by John Fisher
Oh, Oh, Oh, Ophelia,
Oh please reveal – y – a
In love with me.
You have such appeal – y – a,
That’s why I kneel – y – a
On bended knee!
This is the cue for Tommy to adopt an Al Jolson pose and round off proceedings with a parody of ‘Mammy’: ‘Hammy! Hammy!’ According to Mary Kay, he had great difficulty learning the routine, but the relish he showed in performing it and the ovation it received must have compensated for the difficulty of juggling the contrasting vocal patterns in rehearsal.
Whatever the quality of his material, Tommy was carried along by the immense public affection shown towards him. By the third show of the first series, Life with Cooper, transmitted on Saturdays from the beginning of 1967, had reached seventh in the ratings. By the time of the second series in the early part of 1968 it regularly dislodged Coronation Street at the top of the ratings, being watched in something like 8,750,000 homes. A repeat of the same series during the summer months attracted equally large audiences. ABC was quick to realize it was on a winning streak. When it became clear the company would be metamorphosed into Thames Television as the London weekday contractor, making it the most powerful component of the federal ITV system, it decided to put on hold the transmission of the third series of Life with Cooper until after the new franchise came into force. It did not air until the spring of 1969. In order to leave no one in any doubt that its intentions towards Cooper were honourable it boosted his and its own profile by going into production with two Tommy Cooper specials to herald the opening of the new company.
NINE
Cooper Vision: Part Two
Much of the promotion of the new ITV was tied to Cooper’s presence. Cooper King-size! was scheduled for transmission on the opening night of the new era on 30 July 1968. It appears to have grown out of a suggestion by Miff to repackage between new covers a selection of Tommy’s most popular routines extending back to the beginning of his television career. In addition to a stand-up comedy magic spot, viewers would be introduced to or reacquainted with those building blocks of his expertise as a production comic, namely the ‘Hello, Joe’ routine, the Candid Camera ‘Look at the Buffalo’ sequence, the ‘Eggs in the Hat,’ ‘Autumn Leaves’ and, of course, the ‘Hats’. The presentation took the form of a nostalgic chat between Tommy and Deryck Guyler in his crusty old man role as Tommy’s dresser. Resurrected from earlier television shows were the squeaky shoes sketch and the ‘Zoo’ routine. In the former Cooper followed up an expedition to a shoe shop with a visit to a musical soirée: he arrives late and has to tiptoe to his seat in the telltale footwear. In the latter sequence he stood facing the camera contentedly with a sign that said ‘monkey house’ behind him. Marvelling at the joys of nature as he snaps away with the camera around his neck, he starts to throw food to the animals. Before long the peanuts are being pelted back in even greater quantities. As the battle escalates Cooper’s aggrieved expression tells all. Almost defeated he crosses over to another side of the set. The sign behind him now reads ‘Gorilla’. The pay off came when a gorilla’s arm extended from behind the television camera, grabbed Tommy’s own camera and ended up taking a picture of the star.
The title of the special was not cleared with Miff or Tommy, causing them some disquiet in the event that reviewers might attack the programme for going over old ground. Cooper Classics or Vintage Cooper had been their preferred options. In the circumstances it did not matter. As Tommy understood only too well, public memory is very short. The show became a high profile exercise for the star who now automatically found himself branded the face of comedy on the reinvigorated channel. Unfortunately the recorded transmission fell off the air after twenty minutes when on the opening night of the new service the Thames technicians went on strike. It was shown in its entirety at a later date. Sadly like so many shows from that era it does not survive, even though the packaging of so much classic material qualified it as the Cooper show most deserving of longevity. It happened to commit the sin of being recorded at a time when reusable videotape and shelf space were deemed more valuable commodities than the intellectual property they were serving.
