, describes as personal shortcomings, his colleagues frame as byproducts of a fierce intelligence and dedication to craft, which can sometimes manifest as impatience.

Haggard, his “Breeders” co-star who brought her breast pump to auditions, described him as rigorously honest. “You get to the nitty-gritty, you don’t float around on the surface being polite about everything,” she said. The writer-director Steven Moffat, who cocreated “Sherlock,” called him “sharp” and “very authoritative” and “nobody’s idea of a pushover.”

“I think he occasionally gets a bit cross that he is constantly cast as the Everyman,” Moffat said. “Because he doesn’t really feel that he’s much of an Everyman, and he’s right.”

It’s that tension between the wonky-smiled, friend’s-kid-brother looks and the suspicion of something more volatile that informs his best work. “Martin is perfect doing the ordinary man with simmering undercurrents,” Moffat said.

That’s why Noah Hawley cast him as Lester Nygaard, the milquetoast turned murderer who leads the first season of “Fargo.”

“That reserve of anger is interesting onscreen,” Hawley said, speaking by telephone. “You’re waiting for it to come out.”

In “Breeders,” that reserve is there from the get-go. In the pilot’s first scene, adapted from Freeman’s dream, Paul screams at his children in a way the character describes as “medically deranged.” Freeman looks as if he isn’t acting — that may be because “Breeders” borrows so explicitly from his own experience, or because looking like he’s not acting is one of his things.

“I don’t want to see the [expletive] work,” he said. “Because that just looks like you’re trying to win an award.”

It doesn’t mean he takes the work lightly. Hawley mentioned that he stayed with his Minnesota accent throughout the “Fargo” shoot. Moffat, who said that Freeman verged “on national treasure status,” put it like this: “He’s terribly serious about his work. I mean, when he’s working, he’s working.

And on “Breeders” he really is working, because a character like Paul — pre-therapy, eternally at tether’s end — hews closely to the man Freeman used to be, not the man he is now. His separation from Abbington, whom he describes as “wonderful” and “a brilliant [expletive] actor,” means shared custody, so he spends less time with his children and values that time more. He looks forward to their “normal, boring” weekends.

“Boring and lovely,” he clarified.

“I don’t deny the dark side of it,” he said, and starring in a show like “Breeders” means he can’t. But “the lovely side of it is just great.”

Abnormally attracted to danger

Painting John is difficult, so I decided I needed a bit more practise.

Watercolour and gel pen on watercolour paper, Gimp, A4

Martin Freeman interview: the Sherlock star on going over to the dark side to play an aggressive father in his new sitcom Breeders

Freeman has built his career around vulnerable, gentle types. But now he admits his latest role is as close to him as he’s likely to play. By Jonathan Dean

Martin Freeman was nice as Tim in The Office. And as the put-upon Watson in Sherlock, heroic Bilbo in The Hobbit and, of course, as the voice of Stick Man, trying to get back to the family tree. On screen he is the relatable character, luring us in with little murmurs and eye-rolls, as if he is on Gogglebox, commenting on his roles as they happen.

“A few times,” he admits, “I’ve been the audience proxy, and it’s Pavlovian. Once people saw The Office, where Tim was this likeable character, they thought they had a handle on me. People carry that with them.”

Freeman, in other words, often plays gentle and kind, which means his new Sky sitcom, Breeders, is a jolt.

“Paul is as close to me as I’m likely to play,” he says. “There’s so much of me in there, for good and bad. Mainly for bad, actually.” In the show, Paul screams at his two infant children so much, the opening sounds like a snuff movie. Boy, does he need his relatability now. This show is really going to test how much we allow ourselves to identify with him.

We meet at Freeman’s house in north London, settling in his dining room for tea and biscuits. Where else would you meet Freeman, other than at his home? It would be strange to pop around to where Tom Cruise lives, but Freeman feels, as he recognises, like somebody we know. When I arrive, he has Radio 4 on; the framed posters on the wall are largely nostalgic and British, and include some from his own films. The only ostentatious touch is a large gong in the corner, but, otherwise, it is a remarkably unremarkable place — a typical home for a 48-year-old man who was born in Aldershot, made a lot of money and now lives on a leafy upscale street in the capital.

