Game Of The Century: The Sweat Merchants (I)

Take one strong-willed, intelligent man, add a talent for football and lace it with the ability to organise, select, reject, buy and sell other men, throw in a necessary gift for psychology, psychiatry and leader-ship – and you have a football manager. Football managers are the sweat merchants, the Svengalis of modern football. On the international stage, they take the cream of a nation’s players and attempt to weld them into a winning team – or accept the frightening responsibility of failure on their shoulders alone.

Before they even begin, they must have these talents and more. Yet when it comes to the crunch, the manager must sit on the sideline and trust his players to speak for him through skill and teamwork. When he has finished coaxing and cajoling his players and worked them up to key fitness and co-ordination levels, as well as forging an understanding as a unit, he allows them to wash away the sweat under a shower, while he goes away to sweat on his own. Of course, the most terrifying aspect of football management is that awesome gap between the touchline and the pitch when the game begins. No matter what he does or says, the manager is helpless, a true victim of his own doctrines.

True football management is much more than than a glorified trainer’s role with tracksuit, whistle, press-ups, a few laps around a pitch and a game of five-a-side. Because football managers are, truly, the sweat merchants.

Supremos of the Past

To illustrate the pressures, achievements, varied talents and weaknesses of great managers, we begin with a look at the most famous managers in international football history. The men who most merit attention are Vittorio Pozzo and Hugo Meisl of the 1930s, George Raynor and Sepp Herberger of the 1940s and 1950s, Alf Ramsey and Helmut Schoen of the 1960s and Schoen, Mario Zagalo and Rinus Michels of the 1970s. Each man faced very different problems. Factors such as the political climate of their nations and their era played a big part. The growth of player-power took its toll in Holland. The changing systems within the game threatened to make successful managers history teachers overnight.

Few managers in modern football history experienced more political pressure than Vittorio Pozzo, Italy’s commissario tecnico in the 1934 World Cup. A great authoritarian, he also became a revered father-figure to Italian football. Pozzo was shrewd, a good politician and an early-day football psychologist at a time when football managers were making the players and the ball do the work while they barked orders. One of his most successful ploys was his use of sleeping arrangements on away trips to crush internal arguments amongst his star players. Pozzo always made warring stars share the same room: the Juventus and Inter Milan prima donnas for example, players who often bickered away the hours – and their team’s chances of success – through jealousy. By the time they realised they were sharing the same room, petty squabbles died away and a better understanding was struck up. A small, sturdy man, Pozzo much admired the Manchester United team of that era and studied in Switzerland before travelling to England. He fell in love with England and for a while refused to go home. But political life in Italy was simmering and soon soared towards the explosion of fascism under Benito Mussolini. With Italy’s dictator using the World Cup as a political vehicle, Pozzo was under an obvious pressure to make sure the home side triumphed. They did, beating Czechoslovakia 2-1 in the final. Four years later, Pozzo repeated his triumph in France when his Azzurri beat Hungary 4-2 in a tremendous title game. What few people realise, however, is that with World War II breaking out, Italy were to hold the World Cup longer than any other country, for sixteen years from 1934 to 1950.

Pozzo’s friend. and fellow authoritarian was Hugo Meisl, who managed Austria in much the same way Pozzo managed Italy. Similar men in outlook, they shared a third-part friendship with the legendary Herbert Chapman of Arsenal. Birds of a football feather, they gave football an extra dimension by way of an ability to communicate with their players outside training sessions. Meisl, however, never touched the heights achieved by Pozzo. But then he did not have players of the same quality at his disposal, and the German political machine was rumbling louder and louder through his most influential years. Political climate was Meisl’s biggest drawback.

So much has been written about Brazil’s magical presence in the 1958 World Cup in Sweden that the host nation’s manager is often forgotten. From being reserve team trainer at Aldershot in 1946, George Raynor was catapulted to the position of manager of the Swedish national team. The players loved him, and he guided them to the Olympic gold medal in 1948. Italian clubs swooped to snatch four of his best players, but Raynor rebuilt his team with characteristic speed in time to give Brazil the fright of their lives in the World Cup final. Sadly, when he returned to England, Raynor found coaching on a comparable level hard to come by, apart from brief spells as manager with Skegness and Doncaster Rovers. He spent time working in a holiday camp before becoming President of the Doncaster and District Association of Football Coaches and deeply involved in encouraging football’s grass roots. With numerous titles bestowed on him by Queen Elizabeth II, the King of Sweden and others, he was listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the most successful national coach in the world.

