FOR THE FIRST time in my life I am top of the bill and there could be no more appropriate venue – the Finsbury Park Empire, the theatre my parents took me to every week when I was growing up. Now I’m back, and in charge. Quite incredible.
I know I have already made it abundantly clear that Sunday Night at the London Palladium changed everything for me and I promise not to go on about it too much longer. This poster, however, captures better than anything just how quickly the show catapulted me to stardom.
It’s from March 1959, towards the end of my first season on SNAP. Not only have I been elevated to the headline act but, as you can see, the bill matter clearly reflects the aspects of the TV show that caught the public’s imagination: ‘I’m in Charge’, Beattie, Rusty, Beat the Clock, drip-dry shirts. All those unforeseen, unscripted, impromptu moments that were miraculously embraced by the audiences and viewers over the previous seven months of Sundays are encapsulated in this one poster. The power of television.
Oh, and if you’re wondering who ‘Rusty’ is, he was my absolutely wonderful dog, who used to appear with me on the Palladium stage from time to time. I’ll tell you all about dear Rusty a little later on.
LESS THAN EIGHTEEN MONTHS prior to that Finsbury Park Empire show, I was also on a stage, but in a very different capacity: panto at the King’s Theatre, Southsea. Puss in Boots starring Charlie Drake.
Pantomime, especially in prominent theatres such as Southsea’s King’s, was a big deal. The length and breadth of the country, the biggest stars of the day would feature and the audiences flocked to see them. The productions ran for months, from Christmas through to the spring. This was big show-business.
So, you would think Puss in Boots was an excellent booking for someone of my standing in 1957, and you would be correct. Up to a point. You see, I wasn’t so much in the pantomime, as in front of it. Charlie Drake and I never actually met onstage. All my scenes, four or five pieces, were what we call ‘front cloth’, meaning little routines I performed to keep the audience entertained, while behind me and the closed curtain the scenery for Charlie’s next sketch was frantically being set up.
YES, ONE OF MY routines was that old favourite featuring the different types of golfer, while another involved me taking off a great pantomime tradition – I’m playing a boy, playing the principal boy, who is normally played by a girl. I think I’ve got that right.
In fact, that last sketch very nearly put me in hot water. And, let me tell you, hot water was in short supply where the incident occurred.
I arrived back at my digs after an evening performance to find my landlady waiting. She had been to the show and wanted to tell me what she thought. ‘I enjoyed myself very much,’ she said. I was delighted. Then came the bombshell. ‘Mr Forsyth, I must say, you have very nice legs.’ I locked my door that night! And, frankly, given the level of accommodation I could afford back then, I was lucky it had a lock. I’d have been up all night in terror otherwise.
IN 1958 I WAS once again appearing in pantomime with Charlie Drake – but this is very different from Southsea. It’s The Big One. The Palladium. Top of the Christmas tree for panto season. And I’m very much onstage, not ‘front cloth’, and we’re doing Sleeping Beauty.
I’m fourth on the bill, as you can see, and, honestly, that was beyond my wildest dreams. Finally, at the biggest theatre of all, my name really was up in lights.
We performed twice a day, six days a week, right through to April. And on the seventh day? I was on the same stage, compèring SNAP. It should have been an exhausting schedule, but with the adrenalin that was coursing through my body then, I hardly noticed.
I never really got to know Charlie Drake in either of the shows in which we appeared, but Bernard Bresslaw and I were assigned dressing rooms next to each other at the Palladium and that proximity led to a great friendship. He was a delightful man who, of course, went on to star in many of the classic Carry On films. It was so sad that he died before he even turned sixty. He had so much potential, so much still to give, and suddenly it was all over. I think about that sometimes and it just doesn’t make any sense.
I PLAYED PRESTO THE Jester. Now I bet you’re thinking, Sleeping Beauty? Presto the Jester? I don’t remember him. Well, you would be correct, because the part was written specifically for that production.
