Last night I watched The Rebel, part of the DVD Tony Hancock Collection and paired with The Punch and Judy Man. A slim volume, although Hancock only ever appeared in five feature films, and of the remaining three he was only cast in supporting roles. In his excellent biography of the comedy actor John Fisher examines radio and television, the worlds that Hancock conquered and made his own. Fisher even considers his achievements as a stage comedian in a new light. But sadly Hancock’s impression on the cinema is all too brief. It’s thankful then that The Rebel is one of the best British comedy film of the 1960s.
The Rebel essentially took the Hancock persona from television, casting him as a bored office worker who dreams of becoming a successful artist. The sad reality is that he is awful at art, producing childlike compositions of derision, known in the film as the infantile school. Travelling to Paris to find his fortune he is forced into the position of passing off the work of another artist as his own. He becomes hugely successful, but facing the pressure of having to produce more original work tracks down the other artist, only to discover that he has changed his style completely in a bid to to embrace the infantile school. These paintings also become a success.
Released in 1961, The Rebel is a rare example of Hancock in colour, contrasting sharply with the middling technical quality of his television work. It also exists as a fascinating period piece. Bowler-hatted commuters, offices with early adding machines, beatnik cafes all fall comfortably into place. It isn’t going too far to say that The Rebel epitomises the lost world of innocence that the era that produced it suggests. Age has matured its charm like a vintage port. Despairing at a fellow commuter, oblivious to his dull fate, he exclaims “if this train is still running in 1980, he’ll still be on it!”
There’s also the supporting cast. Throughout his radio and television careers Hancock regularly worked with the same repertory company of actors. Many of the surviving tv episodes from the late 50s are a joy to watch simply because of the strength of the support. The Rebel features Hugh Lloyd as a fellow commuter, John Le Mesurier as the stiff office manager and Liz Fraser and Mario Fabrizi as workers in a cafe (“froth? I want a cup of coffee – I don’t want to wash me clothes in it!”) and they are all fabulous. Unfortunately there is no Sid James but we can’t have it all.
Irene Handl is a welcome addition as landlady Mrs Crevatte (the role was played on television by Patricia Hayes). Handl is fantastic, rushing around her house with her bra straps hanging down over her shoulders. It’s here that we first witness Hancock’s “art”. “What’s that horrible thing?” demands Mrs Crevatte. “A self portrait” Hancock answers proudly only to meet the reply “who of?” “Laurel and Hardy!” he snaps in despair. The early scenes of the film are priceless comedy.
Paul Massie plays an essentially straight role as Hancock’s artist friend and George Sanders – a big star at the time – appears as an art dealer. Apparently he received a larger fee than Hancock. Dennis Price turns up as an avant garde artist called Jim Smith. Also look out for Nanette Newman and Oliver Reed in early roles. Interestingly, and unusually for a comedy film, Hancock changes gear to play the straighter scenes with Massie and does so admirably – revealing a depth to his acting that was never fully exploited. In this sense, together with its international flavour, the Rebel anticipates many of the later caper films of the 60s, where comic and straight actors played together in expensive looking European locations, for example The Pink Panther.
The DVD features commentary by writers Ray Galton and Alan Simpson together with Hancock enthusiast Paul Merton. In many ways the commentary makes the film funnier, with the trio often falling into fits of laughter, especially in the scenes between Hancock and Handl. It’s like watching with a gang of obsessive friends, and there are many fascinating anecdotes I’d never heard before, such as the time Hancock embarked on a two day bender whilst garbed in the paint splatterd pyjames he wore after filming the “Jackson Pollock” scene.
A highly enjoyable experience. Incidentally, Galton and Simpson also confess to writing far too much material for this film; even after they edited it down it is still a trifle overlong, but I’ll forgive them for that. Who wouldn’t?
It’s a fez. I wear a fez now.
There were times when I thought that the new series of Doctor Who would never kick in. Maybe you could call it Steven Moffat nerves, where it felt it was taking far too long to gain any faith in the new helm of the show. Then there was Matt Smith, likeable from the outset although I still wanted to move away from uncertain mutterings about him to the point where I was hanging on his every word. Now after watching the final episode The Big Bang I can relax in the knowledge that it was brilliant, glad that I didn’t post any unfavourable posts in the last thirteen weeks that I’d have to go back and rewrite (something in the Doctor Who world of complex timelines I probably would have been allowed to do).
It probably wasn’t until the two parter The Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone that I began to relax with this season. The return of The Weeping Angels and Alex Kingston as River Song made Moffat’s epic tale deliver all that it promised. It wasn’t a return to Blink territory that many may have expected, although the writer had hinted that this was like “Aliens” following “Alien”. Taking the original premise and multiplying it several fold; Weeping Angel lore was gloriously played around with, most notably the legendary “don’t blink” being turned around into “don’t open your eyes”. There were many clever aspects to this. When Amy Pond first sees the Weeping Angels she instinctively doesn’t look away. There was also the notion of “the angel’s image becoming the angel”, and that we first see the Angels on a tv screen, which was a subtle reminder of the Doctor being on a screen himself throughout much of Blink. Perhaps I was over-analysing, but I’d say evidence that Mr Moffat had been really thinking about this one.
