Alastair Sim E-Book

Mark Simpson

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Alastair Sim was an enigmatic character both on and off the screen. His idiosyncratic style of acting in films such as The Belles of St Trinian's endeared him to a cinema-going audience desperate to escape the day-to-day dreariness of an invasive, bureaucratic post-war Britain. In private, he was a curiously contradictory character, prejudiced and yet tolerant, thoughtful but sometimes inconsiderate. To examine the life of this extraordinary man, this biography contains original contributions from around thirty actors and actresses, including Sir Ian McKellen and Ronnie Corbett. It is supported by extensive research, including interviews with the playwright Christopher Fry, the television producer John Howard Davies and actors who appeared on stage with Alastair as far back as the 1940s. This book also explores Alastair's life outside of films, including his marriage to Naomi Sim (whom he first met when she was twelve), his career as an elocution teacher, his extensive work on stage (including his theatrical endeavours with James Bridie), his championship of youth and his stalwart refusal to sign autographs. Alastair Sim offers a rare and fascinating insight into the life of one of Britain's most respected and best-loved actors.

Leseprobe

This book is dedicated to the memory of Christopher Quinton (1962–2005)

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Preface

1 From Birth to the Fulton Lectureship (1900–1925)

2 Naomi (1926–1929)

3 The Professional Stage Actor (1930–1934)

4 ‘Quota Quickies’ and the Early Film Years (1935–1939)

5 Cottage To Let (1940–1941)

6 Alastair Sim and James Bridie (1942–1945)

7 Green For Danger (1946–1949)

8 The Happiest Days of your Life (1950–1953)

9 Miss Fritton and The Belles of St Trinian’s (1954–1957)

10 Sim v Heinz: the Faltering Years (1958–1965)

11 The Chichester Festival Years (1966–1974)

12 Escape to the Dark: the Last Years (1975–1976)

Filmography (including cast and credits)

Play Chronology

Endnotes

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Preface

Alastair Sim – One of the most reserved, most enigmatic actors in British pictures.1

Kenneth Tynan, the famous theatre critic, once described an Alastair Sim performance as that of a ‘tentative pantomime dame standing in for Tommy Cooper.’2 The playwright Ronald Mavor described him as ‘a great artist, and a great clown’3, but the film director David Lean thought him a mere ‘grotesque’.4 Such diverse opinions suggest a contradiction and indeed no better word exists to describe Alastair; a principled man who held ‘high ethical standards, morally, socially [and] politically’5 and was much admired by his peer group, but who was also ‘stuck with prejudice’6 and extremely vulnerable to ridicule.

For a man whose screen persona was often that of an affable eccentric, little is known about his private life. He loathed the trappings associated with showbusiness, was keen to avoid publicity at all costs and would give no consideration to an autobiography. Alastair gave few interviews: ‘Down at Nettlefold studios they call Alastair Sim the ‘uninterviewable’7 and Picturegoer in 1950 issued the following warning: ‘His dislike of self-analysis is a formidable obstacle to would-be biographers.’8 This has evidently been the case to date for little of any substance has ever been written about him. Let us put that right.

Alastair Sim was a fascinating man who successfully combined the skills of actor, director and producer at a time when such multi-talented individuals were few and far between. Early film success came in the 1930s but it wasn’t until the 1950s that the producer/director partnership of Frank Launder and Sidney Gilliat began to make clever use of his idiosyncratic mannerisms in a brand of humour that was quintessentially British. Films such as The Happiest Days of your Life (1950), Laughter in Paradise (1951) and The Belles of St Trinian’s (1954) are testament to this fact. Alastair’s screen character would typically find itself in a delightfully topsy-turvy scenario, whether as a headmaster defending his boys from the invasion of a girls’ school, or a respectable man of society trying to get arrested in order to meet the demands of a vindictive relative’s will. As the plot unfolded, his lugubrious face – a face seemingly designed for the sole purpose of comedy – would maintain an expression of utter bewilderment as fate continually dealt him one cruel blow after another; his voice, a lilting, beguiling, Scottish dialect, would argue pitifully for reason in this, the most unreasonable of worlds.

War-hardened cinema audiences, looking for light escapism, fell in love with this eccentric British underdog who bore no malice towards his fellow man no matter what indignity was thrust upon him. The character was so in tune with the times, finding a natural empathy with those who had suffered during the Blitz but who were now looking expectantly towards a bright and happy future. Even though this dates the films of this period they still resonate with concerns of modern times. Authority today still has the ability to exercise its power from behind a large desk, still favours pomposity and self-importance, and still has the tenacity and temperament of a bad-tempered patriarch. All of which, crucially, make it vulnerable to the vagaries of fate.

