Gump

“The Gump” was Norman Wisdom’s own name for his idiot character, who is perhaps not quite fully established or embodied in his first star feature, TROUBLE IN STORE.

Wisdom’s once-upon-a-time appeal to kids is easy enough to understand. The typical Wisdom routine is Norman fucking up in front of an increasingly irate authority figure, which is a neat summary of the entire condition of childhood. And of course the one doing things wrong becomes the sympathetic one. To err is humorous.

Not content with that, of course, Wisdom pours on sentiment, which is unfortunate. As with Jerry Lewis (whose WHO’S MINDING THE STORE? is a ten-years-later improvement on this film), sometimes wringing some pathos out of the character involves stepping out of character altogether, seen most clearly when Norman sings “Don’t Laugh at Me ‘Cos I’m a Fool” in a voice which feels dubbed even though it isn’t.

About the only classically constructed gag of surprise in TROUBLE IN STORE.

What’s surprising, as this begins, is how stroppy Norman is. A regular little Jimmy Porter. There is, it turns out, a lot of class resentment at work in the Gump. He works in the storeroom at a large department store but dreams of being a window dresser. When he mistakenly thinks he’s got the promotion, he swans around the shop floor talking in grotesque toffee-nosed accents and using big words he doesn’t understand. The working-class kid is just waiting to move up.

Wisdom is agile — he can do spectacular falls, not on a Buster Keaton level, but there’s some impressive acrobatics here. Not really many interesting or surprising or sustained gag sequences, though. The best bit may be Norman setting himself on fire during his employer’s speech, and being too embarrassed to interrupt it. That’s some good Britishness. It reminds me of the very funny Manuel on fire bit from Fawlty Towers. Set a small man ablaze and everybody laughs.

Interesting people are involved — not director John Paddy Carstairs, who did a great many of these and not much else of distinction in a career starting in the thirties. THE SAINT IN LONDON looks to have been his one brush with the big time. He was the brother of producer Anthony Nelson Keyes, and he also directed SPARE A COPPER with George Formby, so he had form. Formby form. If you can direct one awful British comedian, you can direct ’em all.

Co-writer Ted Willis also had a hand in BITTER VICTORY, which takes some swallowing. But he was a man of many parts — British proto-kitchen sink realism like FLAME IN THE STREETS and WOMAN IN A DRESSING GOWN were at least as much his style as this muck. He devised THE BLUE LAMP and created its cop show spin-off, Dixon of Dock Green which started in 1955 and lasted until 1976 — I remember the damned thing.

A subplot, of sorts, has Margaret Rutherford, a more established star than Norman, as a shameless shoplifter. She doesn’t need material to be entertaining, she just inhabits a perpetual zone of entertainment which follows her about, emanating from her body. Also good value is Joan Sim, Carry On film goddess and a comedienne who never really got her due. Well, you don’t if you’re in a dozen carry Ons.

Megs Jenkins is on hand to answer any trivia questions about what connects Norman Wisdom to BLACK NARCISSUS.

There are some grace notes. Not many, but some, and they’re quite odd. When Norman sings his tearjerking song, he’s still sodden from wading into the duck pond in order to grab a duckling for his romantic interest to feed. A birdlike listener is so entranced she goes on filling her cup with sugar lumps. Norman’s physical wetness in this scene chimes well with his obvious mental and spiritual wetness.

Later, Norman gets into a row with a camp window dresser and they start smashing crockery, to the amusement of a crowd. Norman produces a small hammer to destroy a tea pot, but then his eye is caught by some rando in the crowd, who shakes his head confidentially. Norman puts down the small hammer and picks up a big hammer. The rando now nods, confidentially. And never appears again. I like this because it’s eccentric. Everything else in the film goes the direct route: things are smashed, people fall down, there is embarrassment, there is gurning. But here, in this strange exchange between strangers, one a sheer interloper in the film, something closer to British eccentric comedy in the Lewis Carroll tradition — or Dan Leno, maybe — peers its head round the corner, frowns slightly, and then disappears forever.

It seems that Awful British Comedians have a way of growing on one — Will Hay and George Formby both seemed less offensive on the second go-round, so I popped in another Wisdom, THE SQUARE PEG, lured by the prospect of Norman in a duel role — a typical Norman gump and a fiendish Nazi general. But any resemblance to THE GREAT DICTATOR, or even WHICH WAY TO THE FRONT? is purely uninspired. (Actually, I wonder if Jer saw this and decided, wrongly, that he could do better.)