The West German team of 1954 owed its unique style to one man – Sepp Herberger. He had the personality and power to make his players give more than they even knew they had. They relentlessly worked hard, never allowing opponents to build up momentum. Fit and disciplined, the Germans crept from the ashes of the Second World War to become world champions. Herberger’s immense air of authority and confidence gave his players an extra lift, but he also made sure their physical preparation left them lacking in no departments. When they had the ball, they were able to maintain what was then a very fast pace of play. Their tempo – set by Herberger – certainly swept red-hot favourites Hungary aside in the 1954 final, despite the fact that the Hungarians took a 2-0 lead early in the first half.

Following closely in the footsteps of these great men were many young managers who also achieved levels of success within their own nations. But few of them survived eras of change and political pressures.

Films: June 9 - 15

Baekdusan (Ashfall) (2019)

Chak daan juen ga (Shock Wave) (2017) 

Chak daan juen ga 2 (Shock Wave 2) (2020)

Caught (1949)

Old Henry (2020)

A Night To Remember (1958) 

Almost Famous (2000) ///

Baekdusan (Ashfall) (2019) Maintaining a giddy intensity, earthquakes on the eve of Korean unification sends reluctant Ha Jung-woo north to release spy Lee Byung-hun and blowup volcano before total destruction. Dynamic star duo shine winning humor amid insane thrills and gaudy VFX.

Chak daan juen ga (Shock Wave) (2017) Unfussy storytelling and gleaming technique places emphasis on explosive setups as crazed criminal brings Hong Kong to a standstill and wants revenge on Andy Lau. Well-handled scale disguises blandly entertaining action. Ending provides punch.

Chak daan juen ga 2 (Shock Wave 2) (2020) Variant on Andy Lau's bomb disposal officer who turns vengeful terrorist seeking final redemption. Glossy production, efficient visuals and bookended with encompassing VFX, central dynamics with determined Ni Ni provide unlikely, entertaining twists.

Caught (1949) Seeking comfortable life with marriage to wealthy Robert Ryan, too late Barbara Bel Geddes finds he's dangerously unstable. Amid luscious visuals and twisted developments, dedicated doctor James Mason is her last hope. Acid flavored melodrama pierces social dreams.

Old Henry (2020) Low key character study framed with open space, widescreen visuals as the appearance of a stranger forces reflective farmer Tim Blake Nelson to confront his past and legacy. Anchored by commanding lead, simmering tension unsurprisingly explodes into violence.

A Night To Remember (1958) Told with clean visuals and clinical sense of restraint, officer Kenneth More leads ensemble cast of passengers and crew on ill-fated maiden voyage of Titanic. Finely detailed, sober accumulation of events establishes tightening grip and affecting final tribute.

Almost Famous (2000) Fresh and observant coming of age road trip imbues its 1970s music setting with a warm glow as teenage journalist falls under the spell of charismatic Billy Crudup and his band, as well as seasoned groupie Kate Hudson. Balanced humor and drama provides irresistible charm.

Leave 'Em Laughing (III): Arthur Askey, the Crazy Gang, the Carry On films

In the same ‘little man’ mould as Norman Wisdom, but a comic who had made his mark through the medium of radio many years previously, was Arthur Askey. Askey was a native of Liverpool which was at the time a fertile breeding ground for comedians: Ted Ray, Ken Dodd, Tommy Handley, Jimmy Tarbuck, and a host of other popular British funny men learned their craft in the cosmopolitan seaport city. Askey began his comedy career in a concert party, and for fourteen years appeared at end-of-the-pier shows, cracking gags, singing his silly little songs (like ‘Busy Bee’ song, which he always performed with eternal freshness) and doing dance routines.

In January 1938, he made his first radio broadcast with long-time foil, Richard ‘Stinker’ Murdoch, in a show called Band Waggon. It was, for its day, an innovative concept, and it worked on the premiss that Arthur and Dickie were squatters in a small flat on the top of Broadcasting House. Keeping them company up on the roof were a whole menagerie of animals, Lewis the goat, Hector the camel, and pigeons named Lucy and Basil. The show, which poked fun at the BBC, was initially slow to capture a big audience, but soon the catchphrases ‘Ay thang-yew’ and ‘Hello, playmates’ became part of everyday street conversation, and become Band Waggon was a national hit. It was the forerunner and format-setter of nearly all of Britain’s classic comedy radio shows, from It’s That Man Again to the Goon Show to Hancock’s Half Hour.

It was such a success, in fact, that a film was made using the same title and idea, and started a movie career for Askey that lasted from the late 1930s well into the 1950s. Most notable of the films were Charley’s Big-hearted Aunt (1940), The Ghost Train (1941), King Arthur Was A Gentleman (1942), The Love Match (1954) and Friends And Neighbours (1959). The diminutive Askey promoted a ‘big-hearted’ persona in every sense of the phrase and was a genuine original.