And of course River Song. The development of the River Song character is tantalising and intriguing. Is she The Doctor’s mother? Future wife? (“she’s far too old for him” bemoaned a friend until I reminded that The Doctor was hundreds of years old). Moffat is going to run with this character and her relationship with The Doctor, possibly to the point where our heads explode (I’ve already had to draw a graph, attempting to chart the sequence of their encounters). Presumably Alex Kingston is now fully committed to future seasons (or is that past seasons?)
Other season highlights were The Lodger, where I realised I wasn’t quite sick of too much James Corden, and this episode drew out the very alien side of The Doctor, particularly in the hilarious scenes where he attempts to bed down to human normality. Vincent and The Doctor also worked for me, overcoming early reservations about Richard Curtis. Less appealing was Amy’s Choice (it was all a dream! And another dream!), Vampires in Venice (simply tedious) and the Silurian two-parter, although this one helped me to reassess Rory. After thinking of him as a Mickey Mark II (and therefore an unnecessary addition) his sudden demise was very moving, and set up his return in The Pandorica Opens rather cleverly. And even if you think that the idea of Rory as a Roman Centurion guarding Amy for two thousand years was a little too far fetched .. well .. where’s the romantic in you? The best by far was the concluding episodes, and Arthur Darvill as Rory exceeded all expectations. For The Doctor, Amy and the viewer.
What was surprising was how the series as a whole, appearing a little shaky at times, suddenly pulled together towards its end, making it clear that this was indeed a cleverly devised story arc. The opening scene of The Pandorica Opens linking Winston Churchill to Van Gogh was a masterstroke that set the pace where Doctor Who‘s timey wimey theme was pushed to the limit, most beautifully achieved in the scene where The Doctor scrolls back through past episodes, finding himself once again in the forest of Flesh and Stone. The fairy tale theme, set up skilfully in the opening episode, played out rather beautifully at the end, my favourite sequence being The Doctor carrying the sleeping child Amy up to her room. And Moffat thankfully steered away from the bombastic season finales of old, where perhaps his predecessor may have given in to a full scale Dalek/Cyberman/Sontaran freak out. The little things won us over.
So the answer is yes: I was hanging on Matt Smith’s every word by the time we got to The Big Bang. He really does suit the part, the odd thing being I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it’s the sheer potential of him; now that the future writers are lined up they can work with much more of a brief than wears a bow tie, talks quickly, floppy hair. Smith’s confidence also appeared to grow at a noticeable pace this series. Is he a better Doctor than David Tennant? Thinking about the previously penned Moffat episodes, Blink and Silence in the Library in particular, I think that he always wrote for his view of how the Doctor should be. There’s a scene in Silence in the Library where Donna and River are discussing him, The Doctor busy in the background; crouching down, peering into the darkness, adjusting his sonic screwdriver. Acting rationally in his own mind but receiving rolled eyes from others. That’s very much Matt Smith’s take on The Doctor.
But they should have let him keep the fez.
I began to comb picture morgues and newspaper files, turning up hundreds of photos with similar figures in them. Most depicted disasters or near disasters; I began to notice that the number – and demeanor – of the figures often depended on the amount of destruction that surrounded them. Their faces glowed with pleasure in ratio to the amount of mayhem and carnage. This was by no means a strictly quantifiable thing, but the correlation, in general, seemed to exist.
Al Sarrantonio, The Cult of the Nose
Stories is the much talked about anthology edited by Neil Gaiman and Al Sarrantonio, featuring 28 new tales by a variety of authors. Although not all of the writers featured are known for Gaiman’s home genre of fantasy with a dash of horror, this is the general theme that runs through the book. in some cases it works very well, for example Roddy Doyle’s Blood is very out of character for him but nevertheless outstanding.
Other stand out stories include Jodi Picoult’s Weights and Measures, which is a subtle and eerie tale. Kurt Anderson provides an old school slice of science fiction with Human Intelligence. Gaiman’s own contribution, The Truth Is a Cave in the Black Mountains, is as good as expected. By far the best, however, is Al Sarrantonio’s The Cult of the Nose . This is a disturbing story that plunders the depths of obsessive madness. It demands more than one reading.
I have to admit that I found many of the stories disappointing, and the editing could have been better (for example Fossil-Figures by Joyce Carol Oates and Wildfire in Manhattan by Joanne Harris both deal with a similar subject – twins – and are clumsily presented back to back). In general there appears to be an over readiness to please Gaiman, writing the type of story that might pander to his wishes. Not the dream anthology it could have been.
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