His screen acting career came to a temporary halt in the late 1950s when whimsical light-hearted comedy was blatantly exposed as superficial nonsense next to the harsh realism of the kitchen-sink dramas. The affable eccentric became redundant, or rather a character to be mocked and despised; a senile degenerate rather than a mildly likeable buffoon. Times had moved on, leaving the cosseted England of the early 1950s as a fading memory.

Ridicule was heaped upon embarrassment as Alastair’s screen decline was accompanied by an unsuccessful attempt to sue Heinz over a baked beans commercial. What was he thinking? Alastair, previously the saviour of movies, winner of awards, the high idealist amongst men, became the butt of jokes. Once-adoring critics now acquainted us with a different story: his personality had dominated films and overshadowed the contributions of fellow actors; he was a difficult and demanding director; his acting style was too repetitive and clichéd. One could deny it all of course, but unfortunately there was some truth in these criticisms, and therefore they hurt all the more. Almost a decade passed by during which little was accomplished. Then a glorious return ensued as Alastair achieved considerable success on stage at Chichester in the late 1960s and ’70s.

The reader may be familiar with the account of Alastair’s life so far, but there is so much more to discover about him.

Whereas film in its celluloid format acquires eternal life, performances on stage are ephemeral; articles are written and photographs taken, but the memories of those who bought their tickets and sat in the stalls are fleeting. Therefore of particular interest to the uninitiated will be Alastair’s stage career. Would anybody believe that Alastair’s original intention was to succeed as a serious actor, preferably in verse drama? Only after the threat of being typecast as a villain (along, it has to be said, with some sensible advice) did he finally don the mantle of a clown. Even so, the clowning took a form that was quick, easy and lacking in subtlety, and so soon became known as ‘manic comedy’ on both stage and screen. The laughs flowed easily but often from poor quality productions that begged for a change in direction. Luckily fate intervened to put him back on the right course.

In 1938 Alastair met the Scottish playwright James Bridie. Here was a man after his own heart, dedicated to an examination of the essential qualities of the Scottish man. Bridie presented his ideas in intelligent plays, the dialogue of which appeared natural and appealing – at least to those north of the border. Alastair formed an immediate friendship with Bridie and together they shared huge critical and popular success in the London West End with Mr Gillie, Mr Bolfry and Dr Angelus. But how many people have heard of these plays today?

Perhaps most intriguing of all is Alastair’s reticence. He was once reported as saying, ‘All the public need to know about me, is what they see.’9 But is this the statement of an intensely private man thrown into the media spotlight, or that of a nervous, defensive man with something to hide? Alastair was twenty-six when he first became acquainted with his future wife, Naomi, who was just twelve at the time. They became friends, and over time, this friendship developed into an ‘understanding’.10 Naomi’s rhetorical question, ‘I wonder what [Alastair’s] friends can have made of our relationship?’11 poses some serious questions.

It has been suggested that Naomi was of that rare breed – a soul partner to Alastair. She took responsibility for their home and cared for their daughter, Merlith, while also undertaking the role of trusted critic. She acted as a temporary surrogate mother to a succession of aspiring young actors and actresses whom Alastair would invite to stay over at their family home. Sometimes these were damaged people seeking refuge and at other times youngsters with a raw talent for the stage that Alastair felt he could help nurture. George Cole was the first and best known of these actors. And yet, even this act of altruism was viewed with suspicion from some quarters, even implying that the relationship was not an entirely healthy one. However, his friends regarded such accusations as nonsense. Alastair was someone who ‘wore his heart on his sleeve’12, and in so doing, made himself vulnerable to all sorts of allegations.

One must always seek balance and it is worth referring to George Cole who once said of Alastair, ‘he was a deeply caring person about everything.’13 Everything? Alastair had once confided in a friend that ‘marriage is very important’14 but he did not preclude ‘a bit of bedding on the side.’15 It was a hypocritical statement in some respects and indeed even his friends sometimes frowned on Alastair’s steadfast adherence to gauche values.

And what of those questioning his motives behind his drag performance as Miss Fritton, the headmistress in The Belles of St Trinian’s (1954). Was he ‘a little bit the other way?’ as was suggested by some – or simply following in the long-established and common British tradition of theatrical cross-dressing?

