Scottish eccentrics stand head
and shoulders above the rest. Into this category
comes a man who was touched by genius and had all those other endearing qualities
that put him a class of his own as a top-ranking
film eccentric. His name - Alastair Sim.
Sim was born in Edinburgh on 9 October, 1900, the son
of an Edinburgh
JP. He was educated at the James Gillespie School and his home city’s university before
beginning to make a living by lecturing
to Divinity students on elocution and phonetics at New College, Edinburgh. Although he
never had any serious intention
of becoming a professional actor, he formed a theatrical society with a few of his
students, and produced poetry and drama at Oxford and Bath, as well as at
Edinburgh University.
It was the regarded playwright, John Drinkwater, who
first spotted that
Alastair Sim had a special talent for acting. Although Sim had never wished to do anything
other than produce, Drinkwater
insisted he had what it took to be a fine actor and provided a list of his considerable
theatre contracts.
As a result, Sim’s stage career began with a minor
part in Othello at the
Savoy Theatre in 1930, with Paul Robeson in the lead. Two years later he joined the Old Vic,
where the producer Harcourt Williams saw
his potential as a comedian. It took until 1935 for him to gain critical acclaim, and this he
achieved with a splendid performance, as a sycophantic bank manager, in the
West End comedy Youth
At The Helm.
A year before his theatre success, Sim made his first film, Riverside Murder. A few years later he was
playing with the most eccentric
bunch of comedians ever brought together as a team in Britain, those Royal favourites,
the Crazy Gang. In Alf’s
Button Afloat (1938), Sim played a ‘genie’ who
would instantly
appear to obey the commands of his master, Bud Flanagan, whenever he rubbed a
button which had been melted down
from the original Aladdin’s Lamp. Sim not only held his own against these unpredictable
comics, but in many cases completely outacted
them.
Sim could be extremely extrovert in his work – and indeed
that came across in such films as Sailing Along (1938), Cottage To Let (1941), Waterloo Road (1944), Green For Danger (1946), The Happiest Days Of Your Life (1949) and Scrooge (1951) – but he was, in reality, a most private man, rarely granting interviews
to the press, and never allowing a biography
to be written. He was mortified at the idea of writing his own life story.
Sim enjoyed his reclusive lifestyle and was everyone’s
idea of a benign
eccentric uncle. But he did have his moments of tetchiness, as for example when he was
appearing in the West End in the play The
Magistrate. One
night a very handsome coupe came to call on him in his dressing room. The man,
who spoke with a soft American
accent, said how
much they’d enjoyed the play and in particular his performance. Sim was archly
polite and politely dismissive.
Robert Sidaway, fellow actor in the comedy,
witnessed the incident in stunned silence, and turned to Sim after the couple
had left: ‘Do you know who
they were?’ ‘No,’ replied Sim. ‘Paul Newman and his wife, Joanne Woodward,’ the ashen-faced
Sidaway explained. Sim still
seemed unimpressed, clearly knowing very little of their Hollywood reputation.
Having later watched some of Newman’s films, an embarrassed Sim wrote
a long letter of apology. Newman
responded with typical generosity,
and the two remained firm friends for many years. (Read the article at https://bit.ly/ff-memories-sim for more on Alastair Sim, Paul Newman, and The Magistrate.)
Sim had a style of acting uniquely his own, and
although his mannerisms
were often copied by lesser performers, and his voice mimicked by others, this
lugubrious, thoughtful, and gentle eccentric stamped a seal of originality on
his acting that will never be
equalled.
If Alastair Sim could prove conclusively that
eccentricity in entertainers
is not an English prerogative by arranging to be born in Edinburgh, then Cicely
Courtneidge could go even further in making
the point from the other side of the world. Auspiciously born on All Fools’
Day 1893, in Sydney, New South
Wales, her father, Robert, a light comedian, was appearing in the show Esmeralda when Cicely made her début into
the world. The landlady of the
house in which they were lodging rushed
excitedly into the theatre and shouted the news about the new baby from the back of the
stalls - right
in the middle of his performance. The audience at once broke into spontaneous applause
and cheers. At only a few minutes
old, Cicely had already stopped the show.
She was, in fact, christened Esmeralda after this
spectacular incident. But she hated the
name and plumped for her middle name.
Cicely Courtneidge came to
Britain in her teens, and after many disappointments
at the outset of her music hall career, went on to become a major star of musical
comedy theatre, and British film musicals. Yet although she was a star in her
own right, and one
who had the energy of a megaton bomb, it is for her long-time professional
partnership with husband, Jack Hulbert (who almost qualified to be in the
eccentric class himself) that she’s best remembered.
Together they starred in one smash-hit show after another, and in many a hit comedy
film, such as The
Ghost Train (1931)
and Jack’s The
Boy
(1932).
Courtneidge also established herself as Ms Vitality with star solo
performances in such British film musicals
as Soldiers
Of The King (1933)
and Aunt
Sally
(1934), and others which
were could be generously labelled as less successful. Nevertheless, they all
managed to
capture some of that idiosyncratic whirlwind essence that aroused so much admiration in
fellow artistes – performers such as Laurence Olivier, John Mills, and Noel
Coward, who simply
‘adored her’. She was, without doubt, the best company in the world - always bubbling with
enthusiasm and recounting stories of her offbeat lifestyle to gales of raucous
laughter.
When Courtneidge was at last
persuaded to write her life story,
she realized that she did not have all the material she needed to set about the task, so instead
of ploughing through her well-kept diaries
and press cutttings, with typical illogicality she decided to write to the Editor of
The Times:
The Editor,
The Times,
Printing House Square,
London, E.C.4.
Dear Sir,
l am collecting material for a biography of Miss Cicely Courtneidge, the actress. I would be most grateful if anyone who has any letters or anecdotes, or other data about Miss Cicely Courtneidge, the actress, would send them to me at my address.
I remain, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
Cicely Courtneidge.
The letter was
solemnly read by the Editor and duly printed. It prompted an immediate response
from her friends, but one in particular, delivered to her address by hand,
amused her enormously. It read:
Dear Miss Courtneidge,
With reference to your letter in the ‘Times’ asking for details about the life of Miss Cicely Courtneidge, the actress. You ought to know all about her by now.
I remain, Madame,
Your obedient servant,
Jack Hulbert.
They don’t make eccentrics like that anymore, and the
world is undoubtedly
a sadder place without them.
John Stuart Mill perhaps best summed it up:
‘Eccentricity has always abounded when and where strength of character
has abounded.
