Tommy Cooper: Always Leave Them Laughing

by John Fisher

  Meanwhile in September 1962 Miff received an unexpected enquiry from the BBC for Tommy to star in its pantomime, Puss in Boots for transmission on Christmas Day. Tommy was at first resistant. Pantomime had never been his happiest medium. Producers complained that he had difficulty carrying the plot. According to provincial pantomime supremo, Derek Salberg, he was ‘very bad on lines; you could hear him for two or three minutes, then he just tailed away.’ Cooper must have felt torn between this responsibility and the demand of having to do double duty as the obligatory speciality act in the ballroom scene as events reached their fairy tale conclusion. Nevertheless, of the seven pantomimes in which he had appeared so far, Puss in Boots had figured four of those times, mainly with Cooper as the King. Unfortunately the previous year the Bradford production had been fraught with calamity, beginning with major disagreements with the director, who in the opinion of the star had no sense of comedy, and ending with a smallpox epidemic that brought the run of twelve weeks to a close after eight.

  In a letter of 14 September, Miff spelt out why he thought Tommy should forego the holiday he was contemplating at the time of the BBC project, in the process showing that he had not lost sight of further television horizons for his artist: ‘In my considered opinion it would be a mistake for you to miss this opportunity which would enable you to become established as a “Production Artiste” and once and for all nail the impression that you can only be used in solo spots doing your own material in other people’s programmes. This is a very important matter as far as your progressive career is concerned, and I do think that if you could postpone your holiday, you would be wise professionally to do so.’ Tommy gave in and Miff negotiated a fee of £525.00 to incorporate the recording and two weeks of rehearsals. The producer was set to be Richard Afton, a friendly patron from Tommy’s past.

  What soon took on the aspect of a pantomime all of its own began late in the evening of 31 October when Tommy phoned Miff to complain about the script: ‘Says King part is nothing.’ Two days later Afton became ill, to be replaced by his colleague, Harry Carlisle. A flurry of telephone calls took place between Miff, Tommy, and Bill Cotton, now Head of Variety at the BBC. With Afton suffering a relapse and rehearsals due to commence on 5 November, the situation appears to have been resolved until the following day when Cooper failed to attend rehearsals. Holland Barrett, the Head of Artists’ Bookings, was forced to write to Miff to announce that owing to the short amount of rehearsal time at the BBC’s disposal, they had no option ‘but to make alternative arrangements’. In other words, Tommy’s services were no longer required. In a subsequent letter dated the same day, Barrett wrote: ‘I understand that you are maintaining that in the course of a subsequent conversation with the producer, he agreed that Cooper could play either the King or Jolly the Jester according to his preference. I find this hard to understand in view of the fact that the producer had already asked us to engage another artist (Reg Varney) to play the jester.’ Since Tommy appears to have raised his objection to the role of the King only two working days before the start of rehearsals, it all seems somewhat disingenuous. The BBC had apparent good reason to take Tommy to court for breach of contract. In the circumstances the contract was cancelled and David Nixon stepped into the breach as King. Very late in the day Cooper had his holiday, but he won no marks with the Corporation as a result of the incident.

  The episode cooled any immediate interest the BBC might have had to exploit the comedian in the wake of his success on The Billy Cotton Band Show. Meanwhile Tommy had plenty of offers for guest spots and a full theatrical diary. It was not until October 1963 that he sat down to lunch to discuss the way forward with Philip Jones. Events seemed to move quickly, with an offer for a series of eleven shows with an option for a further two. However, the insistence of ABC that Russ Conway and Susan Maughan should be co-starred with Cooper meant the series was stillborn. Jones did not lose interest, nor could he. The following year would see Tommy’s defining success in Startime at the London Palladium. The high profile of this show placed him in a category whereby television companies could ignore him only at their peril.

