Heroes (VI): Leslie Howard

There can be little doubt that one of the most celebrated of all British heroes was Leslie Howard. Although always regarded as the quintessential Englishman, Howard was of Hungarian extraction, his father, Frank Stainer, having emigrated to Britain in the late 1880s. Howard was often amused by his ultra-English image, which was also his off-screen persona. But he never tried to conceal his Hungarian ancestry, and in fact was proud, believing it contributed to his artistic side. His father, who was a clerk in the City, used to supplement a meagre income by giving piano lessons to well-brought-up young ladies. One of these young ladies, Lilian, eventually became Mrs. Frank Stainer, Howard’s mother, and Howard made his debut in the world in London on 3 April 1893.

Although a shy boy who needed to wear glasses at a very early age, being exceedingly shortsighted, young Howard loved to write shows and entertain his parents, relatives, and friends in concerts which he presented in the family garden. Much as he enjoyed the applause and the laughter from these amateur ventures, he never wanted to take up acting. Indeed, throughout his lifetime he expressed an active dislike to the profession, believing it to be an ‘embarrassing occupation’ and ‘women’s work’.

Instead, he’d always cherished a dream of becoming a successful writer and was constantly to be found scribbling in his notebook. When he left Dulwich College at the age of nineteen, he explained to his father that he would like to contemplate a career as a writer. His father wouldn’t even discuss it, telling him to seek a respectable position, and so Howard started work as a lowly clerk in Cox’s Bank. He loathed every minute of it. When, in 1914, Britain went to war with Germany, Howard, like so many young men, could not wait to volunteer, and as he didn’t fancy endless drilling and marching, he volunteered for the cavalry. The fact that he had only ever ridden a seaside donkey in his life was no deterrence. He would do anything to get away from that bank.

In the event, after taking a good number of falls, Howard became a first-class horseman, and ended up as a Second Lieutenant. But he did not have a ‘good’ war. He was thrown into the thick of it in France and saw many of his comrades lose their lives in the endless massacres of attack and counterattack. He himself was invalided back to England after suffering from ‘severe shell shock’. Whilst convalescing, he took up writing again, and later he submitted his writings to various publishers - and received the inevitable rejections. However, he was determined never to go back to the bank, or take on similarly mundane work, and remembering his amateur dramatic days, he decided he’d have a go at becoming a professional actor.

Amazingly, the first theatrical agent’s door on which he knocked, got him a job. It was in a fifth-rate touring production of Peg O’ My Heart. Howard jumped at the chance and at the £4.4s.0d. a week. It was then he decided to change his name from Stainer to Howard, and although this production did not affirm that a star was born, it could be said that his appealing, laid-back style was created in embryo during the endless weeks of the tour, where they performed to half empty seaside resorts, and to half-full theatres in industrial towns.

It is true to say that Howard saw the enormous potential of the ‘kinema’ at a very early period in the emerging film industry. So much so that he persuaded the great English character actor, C. Aubrey Smith, and the famous writer A.A. Milne, along with the up and-coming director Adrian Brunel, to form a film company that would rival the American moguls. Howard would be at the helm, and they called themselves Minerva Films. Under this banner several little one-act dramas were produced, and although they didn’t exactly shake the nascent industry, the experience did arouse in Howard a passionate interest in the new art form that he was never to lose.

Howard went to Hollywood in the early 1930s and made a series of entirely forgettable films. Wishing to forget the experience, he returned to England, where he made even more forgettable films. But all the time he was learning his craft, polishing his performances, and becoming increasingly fascinated by film writing and directing. At the same time he established himself as a name on the London stage, a true matinée idol, and it was only the script of Somerset Maugham’s classic, Of Human Bondage (1934) that tempted him back to the ‘City of the Angels’, as he persisted in calling Los Angeles. He was disappointed at first with the casting of the female lead. She was supposed to be Cockney, and here they had this unknown American actress. He went on record as saying, ‘It was ridiculous casting – shocking.’ After acting just one big scene with her, he changed his mind. The girl was brilliant, and with his usual unassuming charm he happily admitted she’d steal the picture. She very nearly did. Her name was Bette Davis. The film also launched, in the true Hollywood tradition, Leslie Howard.

From this moment on, Leslie Howard was box-office, and other big hits followed in rapid succession. In The Scarlet Pimpernel (1934) as Baroness Orczy’s outwardly fey, inwardly tough-as-old-boots English hero of the French revolution, Sir Percy Blakeney, and then on to The Petrified Forest (1936), where he played a resilient character that, as he said, ‘could have been written just for me’. But it is clearly for his performance as Ashley in the most successful motion picture of all time, Gone With The Wind (1939), that he established himself as one of Hollywood’s immortals. When the Second World War broke out soon after the epic’s release, Howard and his family moved back to England. He wanted to be part of the fight for freedom. Too old to be called up, he felt he might be of assistance in trying to counteract Goebbels’s barrage of propaganda, and in particular his radio puppet, William Joyce, known in Britain as ‘Lord Haw-Haw’.

Howard began a weekly series of broadcasts for the BBC called ‘Britain Speaks’. In these, he addressed himself to the North American continent, urging listeners to help in the Allies’ fight against the tyranny of Nazism. His beautiful, well-modulated voice was perfect for radio, and the talks achieved a great following. Winston Churchill was most impressed, and so, it seems, was Adolf Hitler, who had Howard immediately placed on his death list. But the broadcasts were not enough for Howard: he wanted to do more for the cause. In the event, he made four more films, all supported by the MOI and aimed at achieving the maximum propaganda value. Among these were The 49th Parallel (1941) and The Gentle Sex (1943).

In the spring of 1943, Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary, asked Howard if he would go to Portugal and Spain to give a series of lectures. It was vital to Britain that these two countries should remain neutral in the war. It was felt that Howard, by talking about his career, would be able to expound the virtues of democracy. Whilst loath to leave his family, he felt it was his duty, though it was always made clear to him that there was a risk; the Luftwaffe constantly attacked civilian aircraft at this time. Howard landed safely enough, the lectures were well received, and he was looking forward to returning to his beloved England. That he never did, is now part of filmland folklore. On the flight out of Lisbon to London in June 1943, somewhere over the Bay of Biscay, the commercial airliner Howard was on, which had a full passenger load including two small children, was attacked by a formation of eight Luftwaffe fighters. There was not so much as a peashooter on board the passenger plane to retaliate with, and it was blown to pieces.

There has been much speculation surrounding this attack, with the main question always being – why should eight German planes have gone so far out of their way to bring down just one civilian aircraft? One rumour has it that the Germans received information that Churchill was on board the plane, another that Howard had really been on a spying mission and was bringing back vital information.

Whatever the reason, Howard gave his life for Britain. He knew the risk involved, and it did not deter him from doing what he felt was his duty. On-screen he was a romantic figure, strong in a gentle way. He imbued his roles with an intelligent firmness and could achieve more through his shyly reassuring manner than many a Hollywood tough guy, twice his weight and build, could manage with fists.

The film critic C.A. Lejeune wrote about him:

‘Probably no single war casualty has induced in the public of these islands such an acute sense of personal loss. Howard was more than just a popular actor. Since the war, he has become something of a symbol to the British people.’

An epitaph that this true patriot would have been proud of, even if vaguely amused by it.