After seeing Albert Modley in ‘HumptyDumpty’, which was Emile Littler’s 10th panto at the Empire, in the early 50s, I queued at the stage door, for his autograph. He was still in his make-up. I noticed that, although basically natural, his make-up had one stylised element. Each eyebrow had been soaped out, and replaced by a perfectly round, black dot, say ½” dia. ½” above the brow. The effect was to take all the guile out of his expression. It gave him all the dopiness of a circus clown, but with just two black dots.
Jewel and Warriss were a typical double act, in that they knew how to ‘work’ an audience. They would stand almost back to back during their cross talk, and each one, during the other’s lines, was silently working his half of the audience, with a wave here, a smile there, a mimed greeting, an acknowledgement, all done in such a way that a whole block of a dozen or more punters would think that a particular bit of business had been for him or her alone.
Then, with something like-
“I’m going to sing ‘When Father Painted the Parlour’ by Paganini”
“Paganini? He didn’t write- (snatches music) let me see-”
“At the bottom of the page”
“That’s not Paganini” and only then would Warriss turn, make eye contact, and exclaim “It’s page nine, you fool!” while simultaneously swiping at Jewel, who takes a prat-fall on a drum ruffle and cymbal, then back on his feet to swap sides with Warriss, ready to bite in on the end of the laugh, and start on the audience again.
 |
| The Empire |
Morecambe and Wise were the last double act to know their trade and earn their money. There have been a couple of others since, but they weren’t called double acts, they were called ‘comedy duos’. Whatever I would have called them, I wouldn’t have paid them in washers. I first saw Morecambe and Wise as the broker’s men, in panto. I’d never heard of them. Eric Morecambe walked onto an empty stage, dressed in a long cloak and a big floppy hat, carrying a small, slim attaché case, which he put on the floor. He opened it, and out climbed Ernie wise! Knockout!
I remembered it when I directed my own (am-dram) dramatisation of Finnegan’s Wake, by James Joyce The audience came in to an open stage littered with assorted packing cases, against one of which lay a sleeping figure. When the house lights dimmed, the figure woke up, lit a candle, and began to play a penny whistle. The top of the tea chest at his back opened, and out climbed the 20odd strong cast. I was lucky to have learned that the Library Theatre had a trap, centre stage, and that it had never been used, so it was quite a surprise. The performance ended with an exact reverse of the procedure, and I had Morecambe and Wise to thank for it.
I remember a rather pathetic, but embarrassing and irritating performance, by G. H. Elliott, at the Empire. He was long past his ‘best before’ date. At a time when England was still playing host to possibly thousands of coloured, American servicemen, this arrogant clown still billed himself as the ‘Chocolate-coloured Coon’. His material was of the Kentucky minstrel variety. I only remember one number- his signature tune, I believe, beginning ‘I used to sigh for my Lindy Lou’, sung in a voice, which veered towards yodelling. But he didn’t present himself as a minstrel. Although he blacked up, to justify his billing, it was straightforward black make-up, no white eyes and lips, like the Leslie Mitchell mob, nor just leaving the eyes and lips natural, as the original minstrels did. In the early talkie, ‘The Jazz Singer’ there is a sequence where Al Jolson sits at his dressing room mirror and puts on his minstrel make-up. He just uses black- no white. No, our Mr. Elliott wasn’t a minstrel at all. He was a Southern gentleman, a plantation owner, resplendent in dove grey frock coat, with satin facings and buttons, grey silk gloves, grey spats, grey suede boots, and a full head of beautifully waved and quoiffed silvery hair, and a silver topped, Malacca cane, of course.
Even more bizarre than his narcissistic appearance, was his arrogant behaviour, on stage. He sang on a stage empty, but for a mid drop of stylised drapes, but over stage left, half way back, and a good yard in-stage from the wings, in full view of the whole audience (with the possible exception of the folk in the left ashtrays) stood his dresser. This was a woman, middle-aged, hair in a bun, looked like a char-lady, and I don’t know why I should think this, but I think she was his wife. Over one arm was draped a hand towel. After each number, Elliott and she would walk towards each other; he would take the towel, very daintily mop the perspiration from his brow (mustn’t smear the make-up) and return the towel. Then he would return to front centre stage, as she walked backwards to her holding position.