  In 1964 the BBC returned to the fray. In April, Manchester based producer, Stan Parkinson – independent of the London-based monolith that was the Light Entertainment Group – came up with an interesting idea, a series of short programmes in which Tommy would be interviewed about all aspects of his life. Tommy’s ability to have people in stitches in pubs and clubs as he recounted incidents from his childhood, his service career and more would thus be able to reach a wider audience. The idea of the comic interview was not new. Terry-Thomas had been featured in this way with veteran announcer, Leslie Mitchell on How Do You View? while Benny Hill would later come to make the device his own, but in both cases the interviews were staged, the subjects being outlandish characters drawn from their stars’ repertoires of comic types. Parkinson was favouring a naturalistic approach. Again the idea went away, presumably because of the insignificance of the slot offered. A Manchester based production did not carry the weight of a London vehicle. However, Miff did not forget the device. A more substantial enquiry came in October when Executive Producer, George Inns – in that less politically correct age, he had devised The Black and White Minstrel Show – began to float the idea of a series of fortnightly spectaculars for the spring of the following year. The following day Philip Jones, with almost telepathic instinct, rang Miff: ‘Any use in talking about another series for T. C?’

  With reference to the Puss in Boots fiasco, if impresarios soon forget past sins when their perpetrators make money for them in theatres, the same also applies in television when they provide the key to high ratings. Philip laid low as the BBC embarked on a merry go round of bureaucratic uncertainty in which the project was passed from one producer to another and no one seemed sure whether Tommy Cooper came under the label of ‘Variety’ or ‘Comedy.’ The Light Entertainment Group was traditionally split between the two ‘cultures’ in this fashion. The rigid pigeonholing never helped anyone. Bill Cotton – a showman in his father’s image and Tommy’s true champion at the Corporation – unfortunately found himself as Head of Variety handing over executive responsibility to Frank Muir as Head of Comedy. Part of this was due to Miff’s high-handedness on the format front – with an insistence that the show should not be a parade of guest acts and dancing girls – although at no point was a situation comedy being proposed. The sketch format under discussion came closer to the genre of revue – or ‘broken comedy’, to use the ugly, self-defeating phrase adopted in more recent years – and could conceivably have emanated from either side.

  Tommy’s own ideas – or, more probably, Miff’s, shared by Tommy – complicated matters. In a letter to Cotton dated 12 December 1964, Miff became more specific about his client’s stipulations: ‘He would be happy to embark on a weekly series next autumn, provided it could proceed along the lines which I explained to George Inns, namely a thirty minute (or less) programme based on the interview idea, which could lead anywhere and tentatively entitled Conversations with Cooper, to be screened any evening except Saturday.’ The success of his friend, Michael Bentine’s It’s a Square World had impressed Tommy and almost certainly played a part in this thinking. Sadly Stan Parkinson, stranded in the provinces, did not receive an iota of credit. At the end of the year when Cotton is about to hand over the baton to Muir, Philip Jones, again with prescient timing, dropped Ferrie a gentle note: ‘I really think the idea of Cooper Talks with a (John) Freeman-type interview dissolving into flashbacks is excellent.’ And then to show he really had thought the idea through, he continued: ‘Bearing in mind Tommy’s strength with a live audience, I feel the flashbacks/sketches should be live rather than filmed. Otherwise one is dependent on an audience laughing at monitor screens, which is not always successful.’ He adds, ‘We are just as interested in Tommy as ever.’

  By now Miff was so far advanced with the BBC that he had gone along with Cotton’s idea of a special to be
recorded in May to act essentially as a pilot for an autumn series, but the relationship between Ferrie and Frank Muir quickly deteriorated. A script was commissioned – by David Cumming – with Miff irrationally demanding that ‘his’ idea of the interview device be taken out when he showed dissatisfaction with the first draft. It soon materialized that the contract for the autumn series would not be issued alongside that for the special: in other words the corporation was now hedging its bets. Miff should have become suspicious when the BBC began to speak of the one-off within the context of the Comedy Playhouse series, which was sufficiently well established as a lottery strand from which successful episodes were promoted to series status, of which Steptoe and Son had been the most successful. Muir claimed this had always been the case. Cotton, who would have been forced to concede otherwise, stayed away from the curious game of Call My Bluff that resulted.