Most of the Awful British Comedians did WWII pics — Old Mother Riley battled Nazi spies in OLD MOTHER RILEY JOINS UP, Will Hay teaches the Hitler Youth a thing or two in THE GOOSE STEPS OUT, George Formby literally punches Hitler in LET GEORGE DO IT. So it was natural for Norman to have a go, even if the war had been over for years.

Again, Norman is surprisingly stroppy — instead of setting him up as sympathetic, the movie takes pains to show its hero as an officious, petty council worker who regards his own roadwork as more central to the war effort than that of enlisted men. The movie introduces Edward Chapman as Mr. Grimsdale, his employer. Chapman had already played Norman’s boss in JUST MY LUCK, but that was Mr. Stoneway, who never appeared again. Mr. Grimsdale would recur several more times, even though Norman himself has a different surname each time. Maybe one reason Mr. G. gets increasingly grumpy (they’re kind of pals, here) is that he keeps running into idiots called Norman, all with the same face. The reason for his reappearance goes beyond a sympathy between the two actors — for some reason, Norman Wisdom yelling “Mr. Grimsdale!” in a helpless, panicky manner was judged to be hysterical. Like how Jerry Lewis was always shouting “Lady!” only he never did.

This one also has Honor Blackman — too interesting and sexy for this context — and lots of other favourites like Andre Mauranne from the PINK PANTHERS (Herbert Lom’s pained assistant) and the mighty Hattie Jacques. Oliver Reed is apparently in there somewhere also, but the anticipation of a Reed-Wisdom face-off (delicious? horrifying?) remains unfulfilled.

Nazi Norman is quite a good bit of play-acting — one always suspected he had an inner sadist. In another weird moment, non-Nazi Norman has to pretend to be French, but doesn’t speak the language so he acts the part of a non-verbal idiot. A little idiot playing a bigger idiot. Russian dolls of imbecility.

Some peculiar Nazi loveplay as Nazi Norman pours champagne over Nazi opera diva Hattie’s ample bosom. “Cor,” says non-Nazi Norman, peeping through a keyhole.

It isn’t any good, you understand. Occasionally Norman, by going too far (like Jer) can raise a laugh with dismal material or no material, but we all pay a terrible price for it. My favourite bit was when he runs out of air after being repeatedly told to exhale by a doctor. As an asthmatic, I enjoyed the ghastliness of a man deflating himself through the medium of acting.

Matthew Sweet’s section on Wisdom in Shepperton Babylon is very enlightening — and just short of nasty. He notes the way Wisdom’s home (on the Isle of Man, a tax haven) was a kind of shrine to his career. We get the Chaplinesque upbringing of horrible poverty and neglect, which does seem to explain the needy screen persona. And real life persona. And Sweet nails the way maturity tends to erode one’s ability to sympathise with the Gump.

There’s also this documentary, made subsequent to Sweet’s visit, when Norman was suffering from Altzheimer’s. Except, in a Norma Desmond version of ironic mercy, he wasn’t really suffering. His illness reduced him to the character he’d played so often, a big kid. You don’t want to get Altzheimer’s, but if you get it, this is the form you want to get it in. It’s tragic, but not for you. Norman’s biggest worry is being forced to take a bath. His second childhood was, thanks to his wealth and his loving children, a lot happier than his first.

Norman, to camera: “Thanks ever so much for looking at me.”

The Sunday Intertitle: Quite Wrong

I always misremember the start of BLITHE SPIRIT — I always imagine that the opening preamble is delivered as title cards, or as VO. In fact, it’s both. Which is a great idea. The title cards are replied to by the author himself, Noel Coward, who had one of the most distinctive voices in Britain. It’s like Cocteau’s handwriting, perfect for introducing one of his works.

“We are quite, QUITE wrong.”

Coward’s father was an unsuccessful piano salesman, so his fantastic posh voice, coming from somewhere behind his nose, was a concoction of his own.

I must find an excuse to introduce my students to him. The younger generation don’t generally know about him, and I’m pretty sure my nine Chinese students won’t have come across the works, let alone the persona.