Breeders, which was Freeman’s idea, is a dark sitcom that takes the notion that parenting is fun and puts it on the naughty step, before blowing said step up. Freeman’s Paul and Daisy Haggard’s Ally are a couple with children and chaotic lives. The series is directed by Chris Addison and written by Simon Blackwell, of The Thick of It, and its storylines came about when the three men shared the times they had failed as fathers — and turned them into comedy.

Freeman is a fan of Outnumbered, the long-running BBC sitcom about raising a family. “But,” he adds, “when things went wrong in that show, there wasn’t anybody threatening to smash someone’s head against a wall.” He sips his tea. Such anger is all over Breeders. Paul yells at his kids: “How many times do I have to tell you … Tell Mummy that Daddy’s gone … Then you can watch her cry, and you can cry some more and you’ll all be f****** crying.”

Is that, I ask, a tad far-fetched? “If anything,” says Freeman, bluntly, “some of it is toned down from real life.”

In episode 3, social services are called because Paul and Ally’s son has been to hospital so many times. Also, a neighbour has heard Paul’s intimidating anger. Neither has happened to Freeman, but he admits to losing his temper in a way some parents manage to avoid. “Part of the challenge was to see if we could make something that wasn’t Ken Loach but was disturbing, while also in a comedic setting. And really, properly, go there.” It is unlikely to be shown at NCT classes.

I mention a scene in which Paul has a chat with his father about the sort of punishment by hand, dealt out by parents, that has gone out of fashion.

“I was never hit,” Freeman says, “but I know plenty of people who were, and they don’t really bitch about it now. It’s different if you get the shit kicked out of you, but the odd slap? I know plenty who don’t care.” Does he know more recent parents who have hit their children? “I have smacked my kids,” he announces. “When they were very young. I smacked my kids, yes. And it’s not like a victory. It’s not, ‘Oh, I must be doing something right!’

“But I have done it. When it is route one to something they need to understand and I cannot rationalise with them. Also I was impatient and at the end of my rope.”

Such parenting isn’t admitted to much. (Last year, Scotland became the first country in the UK to ban smacking.) “Yeah, but so many things are different now,” Freeman says, not entirely thrilled. “In one generation, we’ve tried to travel about 5,000 years, with varying success. Obviously, it’s a good idea not to hit your kids. But at some point you’re going to do things wrong and, 20 years on, your kids are going to ask why you did that. It’s inevitable. And with smacking — I’m not proud I did that, but I have. I don’t think it’s a policy.” He pauses. “And I’ll do it again!” he says with great booming exaggeration, before laughing very briefly.

In fairness, Freeman is clearly not alone in having smacked his children: others just don’t admit to it; neither is it something people might want to post on Instagram, where parenting is a big, positive — and posed — business. Breeders shows honesty. Yes, it is extreme, but then Freeman has a knack for dramatic turns of phrase. (On the importance of telling off children, he says it is to “stop them leaning out of the window and dying”.) Yet, as a father who was recently late for work because my two-year-old daughter did a poo on my jumper, I found the realness of the series reassuring. Modern parenting is so much about perfection that the slightest imperfection can feel catastrophic.

“That is another frustrating thing about parenting, and what makes you feel like a failure,” Freeman insists — as wound up as he gets. “All the images we’re getting about how to parent if you’re a nice, arty person are a series of rules we all either adhere to or pretend to. You know, positive affirmation and everything is great, and you’re perfect the way you are. Well, you’re not. One of the rules is, don’t smack your kids or call them little f******.”

He pauses. “But, you know, I’ve done both,” he continues. “I’ve probably smacked twice, but I’ve called them little f****** more then twice. I know I’m not supposed to do it, but there are so many images about how [parenting] all just has to be brilliant that it makes people feel bad. Because it’s not brilliant. I mean, it is — it’s the best thing I’ll do. But that doesn’t mean it’s not really hard. This idea you only ever rationalise with a toddler? Genuinely, good luck. If you can do that, God go with you. Amazing.” He really is a master of deadpan. “But, yeah, I don’t think most are doing that.”

Freeman’s children, with his former partner, the actress Amanda Abbington, are Grace, 11, and Joe, 14. Do they shout back now they are older? “No,” he says. “But I shout less. I still struggle with impatience, but what I’ve always welcomed is being brought up short. If I’ve done something wrong, I want to know. So when my son or daughter says ‘Please be more patient’, I really listen. It’s not always easy to act on, but I hear it. I really do.”