The producer of the show was Robert Nesbitt, whom I mentioned earlier. A lot of the professionals regarded Robert as the ‘Prince of Darkness’. He was a tough taskmaster, for sure, and wielded a lot of power in London’s theatre district for a long time, but I thought he was great guy. I first met Robert when I went to discuss my role in the pantomime. I knew then I had the part, and also that it had not yet not been fully scripted, so a couple of days beforehand I had decided to compose a song for possible inclusion in the show.
Once we’d settled into our meeting, I made my move. ‘Mr Nesbitt, I’ve written a song I would like to play for you. I think it would be great for my character, Presto.’ He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Phil Park is doing the music. He’s very experienced, you know. But go ahead, let’s hear what you have.’
I played it and he liked it. ‘Yes, we’ll put that in the show.’ Simple as that.
I had hoped, but I had not expected. ‘Really? Thanks!’ It was another one of those ‘I can’t believe this’ moments that seemed to be coming at me thick and fast in the second half of 1958.
STICKING WITH PANTOMIME, HERE I am appearing in Turn Again, Whittington in 1962 at the Hippodrome, Bristol. My wife Penny played the Queen of Catland, a role described as follows by a local reviewer: ‘Penny Calvert, acting as guide, mentor, counsellor, comforter and friend in her built-up role’. That’s a lot to take on at the best of times, but as Penny had given birth to our third daughter, Laura, barely a month before we opened her performance was extraordinary.
Oh, let me briefly quote further from that review: ‘Is it possible to have too much of a good thing? In the case of Bruce Forsyth, the answer is emphatically “No.”’
I just thought you might be interested…
IT’S TIME FOR A confession. I don’t particularly like pantomime. Never have. It’s because there is no single audience to gear the show towards. We played to both children and adults, and without the more sophisticated scripts they have today, which appeal to all age groups, I found there was just too much time-filling waffle! And my views on pantomime were certainly not improved by my experience in a 1967 production of Aladdin. To be fair, that wasn’t really the fault of the show. Let me explain.
It all started at the Windmill in 1953. Yes, way back then. I know this sounds like it’s going to be a long tale, but don’t worry. I’m going to make it as short as I possibly can. You’ll understand why in a moment.
SO THERE I WAS, appearing solo at the Windmill for the first time, with one of my routines involving the Tommy Cooper impersonation. This caught the attention of Tommy’s agent, a musician called Miff Ferrie, who came along to check whether I was pinching any of his client’s material (I wasn’t). At the time I was looking for an agent myself, and as they were not exactly beating down my dressing-room door, when Miff introduced himself I decided to give him a go. Bad mistake. You see, Miff wasn’t really an agent at all: he had fallen into the role by accident. He was really no more than a band leader; he knew virtually nothing about how the wider business operated. Not that I realized this at the time.
I signed a contract with Miff. It was registered by the London County Council, so was absolutely legitimate. And, to be fair, Miff did ask me to read it carefully before signing. I took only a cursory glance. I was too excited about finally having an agent to focus on details. Surely all contracts were basically the same. Another mistake.
It didn’t take me long to see that Miff and I were not exactly a match made in Heaven. Without going into great detail, he would book me into theatres at which I didn’t want to appear, and would tell directors and producers I would have been very interested to work with that I was already committed for a year in advance. ‘It will make you sound more popular and in demand, Bruce.’ What it actually meant was that I missed out on some big opportunities.
After about five years I’d had enough and told Miff I was ending our relationship. I was happy to work out any notice period, but that was it. Miff then explained. The contract I had signed was for five years, which he could renew but I could not terminate. Oh, and in addition I was paying fifteen per cent commission when the industry norm was ten.
THAT IS THE BACKGROUND, which explains why you see me here on 5 June 1962, outside the High Court, attempting to have the dastardly contract set aside. Miff is on my right, my solicitor, Alan Lazarus, on my left, and dear Jimmy Lee – my old golfing partner, sometimes minder, driver, roadie, fellow performer and one of the funniest guys I have ever known – offering his support behind. I am smiling. I shouldn’t be. I’m quoted as saying to the press at the time, ‘Now we’re both in charge.’ Rubbish. I lost the case. As the judge said in his summing up, ‘It appears that it is far easier for one to get rid of one’s wife than one’s agent.’