The other programme with which Thames used Cooper to celebrate its launch was a more original affair. Not transmitted until November, Cooper at Large was the brainchild of producer and director, Mark Stuart. Loosely based on the 1960 French film fantasy, Zazie dans le Métro, in which a young girl is subjected to an Alice in Wonderland experience on the Paris underground system, the project focused on Tommy meandering around the fantasy world implied by a television studio. It was a brave attempt to achieve something different and in more imaginative hands might have taken him into a Jacques Tati observational dimension. Instead it became a series of sketches triggered by the remnants of scenery discovered by Tommy in the studio: a Fred Astaire ballroom, a Western saloon, an orchestral rostrum and so on. The show did little to live up to the claim of its publicity to ‘add another dimension to the star’s character as he breaks fresh ground in a world of fantasy where his versatility is given free rein,’ while the sound of audience laughter in a supposedly empty studio became a disconcerting anomaly. When it did come to life it was on those occasions when the star ventured into tried and tested territory, as when he adapted his Frankie Vaughan business to the Fred Astaire routine. A short sequence where he discovers an isolated camera and self-consciously explores its ability to capture a wide range of expressions provided a hint of what a creative mime in the tradition of Tati or Red Skelton might have made of the premise. A moment where he walked into a projection screen and found himself embroiled in the action of a World War Two drama, although executed well technically, left one pining for the inventiveness of Buster Keaton in this area. But in one regard Miff would have been pleased. There was not a magic trick or a fez in sight.
Ironically in July 1968, the very month that saw Thames Television taking to the air, Miff received a call from his old friend and ex-ABC employee, George Brightwell, who as General Manager was now helping David Frost run his independent production company, David Paradine Productions Ltd, henceforth to be referred to as Paradine. Frost was keen to discuss with Ferrie the idea of selling Cooper in a colour package to America. A meeting was arranged and there is no reason to suppose that any disloyalty was initially felt to ABC/ Thames by agent or performer. The focus was on America, Tommy still had six shows to be recorded for the ITV company for UK transmission, and at a time when independent production was slowly taking off in this country, who was to say whether a production for Paradine could not also be offered to Thames? Miff may or may not have overlooked Frost’s role as head of the London Television Consortium that had been awarded the new London weekend franchise. He was in effect the progenitor of Thames’s principal rival, London Weekend Television. Regardless of any residual loyalty to Philip Jones, if one thing could be assured of bringing Tommy running to Miff it would be mention of exposure in James Thurber’s land of ‘the roll-’em-in-the-aisles of gagerissimo’.
Correspondence between Brightwell and Ferrie from the beginning of August mentions the possibility of an exclusive contract for Tommy’s services relating to both the UK and the USA. Miff had wasted no time in grasping the upper hand creatively when one reads of their shared intention ‘to eliminate the frailties of production that have beset Tommy in the past’. Frost’s enthusiasm for the comedian was unstinted. All involved had high hopes of international recognition for Cooper ‘as the funniest of men’. From the first Frost was envisaged as executive producer, Ferrie as associate producer of the enterprise. Full consultation would be accorded Tommy and Miff on all creative and personnel matters. The first show would air in America under an arrangement Paradine had with Westinghouse for a series of programmes under the title of David Frost Presents. It was proposed that this should be a pull-together of classic Cooper routines! Cooper King-size! had aired only seven days before Brightwell summarized all the points in his letter t
o Miff. It is additionally ironic that in a short while Thames would become the most successful exporter of British television product to America. Had he continued to perform in more shows for the ITV broadcaster, Tommy could well have stood a better chance of emulating Benny Hill in the international marketplace. The Paradine venture almost totally failed to deliver in this arena and even on the domestic front soon became bogged down in the dissatisfaction and acrimony that seemed to follow Miff around.
The existing contract with Thames and the commitment to record the last series of Life with Cooper in the opening months of 1969 meant that both parties had to tread nimbly. Brightwell stressed the caution of not rushing into their new domestic series and stressed that when it did materialize it could be offered to any of the ITV companies or the BBC. This time around, Tommy would not only be receiving £1,800.00 a show for a series of thirteen, an increase of £300.00 over his last Thames rate, but was also entitled to fifteen per cent of net profits, with Miff on five per cent. Miff also received a fee of £300.00 per show. However, a note scribbled by Miff ahead of a key meeting revealed why he had taken this route: ‘Purpose of agreement is to exploit the talents of Tommy Cooper and particularly to enlarge his image in the USA and other foreign countries.’ The American showcase, in which David – pace Vera Lynn and Ed Sullivan – introduced Tommy to US audiences, was recorded in London on 18–19 December 1968. The full agreement was not finalized until the first day. The contract gave Paradine the option rights for two further consecutive series after the first.