Have they seen Breeders? “Yes. And they like it. They jokingly say, ‘It’s a show about how much [Dad] hates us.’ And that they should earn money from it. They like watching their mum and dad in things. They are proud of us. But it’s all recognisable for them. The funny. The shouting. The loving.”

He adds: “It’s only in the past year or so I’ve volunteered my kids’ names. I was very protective of their privacy, but there comes a point where me being protective totters off into denying their existence. If it was down to Joe and Grace, they would be walking up every red carpet with T-shirts saying ‘I’m Joe’ and ‘I’m Grace’. They love that stuff, but me and Amanda have been careful, because once you let it out, you can’t put it back.”

Has Abbington seen Breeders yet? “No, but I don’t think she’ll be shocked. It’s to do with me, but not to do with me and Amanda particularly.”

One line has Ally saying, “Who is happy with two kids under the age of seven?” Given Freeman and Abbington split in 2016, is he prepared for people to read his own life into the show? “I don’t mind if they do. It would be disingenuous for me to say this has nothing to do with me. I’ve always been open about my shortcomings as a parent, because I’m a pretty good dad. A demonstrably loving father. And I’m not even sure I shout more than others, but I admit to it more than almost anybody. And, well, I’m doing a f****** show about it.”

For someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy interviews, Freeman does tend to give rather a lot away. In person he is full of sighs, that semi-frown of confusion and possible disdain found in many of his characters. As such, conversation is a businesslike back and forth: he is utterly uninterested in small talk — which is less criticism, more observation, since small talk is what you expect Freeman to be interested in, given how much of an everyman he tends to play.

For years, maybe because they believed The Office was a documentary and just wanted to buy some paper, people used to approach the actor about Tim. He and his intended, Dawn, were the heart of that brilliant show, and it was hard for Freeman to better their arc, which ended with a kiss and fantastic use of Yazoo. Then, of course, Sherlock came along, and, he says, things “went bananas”. Fans would camp out all night to watch Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch filming. He knows he is lucky. A lot of actors struggle to have anything people love them for. He has had five or six such jobs; he appears most proud of the first series of the TV drama Fargo.

Did the attention from Sherlock fans shock him?“Yeah,” he replies, quieter than before. He once attracted flak for suggesting not everything about that show was perfect.

“Sherlock hit something in a strain of culture people really resonated with and latched onto, like a band. At first it was a shock in a nice way. But, similarly, when you have a favourite group, you love them and love them, until you don’t. Then you hate them, because they betrayed you and let you down.”

Was the attention too much? “No,” he says, cautiously. “But you cannot keep up with a certain level of expectation.” And, like being a parent, nothing will ever be wholly amazing, right? “For me, that’s an anodyne thing to say. Christ, if I’m saying not everything about being a dad is amazing, and that’s easily the most amazing thing I’ll do, then of course not everything about every show is amazing. But it ended up being construed as if I was ungrateful for Sherlock. Believe me, I’m fiercely proud of that.”

The fiery reaction to his comments fitted the current lack of nuance in general discussion. “Well, yes. In everything. You’re either my enemy or my hero. But, shock horror, not everything about a job was amazing. No shit.”

It is time to leave — Freeman has to pack for a trip to Los Angeles, where he is filming the show Angelyne. A while back, when asked what makes him unhappy, he said it was his brain. That he would like to switch parts of it off. It was an interestingly frank thing to say. “Yes, I wish I could lobotomise bits of my brain,” he says, nodding, as matter-of-fact about that as everything else.

Is it, I ask, too much to call this state of mind depression? “Probably,” he says. “That would be a disservice to people who really suffer. We’re just talking general human condition stuff.” Again, he pauses. It is an answer that, before we met, I may have thought a typical nice, unassuming Freeman response, but he finds it difficult to stop where he easily could.

“I mean,” he continues, “I have wondered if I’ve actually got something. A condition. I find it so impossible to focus and have been told I overthink a lot, by a lot of people, so they’re probably not all wrong. Why am I always forgetting things? But I don’t think I have an actual medical excuse.”

He smiles, as he often tends to, before finding something we can all relate to. “It’s probably just me being crap.”