The contract was extended for a seven-year period and I had to pay Miff a lump sum of £7,000 to secure that privilege. Seven thousand pounds! A huge amount of money then, and now. Seven years! A lifetime in show-business. I had no choice, though.
Fast forward five years (which is skipping a lot of unpleasant scenes between Miff and myself), and I place a phone call to Frankie Howerd. His sister answers. I know her well and we chat.
‘Hello, Bruce, how are you?’
‘Just fine, my dear, thank you. And you?’
‘No problems at all, I’m happy to say. I guess you’re looking for Frankie?’
‘Is he around?’
‘I’m afraid not, but I’ll let him know you called.’
‘That’s great, thanks.’
‘My pleasure. Oh, and by the way, I hope it all goes well with the panto in Wimbledon.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes, I saw it in the papers. You know, Aladdin. With Tommy Trinder.’
I won’t repeat what I said next. Suffice to say, I was not best pleased. This was the first I had heard of the booking, for a show I knew I wouldn’t even enjoy. And, worse, I was appearing with Tommy Trinder. Now, I had nothing against the man, but I very much suspected the same did not apply the other way around. He regarded me as the person responsible for robbing him of the compère gig on SNAP. Miff knew that was how Tommy felt.
It was the last straw. I called my solicitor and demanded he get me away from Miff, whatever the cost. It turned out to be an awful lot – an additional £20,000 for Miff to walk away. Best money I ever spent.
As for the panto, well, I appeared but arranged with the producer that Tommy and I were never onstage at the same time. It wasn’t worth the risk. We only ever met at the curtain call.
So, no, that experience did not change my views on pantomimes.
A final word on Miff and then I’m done. Looking at that photograph of us outside court reminds me of how dreadful he was. Honestly. He knew nothing about comedy but he thought he did. That made it so much worse. Here’s one awful example.
Miff signed up a comic called Alec Pleon, a very funny man who had made a name for himself in the forties as second on the bill to Sid Field in the show Strike a New Note at the Prince of Wales Theatre. Alec and I were appearing on the same TV show, and in the run-up I knew he had been spending hours with Miff working on his routine. I remember Alec saying to me, ‘Isn’t Miff marvellous? He’s helped me so much with my act.’ I feared the worst and those fears were realized at the rehearsals on the day of broadcast. It was dreadful. I wanted to stop Alec going on but of course I couldn’t: it was too late. He bombed and I later heard, although I can’t say for certain it’s true, that the poor guy suffered a nervous breakdown. Awful.
Enough Miff, back to stage appearances in the sixties.
A PRODUCTION CALLED SHOWTIME at the Wellington Pier Pavilion, Great Yarmouth, in the summer of 1961. As you can see, I’m appearing once again with Penny, who not only has a number with me and Gary Miller but also a solo slot. That gives another indication of how talented she was. Seeing Gary’s name there brings back very happy memories. Gary, his wife Joy and their boys meant a great deal to Penny and me. Our two families often got together during those Summer Seasons when we were performing on the same bill, and enjoyed ourselves enormously.
This brochure also offers a fascinating sense of time and place. The sixties were not yet swinging and that is reflected in the old-fashioned innocence of some of the descriptions. There is ‘unusually unique entertaining’ offered by the husband-and-wife juggling duo of Eddie and Marion Rose, while the rag-doll act, the Morlidor Trio, are a ‘Continental Surprise-packet’. As for ‘The Pavilion Lovelies and Dancing Boys’, you would never see that today. And, of course, we closed the show with ‘God Save the Queen’.
HERE IS THE PAVILION. They must have been giving away free ice cream that day!
