At a meeting in a north Oxford pub, The Friar Bacon, Kenny McBain, Anthony Minghella, Julian Mitchell, and I drank a few pints of beer together and talked of many things… of which I remember only one with clarity. When I suggested that after lunch I would with the greatest pleasure show them around a few of the murder sites in Oxford that I had already used, McBain smiled and declined my offer: “We’ve already visited them, Colin.” After lunch, half launched upon the shores of light was Inspector Morse that day.

Thereafter, the whole machinery of the televisual requirements began to fall into place: the casting, the film scripts, the locations, the schedules, the directors, the producers, etc. The biggest item of contention, as I recall, was the proposed one-night, two-hour, prime-time programming. I had thought that this was asking a little too much of our likely audience. I was wrong. But again, as with the books, I was extremely lucky. Things can of course so often go sadly awry, and several of my crime-writing colleagues have not experienced the good fortune of which I was continuously aware in ITV’s treatment of Inspector Morse.

Wherein lay this good fortune? First and foremost, it was undoubtedly in the casting of John Thaw and Kevin Whately as Morse and Lewis, with much of the credit for this resting with Ted Childs, the executive producer of all thirty-three episodes. Second, with the string of distinguished screenplay writers, directors, and producers ITV was able to enlist in the making of the thirty-three Inspector Morse episodes filmed. Third, with the sheer technical brilliance of the camera crews, who somehow seemed perpetually enthused and exhilarated by the beauties of Oxford. Indeed, Oxford itself from the outset assumed a leading role in the series, with audiences a little disappointed when the main body of the action was filmed in Australia or Italy or elsewhere. Fourth was the wonderful array of talent among supporting actors and actresses, both established media stars and newcomers, from Sir John Gielgud in The Twilight of the Gods to Elizabeth Hurley in Last Seen Wearing. To the best of my knowledge, no one ever refused an invitation to take a part in the series, and on visits to Oxford, actors as diverse as Ken Dodd and Charlton Heston lightheartedly informed the Oxford Mail that they had only the one remaining ambition in life: to be selected for a minor part in one of the programs. Fifth (and more of this anon), in Barrington Pheloung we had a musical genius. Finally, I must mention the contagious camaraderie engendered among the film crews by such a wise and experienced producer as Chris Burt.

For a brief while let me dwell separately on one of these factors- Oxford.

Morse’s city, described passim, lived in, and murdered in, is not only the city of the great men-scholars, historians, poets, scientists, doctors, churchmen, etc.-whose portraits hang proudly in many of the college dining halls used in the Morse episodes. Oxford is, and always was, a city of “Town” as well as “Gown.” And one of my proudest possessions is the following citation: “The Lord Mayor and Oxford City Council place on record their appreciation of the literary talents of Colin Dexter, who has been the most visual and the most watched novelist of our City. We are extremely grateful that in his novels he has shown our City as having a distinct and separate identity from its famous University.”

I was a bit like Morse myself: quite certainly in the university but not wholly of the university. And whilst I am indulging in some self-gratification, let me admit to feeling a warm glow (forgive me!) on reading the words of the distinguished novelist and critic Malcolm Bradbury: “ Oxford generally imagines it is famous for dreaming spires, British prime ministers (and American presidents), Matthew Arnold, John Ruskin, Cardinal Newman, and Evelyn Waugh. But it is surely Dexter’s Oxford that has laid the strongest imprint over the contemporary city, and it is the Morse Tour that draws a great proportion of its visitors.” All a bit over the top, I agree.

What sort of problems arose with the adaptation of the Morse novels to the TV series?

Each medium, written novel and televised version of it, has its own distinctive strengths-and weaknesses. In a crime novel, a writer can get away with anything, can literally get away with murder, or multiple murders (as I know perfectly well). And if I wish to write, “Lewis decided to risk jumping down the twenty-foot wall, and happily landed uninjured,” there is no problem. On TV, however, he would either break his leg(s) or call in a stuntman or get the cameraman to fiddle the scene. In a novel, I can put a convenient end to some wicked malefactor by having a pack of rabid rottweilers tear him literally to pieces, and even describe the process. On TV, life is still regarded as a little more precious.

The big advantage of TV, of course, is that the viewer can see what’s happening and where it’s happening. A very simple example would be the fabric of the city of Oxford. Whilst I may indulge myself for a couple of paragraphs on describing the effect of sunlight on the cinnamon-colored stone of an Oxford college, TV can do it in a few seconds-and do it better. It is the combination of such camera work with the accompanying dialogue that is, and that has to be, the modus operandi of television, this being the only obvious means available of carrying forward the development of any drama. Why? Because it is not at all easy to think on TV. What is the point of any actor’s face filling the screen for twenty seconds or so, hand to face like Rodin’s Thinker, saying nothing at all but looking-well, looking thoughtful, just above the subtitle “Do not adjust your set”? Unless… unless one has a quite remarkable actor (and John Thaw was such a one) who can communicate by silence, by the slightest movement of his facial features, and most particularly by his eyes. In a novel, if he so purposes, a writer may indulge in “thinking” all the time on every page, never veering from some “stream of consciousness” flow, even to get up for a cup of tea.

Television's compensatory benefit is the use it may so readily make of music. None of us expects (or wants) to find an occasional CD stuck onto the pages of a novel. But music has been a wonderfully appropriate accompaniment to many TV programs-as it was to Inspector Morse.

How important was music in the TV programs?

Early on in the series, one critic wrote that for him, watching Morse was becoming a bit of a routine: bedroom slippers on, wine bottle(s) opened, phone off the hook-all rather like anticipating an evening with Schubert. Well, we’ll come to Schubert in a while, but let us start at the beginning.

Barrington Pheloung’s introductory theme music was a splendid opening, with its fusion of a fine melody with the “da-ditty-da” rhythm of the Morse code. (Incidentally, it was later put to words and appeared on the pop charts.) It was not, as some have supposed, a clever, surely too clever, means of tapping out the letters of the crook’s name. It was, quite simply, a poignant, haunting motif that set exactly the right tone and mood for the series. After the individual episodes developed, music became integral to the moods, actions, and meanings of the scenes being portrayed. Let me give some illustrations of how it all worked, for which we owe everything to Barrington.

My own musical loves have centered predominantly on the latter half of the nineteenth century, especially Wagner (of course!), Bruckner, Mahler, and (later) Richard Strauss. Fairly obviously, the musical tastes of Morse mirrored my own. And, being mentioned frequently in the novels, they had some influence on many of the musical extracts used by Barrington, as did the favorites of Kenny McBain, particularly in the latter case Mozart’s clarinet compositions. Which illustrations do I particularly remember? Vivaldi’s Gloria at the beginning of the first TV program, “The Dead of Jericho”; Callas singing Tosca in “The Ghost in the Machine”; Ella Fitzgerald’s voice in “Driven to Distraction”; Mozart’s The Magic Flute (passim) in “Masonic Mysteries”; the Schubert Quintet in C in “Dead on Time”; the Immolation Scene from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung in “Twilight of the Gods”; and the prelude to Wagner’s Parsifal in “The Remorseful Day.” I could go on and on… And I will do a little, since I should not forget Barrington 's catchy composition “Truckin’ till I’m Dead” in “The Promised Land”; nor his original rave music in “Cherubim and Seraphim.”