  Eventually Tom Sloan, their mutual boss as Head of Light Entertainment, had to agree with Ferrie in a letter dated 10 May 1965 that the single programme had always been part of an overall understanding. By reneging on the gentlemen’s agreement, the BBC had played straight into the hands of ITV. On 26 March Philip had phoned Miff, who used the opportunity to explain the BBC situation to him – as if Jones didn’t know. Ferrie fairly stated that he was ‘in no way haggling or putting one against the other, merely endeavouring to do the right thing for T. C.’ He mentioned that the BBC had agreed a fee of ‘around £1,000.00’, which was the case, and that he would put a brief synopsis – a revision of the interview concept – in the post. Philip replied, ‘I am certain we could have a very happy association with you and Tommy.’ Allowing for the hazards of defining happiness, he was substantially – although not entirely – correct.

  In no time the interview device hit a snag. With less than three weeks to recording the pilot at Teddington Studios on 19 September, Philip, doubling his executive remit with the role of producer for the show, phoned Miff: ‘Cannot get Malcolm Muggeridge, Eamonn Andrews or Cliff Michelmore. Will have to settle for a good straight actor.’ Securing the services of an actual interviewer of substance was never going to be on the cards, thus weakening the comic contrast between star and interrogator. Perhaps it was an omen. ABC Programme Controller, Brian Tesler wasted little time in telling Ferrie what he thought of the pilot: ‘I know that the audience laughed (at most of the show anyway); I know that by some people’s criteria the show was by no means a failure. But as a Tommy Cooper show, as a way of harnessing the talent of this very funny man, it was a failure; a disjointed, uncomfortable, old-fashioned failure.’

  While admitting that Philip Jones and his director, Mark Stuart shouldered much of the responsibility, Brian was anxious to stress that Tommy was even more accountable, since it was in order to assuage him that their mistakes were made in the first place. ‘The Convict’s Return,’ a sketch from earlier times pushed by Cooper and rejected by Miff at every possible opportunity somehow found its way before the cameras. The writer, Frank Roscoe had been out of his element. No attempt was made to integrate the musical guest, Petula Clark, into the scheme of things, Tommy simply introducing her in the manner of a stage compère. Moreover, the interview device had not worked satisfactorily, the high energy comedy level required by the show dipping at those moments. In other words, Tommy should not be given a straightforward invitation to ramble on about one of his experiences, however funny that might be on a conventional magazine programme. Tesler was happy to retain the presence of an interviewer, but more in the role of straight man and compère, wasting no time in cutting to the action of a sketch set up by the chat with a snappy question and answer exchange. Ad-lib conversation in itself was deemed too downbeat for such a production. Brian also stipulated the most challenging requisite he made of the star: ‘We must ensure that Tommy, once he puts his fate in our hands, will have enough faith in his director’s assessment of what will work to cooperate with him willingly and wholeheartedly.’ The first show of the series was recorded on 12 November. After viewing the results, Tesler was buoyant enough to write to Miff in more positive mood. Aside from the inevitable glitch here and there, he admitted, ‘This was a very funny show and Tommy was revealed as a very funny man who is not restricted to comedy magic.’

  All was set for consolidating Cooper’s television career, but the first series would be a fiery ordeal. As Tesler stressed in his letter to Miff of 6 December 1965, ‘Personality problems (some of which you have been coping with for many years) inevitably made the process painfully slow, but I think ultimately rewarding.’ Recording dates were rearranged several times to accommodate the search for better material, leading to a team of six writers comprising Brad Ashton, John Muir and Eric Geen, John Warren and John Singer, and Austin Steele. Philip Jones reverted to his executive role, leaving Stuart in charge as producer and director. The run would not be completed until the beginning of March, dashing Miff’s original hopes for a transmission in the autumn of 1965. It would eventually air on Saturday evenings in the World Cup dominated summer, the run being interrupted for one week by the game between England and Mexico. At least he could be happy that his favoured title, Cooperama finally won the day. His ‘based on a format by’ credit was secure and two weeks before the first transmission he was already discussing recording dates for a second series. On a less happy note, George Brightwell, the genial ABC Programme Administrator, with whom Miff had established the friendliest of associations, left the company at the end of January.