JUNE 1962, EVERY NIGHT at the London Palladium. A summer revue show with a brilliant cast, including Morecambe and Wise (whatever became of them?), singers Eve Boswell, Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson, and the lovely Angela Bracewell from Beat the Clock. This was the show that could have had as big an impact on my career as SNAP. Could have, but didn’t.
Backstage before one performance there was a huge buzz in the air. Word had come through that US TV host and star-marker Ed Sullivan would be in the audience. This was the man whose eponymous variety programme had helped to bring Elvis to the masses and which, a couple of years later, would introduce the Beatles to America. Make no mistake, Ed Sullivan was big news, especially when it was confirmed he was looking for new British talent to appear on his show.
Now, as is clear from the brochure, much of the second half is dedicated to ‘The Forsyth Saga’ in which I am the all-round entertainer, ably assisted by members of the cast. Surely the perfect vehicle for me to demonstrate my talents to Mr Sullivan. Yes, had he stuck around to see it. Sure, he sat through the first half and went on to book Eve, juggler Ugo Garrido, and Eric and Ernie for his show. Then he left. A prior engagement, I was told. How very odd.
IN JUNE 1964 I decided to step away from SNAP for good. Why? One reason was that I felt stretched too thin, worn out by appearing seven days a week for virtually the entire year, travelling back and forth to London from cabaret, variety shows, Summer Seasons. It was affecting my health and I knew I needed a break, a change of routine. I also felt that the time had come for me to branch out again. I’d been at the Palladium for a long time and had enjoyed such wonderful experiences, but niggling away at the back of my mind was the belief that I had to find a new challenge. In that summer of 1964 the perfect opportunity came along.
Val Parnell couldn’t believe it when I told him of my decision, but I was determined. It was time for new stimulus. Did this turn out to be a good decision? Well, I would categorize the following fifteen months as being the best of times, the worst of times. Here’s what happened.
An American producer called Arthur Lewis, based in London, approached me with an idea. Would I be interested in starring in the West End version of a musical that was currently running in Detroit? Yes, I was interested. This might be the ‘book show’ Nat King Cole had recommended I find.
‘It’s called Little Me, written by Neil Simon. Cy Coleman has done the music and Carolyn Leigh the lyrics,’ Arthur told me. ‘It’s perfect for you, Bruce. Go over and take a look. See what you think.’
Off I went to the States to do just that. Sid Caesar played the lead – well, the seven leads, actually: that was what the part entailed, twenty-nine costume changes for seven characters of varying ages and accents, all of whom had a connection with the leading lady. Now, Sid Caesar was a hugely talented comic actor, but this was not a role for him. He seemed to be suffering from some kind of affliction that caused him to cough after every line. This gave the impression that he wasn’t really trying. And yet I was still enjoying it.
I came away convinced this would be marvellous for me. I said yes.
I was in Summer Season at Bournemouth, and because the decision had been taken to anglicize the script for the British audience, Neil Simon himself came over to work with me on the changes. Incredible, really, to think of it, but that was how much the show meant to him.
I learned the entire script in one week, while appearing in two shows a night at the Pavilion and working with Neil during the day. Fortunately for me, the poetic quality of Neil’s writing made the words easy to learn – every syllable meant something. So, at the end of the Bournemouth run, I moved straight into four weeks of rehearsal before opening at the Bristol Hippodrome on 29 October for ten nights. From there we transferred to the West End, the Cambridge Theatre. That, I felt at the time, was a mistake. It was an old converted cinema, there were no boxes and it was cold. It’s very hard to connect with an audience when they are shivering in their seats.
And yet we were a smash.
LITTLE ME IS WITHOUT doubt the best straight performance that I have ever done. The photo montage opposite gives a good indication of the challenge I faced in playing such a range of characters. I loved it.
‘This show will run for as long as Bruce wants it to.’ That was the overriding tone of our reviews. I could not have wished for more.