In 1932, the impresario George Black tried an experimental week at the London Palladium. He called it ‘Crazy Week’, and the basis of the show was to link together three well-known provincial comedy double acts, and a comedy juggler. They were Nervo and Knox, Naughton and Gold, Caryll and Mundy, representing the cross-patter duos, and Eddie Gray, with his handlebar moustache, fractured French and Indian clubs as the solo juggler. All the acts got involved with each other in ‘impromptu’ running gags and slapstick routines – and the audiences loved it.

When ‘Crazy Week’ was extended to a month, another double act called Flanagan and Allen replaced Caryll and Mundy, and the Crazy Gang was born. It was the beginning of a whole series of separate, individually titled, riotous revues for the team, who became a national institution, favourites to the Royal Family and just about everyone else. Soon their exploits were to be seen on the screen and the same team that made such a success of the Will Hay film comedies, director Marcel Varnel and comedy writers Marriott Edgar and Val Guest, were responsible for such hits as Alf’s Button Afloat (1938), The Frozen Limits (1939) and the wartime farce Gasbags (1940).

It was the War that rudely interrupted their Palladium season, and when it ended in 1945, Val Parnell, who was now in charge of booking for the theatre, thought that the ‘Gang’ might no longer have their previous drawing power. He could not have been more wrong, and when Jack Hylton presented them at new venue the Victoria Palace, they proved more popular than ever. Only one more film resulted after the War, Life Is A Circus (1954), but their spontaneity and impish sense of fun could never really be captured fully on film. The stage was their true métier, a live audience their meat and drink.

What the Crazy Gang were to the London stage, the ‘Carry On’ team were to British film and, like the Crazy Gang, they too had a run that spanned three decades. The ‘Carry On’ films began with a low-budget comedy on the Army in 1958 called Carry On Sergeant. After that, almost two a year were made right up until 1978. Titles such as Carry On Nurse (1959), Carry On At Your Convenience (1971), Carry On Loving (1970) and Carry On Up The Khyber (1968) became as much a part of British cinema as the girl in the spotlight with the ice cream tray, the organist rising from the pit on the wurlitzer, and the house manager in his immaculate evening suit.

All the ‘Carry On’ films were in the confident hands of producer Peter Rogers, and director Gerald Thomas. Rogers’s background was steeped in film comedy, beginning in 1942 when he worked as a writer, and continuing as co-producer during the 1940s and early 1950s. Experience gave him the uncanny knack of gauging just what the British public wanted – a mixture of farce, innuendo, scantily clad girls, and an ensemble of professional buffoons. Plots were merely an excuse to combine and recycle the prime ingredients, and scriptwriter Talbot Rothwell kept the stories and gags bubbling over, even making old chestnuts seem appetizing enough.

Thomas had begun his directing career on a more serious note, with thrillers such as Time Lock and Vicious Circle (both 1957). His comedy touch came to the fore when he directed a relative newcomer to films, rock ‘n’ roll singer Tommy Steele, in The Duke Wore Jeans (1958). That same year he began the first of the ‘Carry On’ films, and he carried on directing all of them until the final curtain.

Although there were occasional variations in personnel, the principal cast members remained very much the same, a collective of comedy character actors rather than variety comedians. Stalwarts such as Sid James, Kenneth Williams, Kenneth Connor, Hattie Jacques, Bernard Bresslaw, Joan Sims, Barbara Windsor, and Jim Dale among those who made the most consistent appearances.

The ‘Carry On’ films were always dismissed by critics as crude and trivial, and with 21st century eyes can be primitive and reactionary. Yet their enduring popularity has elevated some of the best to cult status and, as such, the series has a permanent place in the history of British cinema, demonstrating that distinctive combination of the absurd and the self-deprecating.

Leave 'Em Laughing (II): Sid Field & Norman Wisdom

The word 'genius' has all too often been bandied about in the world of entertainment. In the field of film comedy, it has fortunately been used more sparingly. Clearly, some exponents of this most elusive and exacting art form richly deserve such labelling – Charlie Chaplin, Stan Laurel, Buster Keaton, Jack Benny, Max Miller, Max Wall, Tony Hancock and George Burns among them. But high up on the list of these comedy greats, one would have to add the name of Sid Field, the man who claimed, with doleful irony, that it took him thirty years to become an overnight star.