Impressive that CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME? managed to build a plot around his correspondence without having to shoehorn in unnecessary explanations of who he was, exactly. The Americans are good at smooth exposition, a lost art in Britain.

I wonder how Brits processed the Coward persona back in his day. He seems “obviously gay,” and I think this was probably recognized, but we just didn’t speak of it. You could be flamboyant yet discreet and it was sort of accepted. The acceptance was conditional on nobody being forced to acknowledge what they all knew. You can’t quite call it “tolerance.” Well, maybe tolerance of the unstated. As Wilde discovered to his cost — though he already knew it, too — if the love that dared not speak its name were forced to account for itself, the lover quickly found himself beyond the pale. “The don’t ask don’t tell” brigade demand to live in a state of low-key cognitive dissonance, and if their compartments break down they get very irate.

Noel’s skill at navigating these murky depths is evident in BLITHE SPIRIT’s script, which constantly escapes truly facing the scandalous implications of its concept. If there’s an afterlife, then widowers remarrying becomes bigamy. Sure, this movie is a fantasy, but pick at it and Heaven comes crashing down under the weight of its own contradictions. Or at any rate, we’re forced to revise our expectations of it to include the menage-a-trois and more. Or, I suppose, taking into account the “till death us do part” escape clause, we assume all vows are null up there, and a twice-widowed spouse could choose which, if any, of their former partners to remarry. Design for dying.

Interesting to see David Lean when he apparently had no interest in landscape. Madame Arcati (Margaret Rutherford, sublime) stands at the window and rhapsodises about the evening, but our director isn’t tempted to provide even a single illustrative cutaway.

Shopping

The non-essential shops and businesses are open in the UK — bizarrely, the pandemic is less rampant here than on the European mainland right now — so I got my first haircut in a year and hit the charity shops. Amazing what you can find.

My sister, who works in a lab, says now is the best time to go out and do stuff if you’re going to. Later will be more dangerous, probably.

I’ve never see S*P*I*E*S, the failed attempt to reunite the leads of M*A*S*H and I don’t expect it to be any damn good but I bought it for £2 because I’m curious what fresh new flavour of awful it may provide. I think C*I*A would have been a better title — calling up the asterisks of the earlier film but actually making sense. And if your satirical purpose was to do for the intelligence community what you did for the Korean War, you have at least the beginnings of a satirical line of attack, something I doubt this movie possesses. This is directed by Irvin Kershner, specialist in following up other people’s movies. But I’m a Vladek Sheybal completist, as you know.

I’ve seen RED ANGEL, Yasuzo Masumura’s own answer to M*A*S*H, kinda — well, it does deal with medicine in wartime. I found it incredible as cinema and deeply problematic in its attitudes to what it’s showing. The overheated and desperate atmosphere of it was so impressive I’m willing to see it again, and I wanted to own it because I am on some level horribly acquisitive.

Fiona liked Matteo Garrone’s TALE OF TALES more than I did, but it was certainly great-looking.

CEX, the dopily-named second-hand store was open too, but they know how to price the things I want high enough for me not to want them anymore. But I bought THE ‘BURBS on Blu-ray because I couldn’t resist all those extras and I wanted to see the original cut. And A CLOCKWORK ORANGE was actually pretty cheap.

Back to the charity shops — I hit the main clusters, in Leith, Morningside and Stockbridge. My favourite, the St Columba’s Bookshop, is kind of in the middle of nowhere but that’s on the walk between here and Stockbridge so I picked up some comics — The Steel Claw! — and books — The Genius of the System! — and DVDs.

I got Robert Wise’s HELEN OF TROY on a whim because it was only a pound — terrible film, but I don’t think I’ve ever see a good copy — maybe it’ll grown on me — Neil Jordan’s BYZANTIUM was equally cheap — don’t usually like his stuff but he has some ambition at least — MUDER AHOY with Margaret Rutherford was 50p so now I want all her Marple films — JSA: JOINT SECURITY AREA “from the director of OLDBOY” seemed worth a punt at 50p — and THE ROYAL HUNT OF THE SUN even though we just watched it, and SHORTBUS because we’ve never seen it. GHOSTBUSTERS I&II — I’ve only seen one of them. I’ll probably never watch the other.

Can you look forward to reading about these films on Shadowplay? Oh, probably not. I have too many films, and too many ways of getting more. But if there are any you really want to hear more about, tell me.