With a typical quirk of fate other companies now began to make enquiries about possible American exposure. Alec Fyne at ATV rang Miff twice during January 1969 to explore the prospect of Tommy appearing as a guest on shows starring Engelbert Humperdinck and Liberace, both being packaged by Lew Grade for international consumption. Philip Jones, who by now was obviously aware of something afoot, had already phoned to investigate the option of re-shooting Cooper King-size! in colour as ITV’s entry for the Golden Rose competition at the 1969 Montreux television festival. Should it win, it would be guaranteed sales in all territories. Moreover Pathé, working as distributors for ABC/Thames, had just sold the first two series of Life with Cooper to the Netherlands and were looking for production opportunities of their own with guaranteed network distribution in the USA. In the event it is conceivable that ATV, Thames or Pathé could have done more to advance Cooper internationally than Paradine. Paradine had no network deal and there was little interest at syndication level. During the last week of April 1969, the special aired in only five territories, namely Boston, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and San Francisco, but these were the major cities within which Westinghouse had their own television stations, so their interest should have been a foregone conclusion anyhow. Nothing appears to have been achieved at the level of syndication.
On 31 March Brightwell rang Ferrie to announce that they were now trying to interest LWT on the domestic front. On 2 April Miff informed George that he had now formally made Thames aware of the Paradine agreement adding: ‘I also advised them that I should think if they wished to participate in the production of these shows then this would simply be a matter for discussion and negotiation.’ Philip Jones had replied that Thames would ‘certainly consider and discuss any suggestions you may have for future Tommy Cooper shows’. Inwardly he must have realized that as far as LWT was concerned the matter was a fait accompli, although in July Para-dine did go through the formality of discussing the project with the BBC, courtesy of Cooper champion, Bill Cotton. The news travelled fast. On 29 July the Evening News, prompted by what it regarded as the excesses in advertising levy that the new ITV companies had to pay to the government, ran an article headlined ‘Catastrophe at ITV’, in which melodramatically it reported that ‘the stricken competitor could not afford to keep its horse-jumping or even pay for the Tommy Cooper package series made by none other than David Frost.’ The report had no foundation other than the fact that Cotton and Ferrie had been spotted together at the Paradine office. Jumping to conclusions in the media is nothing new and a retraction was published. Before the week was out Brightwell was discussing with Cyril Bennett, Programme Controller at LWT, studio dates for a series of thirteen recordings that allowed for transmission during the early months of 1970.
At the end of shooting the last successful series of Life with Cooper Tommy requested that Milo Lewis, about to leave Thames, be contracted, making the sound observation, ‘Working with someone I know well must be an ideal way to start.’ The American special had been produced and directed by Gordon Reece, later to achieve notoriety and a knighthood as image maker and media adviser to Margaret Thatcher, but he had moved on to pastures new, possibly to Tommy’s relief. In a catalogue of Cooper complaints some leap off the page:
In the James Bond quickie the point of the whole thing was to see the arm come around the wall and hit me in the face with the pie.
In the juggling routine the dropping of the pile of plates was out of frame.
In some shots I was either out of frame or the vital point was missed completely.
Unfortunately, unlike Hancock (with Duncan Wood) and Morecambe and Wise (first with Colin Clews at ATV, and then with John Ammonds at the BBC and Thames), Tommy never had an enduring creative partnership with a single producer. Nothing sinister need be read into this, the inevitable result of the vagaries and unpredictability of the freelance work ethic that was more prevalent in ITV than the BBC at the time. The request for Lewis was not – or could not be – granted and Bill Hitchcock, the trusted veteran of many an Arthur Askey or Dickie Henderson show, joined the team. Having wisely consulted Miff, the first move he made at the beginning of August was to bring in respected American scriptwriter, Dick Vosburgh as script editor. Their combined presence did not forestall Miff on 24 September – six weeks ahead of the first recording – dropping a note to Brightwell that had about it a decided air of déjà vu: ‘Frankly, I am becoming increasingly disturbed at the lack of preparation for these shows.’
