The All-Singing, All-Dancing Show (II): Jack Buchanan, George Robey and The Red Shoes

If Jessie Matthews was Britain’s greatest song-and-dance lady of the 1930s, then one of her partners was unquestionably the most successful and internationally known British song-and-dance man of them all. His name was Jack Buchanan. Born in 1891, when Queen Victoria was still on the throne, he will always be associated with a suave, sophisticated style. He was to Britain what Maurice Chevalier was to France, and Fred Astaire to the United States. With his nasal singing style, and long-legged effortless dancing, he soon became a favourite of the West End stage musical. In fact, he was dubbed ‘Mr. West End’. Naturally, his debonair charm and good looks made him perfect for films, and it was not long before he was recruited into the industry and talents exploited.

Though Buchanan had acted in a couple of totally forgettable silent movies, such as Auld Lang Syne (1917) and Her Heritage (1919), it was with the advent of sound that he really came into his own. He was already a name on Broadway, having gone there with Beatrice Lillie and Gertrude Lawrence in an André Charlot and Archie Selwyn revue. But it was Jack who caught the Hollywood scout’s eye, and he was soon in front of the camera doing what he did best, ‘hoofing and singing’, in the first of many film musicals, Show Of Shows (1929), and in the next year Monte Carlo. That was followed by the film for which he will probably always be remembered, mainly because of his hit recording of the title song Goodnight, Vienna (1932).

It was no secret in the gossipy world of show business that Buchanan and Jessie Matthews had no love for each other. This was due to Jessie always preferring her ‘perfect’ dancing partner and husband, Sonnie Hale, to Jack. Nevertheless, such was their drawing power to theatre audiences that, often against their wishes, they found themselves co-starring with each other. One such occasion did, however, have a happy outcome for an unknown dancer who sat demurely in the wings patiently waiting for her big break. It happened one evening, whilst the pair were entertaining in a supper-time cabaret, singing a popular song of the time, ‘Fancy our Meeting’, with love in their eyes as they gazed adoringly at each other, and, as Jessie said, ‘with murder in our hearts’. Suddenly Jack recognized a friend at one of the tables and, right in the middle of their act, went gliding over to him and had a little chat. This was too much for Jessie, who stormed off, shouting that Jack could find someone else to partner him in future – or words to that effect. The girl who was in the wings, whose name at the time was Marjorie Robertson, at last had her chance to take over as Jack’s partner. She would become a huge star herself as well as a Dame Of The British Empire – under the name she soon adopted, Anna Neagle.

But back to Jack. Such trifles as this he took in his long, elegant stride. In fact, it’s almost true to say that he rarely put a foot wrong, and in 1953, at the no-longer-tender age of sixty-two, he co-starred in his most successful film musical, The Bandwagon. The other star was Fred Astaire. Directed by Vincent Minelli, it was a smash hit on both sides of the Atlantic. No one could handle a top hat and cane better than Jack, apart from possibly Fred himself; and here they were together, going through their smooth paces in some wonderful routines. Of course, the film will also be remembered for a song which has become a show business anthem, ‘That’s Entertainment’.

That same year, Jack returned to Britain and again starred in a colourful musical, As Long As They’re Happy. His name will always be synonymous with style, and when it’s said that they don’t make entertainers like Jack any more, just one glance at some of his best musical movies defines exactly what they mean.

A young lady who co-starred in As Long As They’re Happy was sensible enough to change her real name before filming. Somehow, she assumed that Jean Shufflebottom would just not look good in lights. Jeannie Carson, on the other hand, was a much better fit and Jeannie would go on to make popular films in Britain as a song-and-dance star, such as An Alligator Named Daisy (1956) and Rockets Galore (1957), before taking off to the USA. There she was an even bigger success and starred on Broadway before going to Hollywood and playing in the title role of a top-rated television comedy series, Hey, Jeannie! Highly talented, noted for her effervescent personality, she never returned to her homeland.