  A surviving episode of Cooperama from 1966 reveals actor Derek Bond in the role of the suave interviewer. He is blandness personified and lacks the essential disciplinary edge of the great straight man. Nothing can disguise the fact that for the major part of the first half of the show Tommy is performing solo material that would be delivered more effectively in stand-up than perched on a stool. A reference to Paris segues into the mime routine based on a visit to the Eiffel Tower – for which he has to stand – and then, courtesy of a mention of the famous Lido cabaret, into a sketch involving Tommy with two acrobats. It is the traditional variety fare of a thousand Palladium shows and Tommy, preening around in tight-fitting pants and bolero, is very funny indeed, but it hardly represents the original breakthrough upon which Miff had his sights. A quickie that led into the commercial break involving Tommy as a street trader who ends up smothered in paint and whitewash is puerile in concept – he is peddling lucky charms! – and in execution.

  Part two begins with Tommy’s interview presentation of the ‘Chapeaugraphy’ routine with the ring of felt. A short semi-silent sketch with the comedian being recognized in a restaurant by a fan who can’t stop laughing at his hero and then, by way of the last laugh, departs with Tommy having to pay his bill has a bizarre credibility and showcased Cooper’s own trademark laugh to great effect. Then it is back to more stand-up material with Derek Bond as Tommy ‘impersonates’ vaudevillians Al Jolson and clarinettist Ted –‘Is everybody happy?’– Lewis. On the back of the Lewis routine with the clarinet, Acker Bilk makes a guest appearance and holds up the comedy with traditional jazz in traditional light entertainment guest star fashion for three minutes. The final item, an extended sketch in which Tommy finds himself mistaken for a bank robber in a police station might have been what Miff had in mind as he attempted to lure Tommy’s image away from the manic magician, but still ends with him plying the police constable with Milton Berle’s ‘Happy New Year’ playing card gag. The half hour comes over as relentlessly contrived and is directed with no understanding of physical comedy. We never see Cooper in a proper long shot when it counts, as in the mime sequence. One desperately longs for someone to invest in new stand-up material for this great clown and then leave him to his own devices.

  By the time his second series for ABC came around at the beginning of 1967 Cooperama had been renamed Life with Cooper. The tedious device of the straight man interviewer had been discarded and each episode began on more secure ground with a short stand-up sequence of comedy magic
and gags, a characteristic that now identified almost all of Tommy’s television shows until the end of his career. This was always what he did best and if all else failed, the shows had one segment that was worth switching on for. In another change, the exit door had been shown to guest musical acts. The programmes were even more sketch driven with filmed quickies used as punctuation. The pedantic hand of Ferrie behind the scenes remained discernible from the manner in which all concerned clung to the old contrivance of allowing viewers to eavesdrop on a day in the life of the star. It was as if the comedy had to be excused or justified. In this way viewers were treated to whole episodes detailing the misadventures that befell Cooper when he went to have his passport photograph taken, when he was waylaid by fog en route to Birmingham, or when he ran out of cash to reclaim his left luggage. Much of it was tedious, but nothing dented the popularity of the star.

  Tesler and Jones appeared to treat Miff as an ex officio executive producer, although he would not formally be recompensed by ABC until the second series of Life with Cooper, when he received a flat £1,000.00 fee for format and £250.00 per show as script consultant. Tommy, who earned £1,000.00 a show for Cooperama, was now earning £1,500.00 per programme. Miff had no qualifications for his role. It would not be the last time – although it may have been the first – a television company elevated an artist’s manager to editorial status, chiefly to flatter his ego and substantiate the bonds that tied the star to the company. Today, the moment their clients have been identified as star potential, agents and managers simply set up shop as independent production companies in the first instance and work their persuasive powers on commissioning editors who understand no better. At least Tesler and Jones were accredited television professionals whose own understanding of how to handle distinctive and sometimes difficult comic talent like Hancock, Howerd, Forsyth, Hill, not to mention Cooper, went before them. Unfortunately Tommy, for all his own comic judgement, did not possess the added intellectual clout that enabled performers like Benny Hill, Ronnie Barker, and Stanley Baxter to play a major part in the production of their own shows, although they were not openly credited for this.