In this biography, Alastair’s thoughts emerge through his rare interviews, his speeches, and correspondence – many letters of which have only recently been made available to the general public. To this I have added the recollections of actors, actresses, stagehands, writers, directors and producers who worked with Alastair and from those who were invited into the closely guarded citadel that was the family home – ‘Forrigan’. For example, Geoffrey Jowitt and Larry Barnes recall their time as teenage actors with Alastair in his first two seasons of Peter Pan (1941–42 and 1942–43). Sidney Gilliat, the writer and director of some of the great British films of the 1940s and ’50s, in a private letter made available for this book, offers a compelling account, full of insight, of the Launder and Gilliat association with Alastair Sim. Judy Campbell describes his calming and yet mischievous personality on the set of Green For Danger (1946). James Bridie, the Scottish playwright, writes of his deep friendship and respect for Alastair. Avril Angers, co-star in The Green Man (1956), recollects her surprise at Alastair’s naivety towards the showbusiness media. Ian Carmichael discusses Alastair’s refusal to sign autographs and his reluctance to use props in School for Scoundrels (1959). Peter Copley, who appeared with Alastair in A Clean Kill (1959) and The Bargain (1961), provides us with a wonderful insight into Alastair as a director. The producer and director John Howard Davies, Alastair’s friend and neighbour, provides a first-hand insight into Alastair’s views on politics and religion, and Sir Ian McKellen (director of The Clandestine Marriage (1975)) reveals Alastair’s concerns regarding his own mortality.

In addition to these personal reflections, I have added numerous reviews of Alastair’s performances from a variety of publications. Some of the early reviews have been sourced from the Theatre Museum Archives, others from hours spent over microfiches in libraries. What follows chronicles the life and career of Alastair Sim in a series of chapters that break down neatly into key periods of his life. Films play an important part in this narrative structure, identifying a screen career that was more varied than most people might at first imagine. Complementing this are the various laws, events in history and social trends that together created the perfect environment for the British eccentric to flourish on stage and screen.

Alastair Sim died of cancer in 1976, aged seventy-five, but his legacy is the warmth and sense of humility that his screen character often displayed, along with a comic timing and genius that placed him in a category of his own. I hope this preface has whetted your appetite and suggested that there is much more to find out about Alastair than simply being a successful British comedy actor of the 1950s.

Mark Simpson

March 2008

1

From Birth to the Fulton Lectureship

As I passed imperceptibly from a beautiful child to a strong and handsome lad, I wanted more than anything else in the world to be, of all things, a hypnotist. I practised on gentle dogs – with the result that even to this day I am nervous in their presence.

– Alastair Sim1

When James II declared Edinburgh the capital of Scotland he had a wall built around the city which sent a clear message to the English and their culture. A wall which to this day still features psychologically in the minds of some of those living north of the border and whose influence will appear, at times, in this biography. As the Scots and English learned to live as neighbours, the insular nature of this defensive structure turned against the people it was supposed to protect. A city wall is no ally in a time of prosperity and expansion. Edinburgh’s commercial traders looked to the heavens for an innovative solution to their problem. If they could not expand outwards, then they would grow upwards. Consequently, during the eighteenth century, Edinburgh developed the world’s first skyscrapers.

All was not well however. The architectural skill necessary to produce such high-rise buildings was still in its infancy, and so as a result of inexperience combined with poor craftsmanship, the skyline of Edinburgh began to take on an altogether different, if not slightly wobbly, shape. The extra levels not only made the buildings structurally unsafe but also exacerbated the spread of disease. Residents from the upper storeys would throw out their waste in a laissez-faire manner regardless of who might be walking beneath. Noblemen taking a gentle evening stroll through the city did not take too kindly to this heavenly downpour of culinary by-products and excrement and so moved away, taking with them their business and wealth.

In time, the City Fathers of Edinburgh commissioned a young architect by the name of James Craig to redevelop the city. Craig foresaw the need for a road, or high street, to act as the main focal point, and so with this in mind, he designed the new city – around George Street. Contrary to the plans, the focus of trade quickly became established on Princes Street and from then on, this became known as the main thoroughfare in Edinburgh.

Several roads run off Princes Street including the busy Lothian Road, which records state was completed around 1791. It was at number 96–98 of this street, in the late 1800s, that Alexander Sim owned a lively and well-frequented tailor’s shop. The appearance of a man during the Victorian era was as important as his vocation, and no man could succeed without being well-dressed – as the apt saying went, ‘Clothes Maketh the Man’. As a consequence, the tailor’s shop was one of the most important shops in the city. Alexander Sim was not alone in this business and other outfitters thrived in Edinburgh such as the more prestigious Gieve’s.

Alexander Sim took his social responsibilities very seriously and during his lifetime he became a Justice of the Peace and served on the board of several committees in Edinburgh. His outlook on life was traditional and formal, as befitted a successful Victorian. Unfortunately this sometimes gave him a rather serious demeanour which some interpreted as cold and distant. As we shall see, this was quite misleading since Alexander frequently demonstrated the characteristics of an altruist. His preference was to operate quietly from behind the scenes, avoiding the limelight, so as not to draw attention to himself. When business had finished for the day, Alexander would close his shop and retire to the family rooms above his premises where he lived with his wife, Isabella, and their son and two daughters.