Sid Field was born in Birmingham on April Fool’s Day 1904, and he began his love affair with comedy when, as a small boy, he dressed up in his father’s trousers, boots, and wing collar to give backyard impersonations of Chaplin. Later, when searching for a wider audience than a couple of other small boys and a line full of washing, he ventured one day into the street and caused chaos among the traffic. He was hauled home by a policeman and told, 'We've already got one Chaplin, we don't need any more', a statement that Field would one day totally disprove. He began his professional career in a juvenile troupe with three other boys and ten girls – the Royal Kino Juveniles. He was eleven years old at the time. After twenty-eight years of touring the halls, progressing from comedy feed, to song-and-dance man, to light comedian and finally laughter-maker without any gimmicks except talent, Sid finally found himself in London’s West End in a show called Strike a New Note.

The show opened at the Prince of Wales Theatre in 1943. At the time of the first performance, there wasn’t a single ‘star’ on the bill. In the programme, there was a very prophetic footnote, however. 'Here is youth', it declared, although Sid at the age of thirty-nine would have been the first to admit that he neither felt, nor for that matter looked, youthful. The note went on: ‘All are players of experience, needing but the opportunity to make themselves known.

Sid Field was became not just known, but positively acclaimed by the public. In less than three weeks, the theatre posters were changed to read ‘Sid Field – the new funny man’. After all those years of obscurity, he’d arrived, and theatre critics began asking where this genius had come from, where had he been hiding! They would merely have had to take a short hop on the bus to North London just six weeks before to find the answer, because at the Finsbury Park Empire he had been doing virtually the same act in front of a tough and far less enthusiastic audience.

Nevertheless, Field’s sketches rightly rate among the all-time theatre comedy classics – ‘The Golf Lesson’, ‘The Photographer’, the post-war spiv ‘Slasher Green’ are miniature masterpieces. His comedy was the pure old gold of music hall, with a simple situation set against a basic background on which he would build layer upon layer of laughter. Fortunately, some of his greatest sketches have been preserved in glorious Technicolor in the film London Town (1946). In this million-dollar musical fiasco, which lost its way in direction as well as an overblown budget, Sid's sketches glitter like diamonds in a base metal setting.

Two years later he made his last feature film, this time as a Cromwellian barrow boy in Cardboard Cavalier. It has to be said that the screen never totally captured his special brand of magic, but in the two films released by Rank, there are some marvellous moments of comedy timing that rate alongside any produced by his idol, Charlie Chaplin.

Tragically, Sid Field’s bright starlight shone all too briefly. A mere six years after he had ‘made it’, he died of a heart attack when he was only forty-five. Renowned theatre critic Kenneth Tynan wryly observed that ‘alcohol and self-criticism were his pall bearers’. He was sadly missed, not just by an adoring public but by a generation of comedians that came after, with an approach to comedy he influenced so powerfully.

There was a stylish silver-voiced link between Sid Field and Norman Wisdom, their comedy ‘feed’ Jerry Desmonde. Jerry, whose real name was James Robert Sadler, first joined Sid in 1942, and was so good that audiences watching the famous golf or photographer sketch, could be forgiven at times if they believed it was a double act. When Sid so unexpectedly made his last exit, Norman Wisdom was quick off the mark to persuade Jerry to become his straight man, and it was a masterful move. If Jerry was Sid’s right-hand man, he was most certainly Norman’s left-hand man. Norman and Jerry were as important to early-1950s British comedy film as Bud Abbott and Lou Costello were for American audiences in the 1940s, and the similarities extended to their straight men. Bud Abbott was slim, persuasive and aggressive, while Jerry Desmonde was tall, angular and also persuasive and aggressive, but in a more refined English way.

Wisdom, like Chaplin, leaned heavily on the ‘plight of the little man against the world’ approach to comedy, and also like Chaplin he resorted, sometimes too often for comfort, to winning over audiences by the old clown ploy of pathos. He was, nevertheless, the most successful British film comedian in the traditional sense since the Second World War, and his films – particularly those crafted by screen-writer Jack Davies, who had learned all the tricks of the trade alongside Marriott Edgar and Val Guest writing scenarios for Will Hay – testify to that success.

Norman Wisdom was born in 1918 and started the musical side of his life as an Army bandsman, later taking the familiar route of touring ‘the halls’ to polish his act. When he first appeared ‘live’ on BBC television, his impact on audiences was immediate and some critics claimed him as the new Chaplin. In 1953 he made his film début as the star of Trouble In Store, a film where the comedy relied mainly on well-constructed and lengthy slapstick routines. The formula was employed in all his most memorable film comedies: The Square Peg in 1958, and perhaps his funniest, On The Beat (1962) and A Stitch In Time (1963).

Norman Wisdom’s popularity proved extraordinary long-lasting. Even years later, when he was less visible in films and TV, a rare theatre appearance would be a major draw and certain of a sell-out. During a promotional stint in 1987 for the TV series Best Of British, he appeared on the BBC Wogan show – in his 70s he still performed an athletic piece of slapstick. It brought the house down.