Miff could not come to terms with the success of the ABC/ Thames association and did his unintentional best to drag Tommy back to times past. The opening stand-up routines were maintained, but the device of the interviewer was resurrected. Vosburgh and a team of writers headed by Barry Cryer worked hard to make the restrictions work. Revue comedian, Peter Reeves was an imaginative choice as the interviewer and fulfilled the brief more successfully than anyone so far. The device was happily taken away from Cooper talking about his own life and given a historical skew to give free rein to Tommy’s penchant for dressing up. Both the carnival atmosphere of sketches like these and the comedy conjuring were enhanced by colour for the first time. Hitchcock worked hard to ensure the shows had a slickness of pace that the Thames shows often lacked. In this regard greater emphasis was placed on pre-recorded quickies – it was the era of Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In – although these were often a hit or miss affair. The series was simply called Tommy Cooper, LWT missing out on the fun their graphics department could have had during the show’s opening titles with the abbreviation of ‘Life With Tommy’.
The historical segment is now remembered as a highlight of the enterprise, providing some of the defining moments of Cooper’s television career and adding weight to Barry Cryer’s premise of how you wrote for the man: ‘The perfect Tommy Cooper sketch is one that says, “Tommy enters tailor’s shop – does trousers jokes – then exits.”’ The roll call of history was summoned to provide excuses for jokes, jokes, and more jokes. Old jokes were brought back into service, as in the Dr Livingstone episode where he brought forth ‘the skull of a very famous witch doctor – and here’s the skull of the same witch doctor when he was a boy!’ Some were excruciatingly awful, like the time he dragged up as Florence Nightingale –‘Call me “Sir”’? ‘Why?’‘I’m a night nurse!’ Others were visually inventive, like the three cornered Dick Turpin hat that spun around on his head. Cooper fell in love with the device like a child w
ith a new toy. Other comics would have left well alone after the first revolve, but Cooper in his usual way must have repeated the business at least seven times getting bigger laughs all the while. As Cryer says, ‘He had that flair. You’d say he was overdoing it, but then you heard the laughter he got.’ Tommy was fully aware he was breaking the so-called rules: ‘I just slipped that one in there. I wasn’t gonna do that. I wasn’t.’ But there was more to the gag than the mechanics of the prop. Cooper’s increasingly giddy look of disorientation as it spun around made it far more than a fancy dress shop accessory.
Throughout these segments he displayed a newfound relish in the absurdity of what he was about, as in the Toulouse-Lautrec sketch when down on his knees, which had shoes attached –‘Mini Cooper!’– he launched into what at the time must have been an extremely painful dance version of ‘Happy feet, I’ve got those happy feet’ and then discovered a way of levering himself up on the arms between two chairs to convey the illusion that he really had lost eighteen inches. When he portrayed Henry VIII he had the same fun heaving up his upholstered stomach onto his chest every time he leaned back in the chair. When the Julius Caesar sketch flagged he launched into a song on the zither: ‘Oh, how we danced on the night that we wed. We danced and we danced cos the room had no bed.’ Over the laughter Tommy shouts, ‘Listen to that, see,’ as if to remonstrate to Miff that he was the one who knew what made people laugh, before incongruously invoking the name of his hero, ‘Miller’s the name, lady. Here’s another one!’ Funniest of all was the infamous Robin Hood sequence when he shunned Lincoln green for Lincoln pink. It is hard to imagine that he reached the end of rehearsals before realizing that a costume was being prepared for him in a colour that superstition forbade him to wear. Dick Vosburgh remembers it was the day of the show. He had never seen Cooper more agitated: ‘I’m not wearing it!’ The wardrobe department rose to the emergency and, long before Mel Brooks deconstructed the Sherwood myth in Robin Hood: Men in Tights, quickly made him another in the new colour. Again a funny hat came to the fore, this time with extended peak and long, adjustable feather used to impersonate a railway signal to the sound of an express train –‘The Golden Arrow!’ Reeves provided a natural audience – one could almost have believed that he had not seen a script – but like a fine straight man had the improvisatory skills to rein in Cooper as he wandered off on yet another flight of playful fancy.