Isabella McIntyre had been born on the small Scottish island of Eigg. Although Eigg is blessed with a rich history and has unique geographical features, it is also a lonely place. To find companionship she made frequent trips to the neighbouring small islands – Rum, Canna and Muck – until finally, in her teens and able to speak only Gaelic, she packed her belongings and moved to the mainland.

Isabella’s move was a brave one since she was naturally very shy but she did have a kind heart and a generous nature which meant that she made friends easily. One of her sayings was, ‘I’m not clever – but I’m cute’2, taken here to mean that Isabella considered herself astute with a mature and sensible attitude regarding her expectations from life. When she met and married Alexander Sim she understood immediately that her responsibilities would include the business as well as her family. Her life was always going to be busy and hard. She accepted, as the natural order of things, that when Alexander had finished for the day, her task would be to go downstairs and scrub the floors in order to make the shop presentable for the following day’s customers.

On 9 October 1900 Isabella gave birth to her fourth child whom they named Alastair George Bell Sim. As a young boy Alastair developed a very close bond with his mother as he helped her of an evening to clean the shop while his father rested in the family rooms upstairs. Alexander undoubtedly worked hard during the day, managing his business and selling to customers, and Isabella was content to perform her family duties. However, a young impressionable Alastair saw it differently. He thought his father ‘… pompous, hypocritical and unable to appreciate his mother.’3 This feeling of resentment took hold of Alastair during these formative years and his relationship with his father would always be marred by communication problems. Alexander would say ‘Mark my words, that boy will end on the gallows’4, but actions that Alexander undertook during his lifetime to help Alastair suggest that this statement was made more in jest than seriousness.

Alexander may well have been disappointed with his son’s behaviour at times and possibly with good reason. For example, Alastair would at one point eschew civilisation altogether and roam the highlands of Scotland with a band of men devoted to nothing more than casual work and drinking; a period that his Victorian father would certainly have found difficult to comprehend. Nevertheless, at a critical point in Alastair’s life, Alexander would play an important role in helping him to establish his drama school – something that would prove to be the catalyst for Alastair’s career as an actor. Indeed, Alexander appears to have been devoted to his son, even if he was not entirely optimistic about his future, and Naomi Sim, Alastair’s future wife, described Alexander as ‘a very kind man’.5

One can see attributes in the personalities of both parents that would shape the views and behaviour of Alastair as he developed. His mother: genial, good-natured, with an appreciation of one’s role in life; his father: traditional, principled and altruistic. All of these qualities would find their way into Alastair’s own personality as he matured. Alastair’s attitude towards his father – his inability to forgive – may have been an early example of how Alastair would sometimes become trapped by his own self-imposed principles. This characteristic in later life would lead to ridicule and criticism from his friends.

The Sims eventually gave up their cramped conditions above the family shop and moved to 73 Viewforth, in the district of Bruntsfield. This was still close enough to the commercial area of Edinburgh for Alexander to continue his tailor’s business but also convenient for Alastair to attend Bruntsfield Primary School, a five-minute walk from their house. When Alastair was old enough he became a student at James Gillespie’s High School which was located in Gillespie Crescent but transferred to a new site off Warrender Park Road in 1914. Alexander had close ties to Gillespie’s; he was a school governor and his shop was responsible for supplying the school uniform.

Alastair remembered his father visiting the school one day and telling the teachers that they should not hold back from ‘beating his son’ just because he, the father, was a JP. It is an interesting choice of anecdote by Alastair since the intention is clearly to present his father in an unfavourable light. It may have been that Alexander was simply making sure that his privileged position in society did not unfairly benefit his son. In using these quotations, the ‘gallows’ and the ‘beating’, Alastair may have been trying to convey the image of a tough childhood but he certainly did not come from an impoverished, uncaring family.

In school, from an early age, Alastair enjoyed the attention he received from performing in front of his classmates. His teacher, Margaret Bell, used to recall that he loved to recite poetry ‘and especially liked to intone “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse”.’6 A classmate of Alastair’s was Ronnie Corbett’s mother who remembered Alastair as ‘a slightly untidy boy at that age … slightly extroverted … and even at that stage in his life, he was quite good on his feet, and quite good with words.’7 These are two very interesting observations which could be misinterpreted as evidence of Alastair’s youthful desire to become an actor. In fact they are much more insightful in that they demonstrate that even at an early age Alastair had a keen interest in the spoken word. For it is verse drama that would be his initial calling, long before he even thought about appearing on stage as a professional actor. Other school friends described his love of mimicry and his fondness for the gruesome or grotesque.8

According to Naomi in her autobiography, Dance and Skylark, Alastair left school at fourteen and began an apprenticeship as a shop messenger boy in his father’s business. Although it is not disputed that he worked for a period for his father, his Intermediate School Certificate9 is dated 1916, which suggests that he stayed on at school until he was almost sixteen. Furthermore, given that when Alastair was eighteen he began studying chemistry at university, it seems more than likely that any so-called ‘apprenticeship’ must have been on a part-time or seasonal basis to allow him time for further academic studying.