In a supposed ‘pro’ I think this was quite deplorable behaviour, whether born of love of himself or contempt for his audience. It was probably both. I’m sure he considered that a half empty house in a Moss Empire theatre was quite beneath him, but I’m also sure that he was aware that he was in a provincial theatre simply because he could no longer command the capital theatres, as he had done in his heyday, 40 to 50 yrs earlier. I’m sure he realised it, and I’m sure he deserved it.
Although regular patrons of the variety bill, Jane and Betty loved the musicals of the day- shows like Lilac Time, Brigadoon, Showboat, Merry Widow, Student Prince, King’s Rhapsody, Desert Song, and lesser known works (now) such as White Horse Inn and Quaker Girl, which itself spawned a flock of something-girl re-writes, like Mills and Boon set to music. Musicals were available either at the Empire, or at the Lyceum. At the Empire, we queued for the ‘gods’ first up three floors of stone stairs, then down a long corridor, which was split into three lanes by waist high, brass barriers, all polished bright by lounging theatre goers, as they trudged three times down the length of the corridor, before getting in to sit on seat pads fixed on concrete steps, like a Roman amphitheatre.
At the Lyceum, the steps we queued up were more like a theatre and less like a prison, though there were more of them to the gods, and we did sit in individual seats, but they were still fixed to concrete steps. When not presenting musicals, the Lyceum would present drama, or legitimate theatre as it was once termed, or ‘legit’ to be chic.
Legitimate theatre and variety had common ground in pantomime. Each had a Christmas panto every year, but it was the Empire under impresario, Emile Littler, who scored, with Kirby’s Flying Ballet.
 |
| Kirby’s Flying Ballet |
In earlier days, if it was required to ‘fly’ someone on stage, they were simply hoisted up on a wire attached to the back of a body harness, and they just hung there like a sack of spuds, beyond being wound up and down. But then Mr. Kirby invented a swivel harness, fixed about the waist, with a wire at each side, so that the flier was supported at the centre of gravity. Then, thanks to the swivel, they could, by extending or contracting an arm or a leg, move their centre of gravity fore or aft of the swivel, so they could lean forward or back, lay horizontal, hang vertical, do forward or backward somersaults.
Then Mr. Kirby had another brilliant idea. He trained little girls to use the harness, and to be fairies. So at Sleeping Beauty’s wedding finale, or in the Snow Goose Queen’s enchanted castle, imagine three girls down each half of the stage, flying in and out, and another, facing you flying back and forth, in the centre, movement synchronised to Sleeping Beauty Waltz, Sugar Plum Fairy, or Dance of the Flowers. With their shunkly wings and cozzies, pretty faces and flying locks, wands and tararas, and kiddies to boot! Absolute magic! Kirby’s Flying Ballet. The Kirby wire is still used in the theatre today, if you ever find a live theatre with a use for one, that is. They must use them in Peter Pan.
Whatever the story, cast or stars, a panto would always provide work for a speciality act. Whatever the panto, the last scene of each act, especially the finale, would always be a big, set piece extravaganza, with full stage depth scenery, the whole cast into special costumes, for the finale, especially. So while all this was being set up, and most, if not all, of the cast were being poured into flashy and awkward cosies, they needed something to keep the customers happy.
They needed something with minimum cast, a solo act, ideally, not involved in the plot, someone who could perform on just the apron, make do with no scenery, just a front or near front drop, doing a 5 or 10 minute spot. Someone like a juggler, say or a magician, even better was performing dogs, which were usually little yappy things, and worked in a minimum depth, but these all needed musical accompaniment. A comedian was no good because he didn’t give enough noise ‘cover’ for all the clatter going on round the back, and he couldn’t work against background music.
So ideally, what you wanted was a solo musician, who made a lot of noise, then not only did you fulfil all needs on one contract, but the band could have rest too (no, there is definitely not enough time to nip to the Brown Bear!). Of course the ideal was a xylophone player.
 |
| “Hark! I hear a xylophone!” |
It was flashy, with all the chrome tubes; it had bags of movement and pace. The music tends to be fast, because each note lasts less than a second. It is completely self- contained, as an act; no outside props required, and it gives you all the noise you could ask for.