George Robey could quite comfortably be placed in one of three categories – a fine character actor, the most highly rated music-hall comedian of his generation, or, as he appeared in the autumn of his life, a film star in British film musicals. On the halls, his top billing proudly proclaimed him to be the ‘Prime Minister of Mirth’, and for more than four decades he had audiences roaring with laughter at his risqué, double entendre jokes, a forerunner in style of Max Miller, Frankie Howerd and Max Wall. Few have equalled his outrageous antics as a pantomime dame. Then suddenly this great clown switched from what was then termed ‘low’ comedy to classic drama, and many observers of his day believe no one has played Shakespeare’s Falstaff better than Robey.

Robey’s song at the end of his long act, ‘If you were the only girl in the world’, still rates among the evergreens of music-hall signature tunes. Only Marie Lloyd’s ‘Follow the Van’ or Albert Chevalier’s ‘My Old Dutch’ perhaps bear comparison. And it was his confident voicing of a sentimental love song that made him a natural choice, even though he was by then almost sixty-three years old, to star as Ali Baba in the screen version of the smash-hit British stage show Chu Chin Chow (1934). The director was former silent-screen comedian Walter Forde, and he and Robey got along like a house on fire, sharing an understanding of the art of comic timing. The film was an enormous international success with its spectacular effects and catchy melodies. So successful, in fact, and so splendid was Robey’s performance, that the following year Alexander Korda signed Robey to a three-year contract, proudly pronouncing, ‘I regard George Robey as capable of rivalling in popularity any film star in the world. I have been considering for some time past the possibility of presenting him as a first rank film star.’ Impossible now to imagine anyone being presented with this sort of opportunity of stardom in a new medium at the age of almost sixty-five. But then, of course, George Robey was very special, and this was affirmed when he became the first music-hall comedian to attain a knighthood.

Much has been written about the formidable team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, who took the British cinema industry by its well-tailored collar and shook new life into it as writers, producers and directors – titles they shared uniquely and jointly on all their major films for their Archers production company. There is also no doubt that their brand of sensory cinema accentuated the use of visuals and sound (music and FX) to the extent much of their output can be qualified as containing musical sequences even before they embarked on their landmark ballet film The Red Shoes (1948).

Even today, it remains for most ballet lovers one of the only to capture the true essence of the world of dance, with its magical allure and total dedication to its form. It featured a dazzling new star, Moira Shearer, who already had enchanted audiences at the Royal Ballet, but who had never, before The Red Shoes, acted in front of a camera. With the impresario Lermantov played with power and conviction by Anton Walbrook, and Shearer as ballet-crazed Vicky Page, the film established early on the almost fanatical zeal that is required by a budding prima ballerina, not only to get to the top, but, once she is there, how she can never let go.

‘Why do you want to dance, Miss Page?’ Lermantov asks her with barely concealed disdain. ‘Why do you want to live, Mr Lermantov?’ replies Vicky with all consuming passion.

Designer Heinz Heckroth and director of photography Jack Cardiff created a striking visual scheme, while the lyrical score by Brian Easdale, was conducted by the legendary, Sir Thomas Beecham. Pressburger’s screenplay drew heavily on the true story of the Ballet Russe, and in particular Diaghilev’s traumatic relationships with some of his artists. The memorable central ballet was created and choreographed by Robert Helpmann.

The climactic scene again owes its origin to a true-life incident. When Vicky Page dies on the night she is billed to make her triumphant comeback, a spotlight, not an understudy, takes over her role, poignantly showing us that this magical dancer was irreplaceable. This actually happened when the greatest of all ballerinas, the incomparable Anna Pavlova, died on the night of a scheduled performance: her part, too, was played on that night by an ethereal white spotlight.

The Red Shoes has achieved classic status as a film, and it’s no surprise that on its initial release it was nominated for four Oscars. Its lasting testament is in the technical and emotional resonance and influence it has had our future generations of filmmakers, a seamless, magical audio-visual blend.

Britain’s contribution to the film musical has had intermittent influence. At its strongest, perhaps, in the depressed 1930s, when ‘escapism’ was what audiences came to the cinema for, swept away with dance routines full of sparkle and vitality, catchy songs and imaginative photography, and dazzling visual effects. Primitive to the eyes of future generations, of course, yet important reflections on past eras, pioneering techniques that reverberate through film history.