The dysfunctional relationship between father and son meant that whatever form this ‘apprenticeship’ took, it was bound to be short-lived. Alastair looked for a job elsewhere and eventually found a post with Gieve’s, the men’s outfitters, who were based in the more important and fashionable Princes Street. He was no doubt flush with the belief that he could succeed in obtaining employment without his father’s help but the reality of the situation was that Alexander had quietly negotiated the move behind the scenes.

Alastair’s fresh start at Gieve’s, again one presumes on a part-time or seasonal basis, was doomed to failure. Alastair, it seemed, was unable to parcel up purchases to the exacting standards of the fastidious senior staff. He was redeployed to the ties department where the final sale simply consisted of slipping the chosen tie into an envelope and handing over the package to the customer – accompanied, naturally enough, with a reassuring smile. Even this proved problematic. Alastair, as a young man, was unable to comprehend the traditional Victorian values associated with retailing. These unwritten laws acknowledged that an important part of the retail service was the neat and careful presentation of the purchased item to the customer accompanied by a deferential disposition. Another mutual parting of ways occurred.

Alastair commented of this time: ‘I passed my youth uninspired by any sense of awe. Which was a very great pity. Because without that sense there can be no inspiration.’10 However, inspiration must have struck at some point because by 1918 he had successfully applied to Edinburgh University to study to become an analytical chemist. Alastair was a man of contradictions. He undoubtedly had natural intellect but could also be lazy; he could be stubborn and defensive and yet also an egocentric dreamer. When Alastair made his Rectorial Address at Edinburgh University in 1949, he referred to his youth thus:

I don’t know whether I was a typical young man or not. I certainly thought I was exceptional in some indefinable way, apparently beyond the perception of those who knew me, and I was mostly concerned with planning and replanning my own particular success story. This took only the most nebulous of forms, but I know that my aim was to combine the minimum of work with the maximum of authority. I was just as bold as I dared to be in the company of my fellows, and just as bright as their fierce competition allowed. I was naturally much bolder and much brighter in the select company of my own imagining.11

Alastair’s university days were short-lived. Soon after turning eighteen, he received his call-up papers to the Officers’ Training Corps (OTC). Although the news in the papers often referred to ‘Great Advances’ there could be no doubting in anyone’s mind the human carnage that was taking place on the battlefields of Europe. For most men, the OTC was a time for quiet reflection on their own sense of mortality, but Alastair’s experience of army life brought out a real anger from within him. He loathed the OTC with its oppressive and rigid discipline.

This is a complex emotion which some could interpret as either the reactions of a pacifist or the naïve musings of someone who had no real grasp of the need for discipline within an army. Or perhaps, understandably, Alastair was simply terrified of the thought of dying a meaningless death on a foreign battlefield. For whatever reason, his strong reaction against the dehumanising stricture of army life helped him to develop his own beliefs in the rights of the individual to freedom and self-expression. These were high principles that he would continually evolve throughout his life leading to his association with the movement for a World Government. The playwright Ronald Mavor said of Alastair:

The characters he played and the plays he directed celebrated the individual’s right to be himself; not to be larger than life, but to be life lived up to its potential. And this didn’t mean pushing people around; it meant cherishing them. He was a wise man.12

Alastair’s posting was imminent when the armistice was signed on 11 November 1918 – he was spared first-hand experience of the war. On his release, he returned home and surprised his family by announcing that he did not intend to continue with his university education but instead wanted to become an actor. This provocation was not received well in the Sim household. Indeed, such was the opposition that Alastair immediately packed his bags and headed for the highlands. There, he joined a group of travellers, mostly men, who would roam from one place to another, undertaking whatever manual jobs they could find. This usually consisted of farm work or forestry work; the hard-earned cash was then spent in the evening at a local pub. The work didn’t always have to be legal. An article published in a magazine in 1936 summed up this period of Alastair’s life:

Alastair Sim started to study chemistry, but wanted to go on stage, against his parents’ wishes. So he ran away from home and until 1921 he led the life of a gipsy [sic]. Sometimes he was a ghilly, sometimes a gamekeeper, sometimes, alas! A poacher! But all the time he was studying poetry.13

It is difficult to envisage Alastair sitting on some tree stump, surrounded by his malcontent friends, gutting an animal whilst merrily reciting verse from some Shakespearean play. That said, this image is reminiscent of one of those typically eccentric characters he played so successfully on film. Indeed, it is quite possible that he benefited enormously from this experience in that it provided him with an opportunity to observe people at close quarters, and in so doing, to develop a repertoire of mannerisms that he could bestow on his film and stage characters later in life.