Of course its difficult to think of a panto plot to which a xylophone is a natural adjunct, which means that it can be a bit dodgy working up a cue. The most contrived has to be the one Roy Hudd describes, relating to ‘The Babes in the Wood’. Imagine, the lost babes wander onto the apron, in front of a painted drop of trees. Cue-
“Lost in the woods, all alone. Hark! I hear a xylophone!” The kids scarper like greased ferrets. The front tree cloth shoots up into the flies, to reveal a whirling dervish in a rumba shirt and a sombrero, beating hells bells out of what looks like a multiple pile-up of chrome bedsteads! As Peter Sellars says, in his parody of Macmillan’s memoirs, ‘Not everything has changed for the better, I fear’.
A more sedate speciality act was what was loftily called an Adagio act, comprising two men and a woman, all in shunkly tights, lifting each other up and down, over a pasting table. Well, that’s what it looked like. One man, the lifter, lay on his back, on the table, while the other two did hand stands on his up stretched arms, with endless variations, combinations, and false starts, progressing, in time, to pyramids, three people high.
 |
| Adagio |
Sometimes, over a prolonged drum roll, you might get an announcement like- ‘Laysngenlmn, tonight, our artistes are going to attempt the Little Finger Triple Lock Back Lift, with Metatarsal Pirouette; blindfolded. As you may know, this manoeuvre was originated by the late adagio master, Ivor Bolikov, for inclusion in the special ballet section, in the opera ‘Ivan the Pliable’ when it was performed before the Royal House of the Romanoffs. Sadly, in attempting it, the Master broke his neck, and it has rarely been attempted since- never successfully. Laysngenlmn- the Little Finger Triple Lock Back Lift, with Metatarsal Pirouette! Er.. Blindfolded!’
Then the turn would try this trick, and fail- twice. Only on the third attempt would they succeed. You knew they’d succeeded because the band would suddenly make a noise like they’d snuck up behind an elephant to try to cure its hiccups.
You always knew when you were in for an adagio act, at the Empire, because they always gave them the same drop- orange curtains with zig-zag silver stripes. An adagio act was a dazzling display of protruding hip-bones, shoulder blades, rippling biceps, thews and sinews. I don’t know how true it is, but I did hear that, in a dive such as the Attercliffe Palace, it was not unknown for the woman, while up side down, to ‘fall out’ of her cozzie. It could well be true, because I know that, under an impresario called Ernie Payne, the female adagios at the ‘Cliffe, did dispense with the two fellers and the pasting table, before going on, and with the cozzie before coming off, preferring to work with fans, balloons or budgies- no, doves, not budgies. Mamselle Fifi la Fouchee and her Feathered Friends.
I met Ernie Payne when, as a teenager with a bunch of friends going through the start-a-skiffle-group phase, we were taken to see him, in the belief that he could get us bookings. His golden days of strip show directing were long gone, and he had retired to a life running a large, seedy boarding house for ‘theatricals’, at the bottom of Granville Road. We visited him, two or three times, and each time, at some stage, a scruffy young man would appear from his upstairs room, bearing a small, washing-up bowl, to ask-
“Can I borrow some coal, Ernie?”
“Of course, love. Help yourself from under the sink”. The young man would disappear; there would be the sound of coal being shovelled into the bowl, and the young man’s footsteps would be heard returning upstairs.
Also, at each visit, Ernie generously instructed us to help ourselves to sherry, the decanter and glasses being on the table. We only accepted the first time, because, too late, we noticed the glasses were all coated in sticky dust, not having been washed after the last use.
Ernie had two Jack Russell terriers, the last, arthritic survivors of a performing troupe. He would say to one of them-
“Would you fetch me a bottle of beer, love?” and it would trot off to the kitchen, returning in seconds carrying a bottle of beer, by the neck. Ernie would thank the dog, profusely, pour the beer, then, addressing the other dog-
“Would you mind taking this back for me, Love?” and the dog would oblige. He told us the first dog would only do deliveries, and the other, only returns.
