THE ECCENTRICS (III)

ALASTAIR SIM


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 Alastair Sim & 12 Years Acting Lessons 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.

CICELY COURTNEIDGE


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.’