Nevertheless it is questionable, given what is now known about Alastair’s character, just how well he fitted in with this lifestyle. For example, his drinking exploits with ‘the men’ must have been somewhat curtailed by the fact that he developed a deep aversion to whisky. For a period afterwards, Alastair became teetotal although later in life he developed a special liking for Hock. James Bridie, the playwright, who was to become a great friend, said of this unconventional period in Alastair’s life: ‘It is of no harm to an artist, especially to an artist in a popular art, to have rubbed shoulders with all kinds of men … If he ever starved in a garret, it was not for very long.’14

After what appears to be about a year of roaming wild, experiencing the vagaries of life, Alastair gave up his bohemian carefree existence and returned to his family home in Edinburgh – one suspects, without too many regrets. He even managed for the first time to hold down a full-time job at the Borough’s Assessor’s office. Candidly, he was to say later, ‘However highly painted we imagine them to have been, most early lives are pretty dull, except to those who are actually living them.’15

Alastair’s reticence concerning his early life leaves us with only a vague understanding of the motivations behind the maturing adolescent. However, what is known with certainty is the anxiety he experienced as his hair began to fall out. A young man in his twenties is naturally self-conscious of his looks and Alastair was no different from any others in this respect. He tried various lotions and new fad ideas, but all to no avail; out came his hair in handfuls. The irony of the situation, although understandably Alastair could never have appreciated it at the time, was that the famous Sim bald head – domed, with comic tufts of hair framing each ear – would play a crucial role in determining his future success. As the film magazine Picturegoer put it:

Sim himself makes the most of his physical appearance to convey humour, pathos, buffoonery. He is prematurely bald. Excellent; most clowns have to buy balding wigs. He has a loose, untidy lipline. Fine; all the better for registering doubt, apprehension. He walks with a gangling, an undulating glide. Splendid; just the thing to raise a laugh immediately he appears.16

When Alastair eventually began his acting career he immediately benefited from his appearance as a mature, serious man by progressing fairly quickly into playing the meatier roles reserved for the character or personality actor. This meant he did not have to suffer the interminable non-existence of being the juvenile lead night after night. As he said later of this troubled period of his life, ‘And to think of all the time and money I used to spend in trying to save my hair.’17

Alastair’s interest in the spoken word had never waned from his schooldays, and so on returning to the more conventional day-to-day life in Edinburgh, this verse-speaking ghilly began to enter himself into poetry reading competitions. Within a year of his return, he had won the gold medal for verse speaking at the Edinburgh Musical Festival. Mrs Tobias Matthay, Professor of Dictation and Elocution at the Royal Academy of Music, wrote of his gold-winning performance, ‘I was then much struck by the truth of his interpretation’18 and went on to say, ‘he is the possessor of a sympathetic and resonant voice … and … one who brings a love of the best literature into his daily life.’19

The time spent studying poetry and reading the great works of literature had brought an even greater fascination with words, not just simply in their meaning, but also in the way that a different intonation could give a word a multitude of meanings. This in turn inspired his interest in elocution. Although this provided him with a hobby, it still left him without a profession. That is until one day in the early autumn of 1924, when, as Alastair would have us believe, inspiration struck:

As I was approaching the ripe age of twenty-five … I came to the amazing conclusion that my true vocation was teaching. I had already been ensnared by the bright ring of words. I thought I understood a message in them, and I wished that all should hear. You will note that I meant well. You may also note a total absence of any sense of the ludicrous.20

… and also an absence of accuracy, because he had in fact been teaching for several years before this portentous revelation. The Edinburgh Education Authority certified that at the Dalry Training College he had ‘taught with great success Elocution in the Continuation Classes during Sessions 1922–23 and 1923–24.’21 The head teacher, George Murray, who observed Alastair at work as a teacher, described him as ‘very successful in maintaining the interest of his pupils …’22 and ‘thoroughly conversant with all the branches of his profession.’23 In particular he noted: ‘All the branches of his subject were carefully explained and illustrated, particularly the mechanism and production of the speaking voice.’24

A biographical note written on Alastair in the mid–1930s suggests that sometime around 1920–21 Alastair had enrolled on a course that allowed him to gain a teaching qualification in elocution. This is confirmed to some extent by a letter written by Mrs Tobias Matthay, who says that he was a student of hers sometime after she had seen his gold medal-winning performance at the Edinburgh Musical Festival. Given that Mrs Matthay was a Professor of Diction and Elocution at the Royal Academy of Music in London, one presumes it meant that Alastair spent some time studying in London. However, it is not clear as to the exact nature of this teaching qualification, although it was clearly sufficient to allow him to teach elocution for the Edinburgh Education Authority.