The outcome of Ernie’s efforts to get us bookings, are painful to recall, even though his efforts were successful, and gratis. I can still conjure nightmares, with visions of Cresswell Miners’ Welfare- Neanderthals with tattoos on their teeth’ looking at us through their pints, like we were something you lifted out of traps, before smothering with ketchup and eating. Then the concert secretary meeting us, as we came off, after our first evening, on Monday night and greeting us-
“They liked you! Oh yes! They liked you! Can you do the rest of the week?”, at which we ran, screaming into the night.
The pantomime also supported another strain of specialities, like the giant for ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’, being a strong man type, over 6ft tall, able to walk on ‘lifts’ of over a foot high, and with the strength to carry the padded torso and shoulders. Then there’s the two man cow for Jack to take to market, able to do all the routines, like frog marching, back end jack-knifing, ‘laying’ a bottle of milk, roll over and play dead. The dwarves for Snow White- finding seven small men who can work together, as a unit, without the services of a good agent, could be difficult, even the Shetland ponies to pull Cinderella’s coach without getting stage fright.
But the one I love best is the Goose Man, for Mother Goose. He would always build his own goose, always called Priscilla, by long standing tradition. In a succession of busy panto seasons, a goose would suffer a considerable amount of wear and tear. Repairs would serve so far, but there would come a day when a new goose was required. Any cannibalising of the old goose was quite prohibited. In fact the old goose had to be burned, entirely, and the old goose and new goose must never be brought in sight of each other. I find this all quite touching. It all made extra, unpaid work for the operator, but it was all done unflinchingly, by men who had the utmost respect and affection for their creations.
 |
| Priscilla |
I can’t let my last possible link to the Empire slip away without recalling my most memorable visit, which occurred when I was about 10yrs old. Home from school, tea over, and out in the street, to gather with the rest of the pals, when out comes David Leach, with astounding news.
“Ave yer ‘eard about ‘show at ‘Empire, this week?”
“No. Worrizit?” someone enquires.
“It’s called Follies Berjersies, and ‘stage is full of bare women!”
“Gerron!”
“Straight up! It’s true!” When a later arrival brought corroborative evidence, we began to give the matter some serious thought.
“Wot do they do then, these bare women?”
“Wot’s tha want ‘em to do, besides tek their cloze off? They just stand there, stood still, ‘oldin’ up feathers an’ that”
“E’s puddled!”
“It’s true, am tellin’ thi!”
“Wot do they want to ‘old up feathers for?”
“It’s like big fans, else flowers. They ‘as flowers an’ feathers in their ‘air, an’all”.
“Wot did tha say it’s called?”
“Follies Berjersies”.
“Wot’s that, when it’s at ‘ome?”
“French, innit?”
“Oh well, if it’s French, it could be owt!” Then one lad, who’s father was an aficionado of the sport of kings, offered a translation with-
“Follies, that’s daft games, like- messin’ abaht an’ that. Bar means wi’out, like in racin’ odds, if ‘favourite’s 3 to 1, an’ 2nd favourite’s evens, then ‘rest bar them two, is 4 to 1- bar- wi’out! So Follies bar Jerseys- wi’out cloze!” No one having anything more convincing, we let that stand.
“Well are we goin’, then?”
“Course we are!” By this time, our ‘freedom to roam’ had run to first house theatres in town, so we arranged an expedition for the following evening. We half expected opposition from parents; there was none. Betty just tutted something about ‘scantily clad females’- she didn’t know the half of it. We expected steep entrance prices- still only 6d for the gods. We expected difficulties through lack of accompanying adults- no bother.
There was a stage full of bare women, though, time after time. Occasionally there was a comic, to allow for re-setting. We opined, afterwards, that the bare women weren’t all that impressive- too skinny, generally. We all agreed, none of ‘em had really big tits, but as Micky Glaves said, if they drug ‘em all the way from Paris, France, wot could you expect?
And we couldn’t see why they kept changing them round, with different scenery. They could have left the same lot on all night, with the same feathers, as far as we were concerned. It was exciting, all right, but not sexually. It was really a matter of getting away with doing something we weren’t supposed to do, and doing it for a whole evening, in public. Looking at bare women without getting into trouble for it, now that was exciting.