Then out of the blue, ten months into our successful run, it was announced we were to close. I couldn’t understand it then, and I still don’t today. The critics had been positive – ‘The best reviews we’ve had since Annie Get Your Gun’, Bernard Delfont, who was involved in the production of the show, told me, when he announced we were shutting down – and the box office continued to be very healthy. I was devastated. Overnight we were being written up as a failure, which just wasn’t true.
So, what on earth happened?
I wish I could say, but I don’t know. The reasons behind the closure were never explained to me. It still upsets me to think of it.
THE PHOTOGRAPH ON THE following page is from the fabulous Five Past Eight Show from the Starlight Room of the Glasgow Alhambra. I was top of the bill there in the summer of 1966. Now this really was some show. The word ‘lavish’ doesn’t do it justice. It rivalled the Palladium variety performances in every aspect, from the set design, scenery, costumes and dancers to the stars who appeared there.
All the big names headlined the Five Past Eight Show until the theatre closed in 1969 – Ricki Fulton, Jimmy Logan, Kenneth McKellar, Stanley Baxter, Ronnie Corbett, Max Bygraves, Shirley Bassey, Norman Wisdom, Harry Secombe, Lena Martell, Moira Anderson … The list goes on and on. They say the word ‘fabulous’ became part of the show’s unofficial title. I wouldn’t argue with that.
THIS PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS ME in the opening number and I can’t say for sure whether it was that white suit or something else that riled an audience member, but riled he most certainly was. At the interval the guy came to the stage door, demanding to see me. I was busy preparing for my next big entrance so I sent word that I would happily have a chat with him after the show and thought no more of it. All too quickly it became clear this had not been an adequate response.
During my long solo spot in the second half, just two notes into my Liberace impersonation, while wearing my dinner jacket inside out to reveal a lining of glittering sequins, a beer bottle flew down from the upper circle, shattering on the glass stage. It could have killed someone. It could have killed me!
One of the stagehands went belting up there to grab the offender while the police were called. Having been escorted from the theatre, he was held overnight at the station and later appeared in court, even though I was never interested in pressing charges. He was fined fifty pounds and, after the hearing, the press wanted me to meet with him to shake hands. They seemed to think a photo op was just what I wanted. My response? ‘You’ve got to be joking!’
I don’t think my beer-bottle-throwing friend ever fully explained exactly what it was that prompted his moment of madness, but he did tell the judge why he had the offending item with him in the first place. Apparently it was because he knew all the public houses would be closed by the time the show finished. Surely he could have found a less dramatic way to leave early if he really felt that desperate for another drink!
THIS IS A STILL from one of my TV shows in the late sixties, with the German entertainers the Kessler Twins, who were very popular performers in Europe during the 1950s and 1960s and are still popular to this day. The reason I have included it is because they play a part in one of the biggest theatrical mistakes of my career.
The Italian film producer Carlo Ponti, Sophia Loren’s husband no less, and the man behind Doctor Zhivago, was staging a musical in Rome and approached me with the idea of bringing an anglicized version to London. Would I be interested in starring in it? You bet I would.
I took myself off to Italy to have a look at the show – which featured the Kessler Twins – and I loved it. This could be huge, I thought.
It would have been around spring 1969. Unfortunately, the wheels of show-business can sometimes turn rather slowly, and as the weeks and months dragged on I began to feel anxious that it wasn’t going to happen. So when I was offered a part in a comedy play called Birds on the Wing, at the Piccadilly Theatre, I took it. Inevitably, once I had said yes, the possibility of the Carlo Ponti show re-emerged, just too late for me to reverse my decision. I was committed to Birds on the Wing and never considered pulling out. It would have been totally unprofessional to do so. Carlo was not prepared to wait and the opportunity was lost.
HERE I AM WITH my co-stars in Birds on the Wing, June Barry and Julia Lockwood (whose mother was the actress Margaret Lockwood). They were both fantastic to work with and we enjoyed a pretty good run with the play, but I think back on it now with some regret. It cost me my chance to work with one of the world’s most highly regarded movie producers.