A teaching career in Edinburgh at that time would have been a relatively safe choice. At the turn of the century, a great deal of effort and resources had been invested in the Scottish educational system. In particular, the 1908 Education (Scotland) Act required all schools to provide continuation classes. These classes predominantly took place in the evening, were aimed primarily at teenagers and involved the teaching of technical subjects so as to prepare youngsters for full-time employment. In other words, a teenager could have a part-time job during the day, but was expected, although not initially compelled, to attend continuation classes in the evening. Even so, something in the region of twenty-five per cent of children between fourteen and eighteen were taking some form of continuation class in Edinburgh in the period shortly after the introduction of this act. By 1918, these classes had been made compulsory and would have required a significant increase in teaching resources. Consequently there were plenty of posts for aspiring teachers in Edinburgh during the early decades of the twentieth century.

Dalry Training College, where Alastair taught between 1922 and 1924, was a specialist educational institution. Its origins dated back to the 1850s when it was established as a training college for teachers who were planning to teach classes in church schools. It was thought at the time that such teachers required specialist skills. Some of these teachers actually became clergymen, which is why many articles written on Alastair say that he began his career teaching budding parsons how to speak.

Student enrolments at Dalry had been on the decline for some time and by 1924 plans were already being considered to transfer the remaining students to Moray House in Canongate. Alastair however decided to move to Moray House in a different capacity – as a student himself.

In the autumn term of 1924, Alastair enrolled on a course entitled ‘Educational Methods for Continuation School Teachers’ at the Edinburgh Provincial Training Centre at Moray House. One presumes that this was an advancement on the qualification he had acquired several years earlier, perhaps undertaken with a view to improving his CV. This would have allowed him to apply to more prestigious institutions, which as we shall see, was indeed his plan. Alastair immediately impressed his teachers at Moray House, demonstrating a high intellect and natural talent at teaching, not surprising given that he already had two years’ experience. His teacher, Daniel Calderwood, wrote of him:

So struck was I with Mr Sim’s qualifications that I ventured to invite him to join the group of experts who carried out our Demonstration Work and to teach an Elocution lesson for the benefit of his fellow-students. The experiment proved a splendid success, as, in an hour which brought to us all both delight and profit, he showed himself to be not only a charming elocutionist but also a teacher with skill of the first rank.25

At the completion of this course, he applied to Edinburgh University for the post of the Fulton Lectureship in Elocution. On the back of some very good references, especially one from the principal of the training centre26, the interview panel agreed unanimously to offer him the post as from 1 October 1925. In Alastair’s words:

So I taught, I judged, I assessed – with passion and enthusiasm – and indulged to the full my fancied flair for helpful and constructive criticism. Mark you, I did no great harm. I may even have done some good.27

Alastair’s theory on elocution is reported to have been as follows: ‘… no matter how swiftly words [are] spoken they should not lose their full syllabic content. If that content [is] maintained then you would be understood no matter how quickly you [speak].’28

Descriptions of Alastair from his film performances of the 1950s would at some point refer to his voice and manner of speaking and comment favourably on the precise and lilting quality of his enunciation. As we have now discovered, Alastair was an expert on elocution and his style of diction reflected the many years of study he invested in the subject; each spoken word treasured for its meaning, pronounced so as not to lose its ‘full syllabic content’. No better example of this can be found than in The Belles of St Trinian’s (1954) when Alastair addresses each of his young pupils in a speech where the sentiments of endearment are more focussed on the spoken words than the actual recipients.

One day a student came to Alastair with a problem. The student had a slight hesitancy in his speech and he wondered if Alastair could help him overcome his awkward social predicament. Alastair described his cure thus:

First I taught him how to breathe … He had been breathing quite happily and without apparent effort for twenty odd years, but I put a stop to all that. Next I outlined the principles of voice production, with the help of a pig’s larynx which I kept by me, pickled in alcohol, presumably to add excitement to the subject … I showed him exactly what his tongue and his soft palate ought to be doing when he articulated correctly, and the awful things they were liable to do if he didn’t. We stood making horrible faces at each other, and exchanging short fusilades [sic] of weird-sounding vocal noises. The strain became considerable and the atmosphere electric. So we removed our coats and rested. As I was remarking that it was ‘am-m-mazingly m-m-mild for the time of year,’ I became conscious that I had somehow acquired my pupil’s impediment, while he – well, he, apparently, was unable to utter a sound. From then on he only nodded or shook his head to anything I said. At any rate he went away without a trace of a stammer – just breathing – a little irregularly … This was the first shock to my confidence, and it left me with the beginnings of a conscience, the beginnings of doubt. I was at last formally introduced to humility.29

Although Alastair had gained respectable employment as the Fulton Lecturer, he could not see himself remaining a teacher forever. His love of verse speaking and the theatre was drawing him increasingly in this direction, and yet he had no experience of acting, none of directing, and certainly not the financial backing to become a producer. These were significant problems, which would have put off even the most foolhardy, but Alastair was determined to achieve success in this field. In the end he resolved his predicament with a move of pure folly, or genius, depending on your point of view. Alastair set up his own school of drama and speech training. He reasoned his decision thus:

I was very fond of children. I still am fond of children – in a way. A sort of non-committal way. For instance, I like to wave to them – from a suitable distance. I also imagined that I understood the child mind, and that I knew what would please it. So I tried my hand at children’s theatre, here, in Edinburgh.30

Alastair had a clear view of how his school should be:

I was determined that it should be no namby-pamby affair, this children’s theatre of mine, nor too goody-goody either, or wishy-washy, or airy-fairy … I simply wanted to eschew aphoristic moralising. It was to be a grand, rollicking, rumbustious, and thrilling entertainment.31

As with all ideas thought up on the spur of the moment, some of the minor, and indeed major, practicalities had been overlooked. At that time Alastair was still living at home and so had no premises from which to run his school. Not only that, his income from his lecturing post was certainly insufficient for him to rent somewhere suitable to hold classes. His idea looked set to flounder from the very start; except his father had recently become the Secretary of the Veterans’ Garden Association (VGA) whose offices were on the ground floor of 5 Manor Place. It just so happened that there were unrented rooms available in the building that could serve his purpose. The problem was one of obstinacy – Alastair apparently was not prepared to ask his father for help, even though they were still living under the same roof at 47 Pentland Terrace. Again, how much of this antipathy between father and son is true or exaggerated by Alastair is difficult to say. What is known is that if you wanted a private lesson in elocution in Edinburgh in 1925, you could look up the names of possible teachers in the Edinburgh Directory and find Alastair’s, with his address and telephone number exactly the same as his father’s. One would have assumed that he needed his father’s permission to run his private classes from the family home and so there must have been some form of communication and goodwill between them.

It is not clear who, if anybody, intervened on Alastair’s behalf, but it is known that Alexander managed to secure, on behalf of his son, the use of the second-floor rooms at the VGA offices. Even so, Alastair refused to acknowledge that his father had played any role in the matter.

Alastair’s drama school was an immediate success but there still remained the problem of finding some larger rooms in which to rehearse productions. One can imagine the frustration in Alastair’s stubborn mind when he became aware that there were still some vacant rooms on the first floor of 5 Manor Place that would prove ideal for his purposes. For once, the success of his school was too good an opportunity to be squandered because of matters of principle, and so Alastair reluctantly approached his father for help. Alexander responded and the rehearsal room situation was resolved.

Alastair began producing and directing plays and also arranging poetry readings. His natural skill in the spoken word, combined with his developing skills as a director, meant that he was soon able to enter his drama school into competitions held at Edinburgh University, as well as at Bath, Oxford and London. The school achieved some success at this level, often appearing in the top three places when the final results were announced. As a consequence, it flourished, but then one day:

Everything went smoothly and gaily and according to plan, until I myself made an appearance on the stage. I think it was as the Erl King, but I may have been an ogre; I have tried to forget. I know I expected gales of laughter, possibly swelling to a cheer. Instead, there was a sudden deathly hush. Then thin, isolated wails of misery came from the body of the hall. These grew, and spread, and I was aware of a stampede of mothers leaving the hall with their unhappy offspring, between angry mutterings and reproachful backward looks.32

By this time, Alastair had already won several awards for verse speaking and so was accustomed to performing in front of people. It is unlikely therefore that his drama school provided the setting for his first performance in a play, but what is indisputable is that his next role, in The Land of Heart’s Desire, would change his life forever. Alastair, nearly twenty-six, was about to meet his future wife – and she was just twelve years old.

2

Naomi

‘Naomi, come and meet the man who’s going to play the Priest. This is Mr Alastair Sim.’ I was twelve, and very shy, and I never listened to names. By the end of the afternoon I was captivated and by the end of the second rehearsal I was fathoms deep in love. All through my childhood I had known moments of delighted expectancy which seemed to have no cause. From that day, and for the next fifty years, I had no need to look for one.

– Naomi Sim1