By the beginning of the 1960s, Tony Hancock had been fully absorbed into the role of the nation’s favourite comedian. Having charmed every media portal, the comedian turned towards cinema; a predictable route for any artist outgrowing his formative roots. Despite enormous popularity, there was still some trepidation whether his East Cheam persona could occupy a larger screen confidently. Hancock's first film The Rebel, succeeded in confirming this new direction - one that the comedian desperately hoped would endear him to a new and larger audience.
Despite the success of The Rebel, it was evident that Hancock was desperate to escape any possible typecasting. While his characterisation of the single man battling against the world had won him plaudits and considerable riches, deep down lurked a hugely frustrated individual - desperate to escape from the nation’s perception of "the lad himself’’ or "our Tone". Less definable, off-stage lay a troubled psyche possessed with a monstrous ego - its demons pecking away at anyone who dared to come close enough to penetrate his brittle shell.
By early 1962, events had reached boiling point. In his first act of sweeping away the foundations of his career, Hancock dispensed with the services of his scriptwriters Ray Galton and Alan Simpson; a challenging if potentially suicidal act - met with incredulity by the writers and then his agent. Not that it mattered to Hancock, he then dropped the agent. Out too went his association with the BBC and the majority of artists that had supported him through his radio and television years. Not that the Beeb felt wounded, remarking that Hancock was nothing more than a ‘moody perfectionist obsessed with money.' The break with the BBC also prompted a split with Sid James, Kenneth Williams, Bill Kerr and much of the personnel that had proved loyal foils to his genius. While Hancock would briefly reengage with Sid James for a Decca recording session in 1965, there was no chance of the original partnership ever being revived.
With a blank canvas, Hancock set about revolutionizing his film career in an attempt to secure the international stardom he desperately wanted. While The Rebel had scored admirably in numerous territories, it still harked back to the bedsit land that hosted his previous alter-ego. In attempting to re-brand himself, Hancock teamed up with writer Phillip Oakes to explore other areas, erasing any trace of the moody East Cheam bachelor.
During what amounted to a series of conversations with Oakes, Hancock revisited his formative years spent in Bournemouth on the south coast of England. Casting his mind back some three decades, he’d recall the rich atmosphere that occupied the busy seaside town and the colourful and unconventional characters that made their living from the fortunes of the coastline.
"Being brought up in a seaside town," recalled Hancock for Films and Filming in 1962, "you’d find these poor, underground entertainers who are absolutely honest... Every time I go to a seaside town I find these underground people, maybe a Punch and Judy man, a dedicated man to his own trade, for what else can he do?"
Resonating with his own outsider status, Hancock and Oakes would construct the character of a Punch and Judy Man; a beach puppeteer beset with numerous prejudices and evidently only happy when consorting with his small band of similarly wayward artists. Compounding the protagonist's otherwise itinerant lifestyle, was an ongoing drama with his socially aspiring wife. While it is clear from the theme of the picture that martial conformity was something the character was totally at odds with, Tony Hancock’s own relationship with women was equally pitted with emotional landmines. His 13-year marriage to Cicely Romanis in the throes of falling apart, this upset came up in the discussions with Phillip Oakes in preparation of the script. Much to Hancock’s delight, this emotional reportage would make its way into the film, further separating him from the bachelor persona he’d been largely associated with. Cast as Wally Pinner, Hancock would play a sullen and largely morose individual. His long suffering wife Delia, (Sylvia Sims) would sit very much at poles from her husband’s whimsy; her upwardly mobile ambitions doing little to arrest her partner's mood swings.
It's more than clear that Hancock’s alter ego would only find true happiness when surrounded by his band of quirky compatriots, a band of nomads continually at war with officialdom. To properly realise these characters, Hancock's role as executive producer would allow him to hand-pick his associate cast, and most would be allied in some way to Hancock’s life. Mario Fabrizi, a veteran from Hancock’s first film The Rebel, would play a pushy beach photographer. Hugh Lloyd, a rare survivor from Hancock’s BBC days, was perfectly cast as the puppeteer’s long-suffering assistant. Even the voluminous Hattie Jacques would fill the screen for a few seconds as Dolly Zarathusa, a fortune-teller. Much as these supporting players all were supremely able, none were ever going to challenge Hancock in any way for screen dominance. John Le Mesurier, however, would upstage his lead man on occasions with his genial humour and enigmatic presence. Cast a sculpture who worked only in sand, Le Mesurier's character would be known only as "The Sandman". Le Mesurier’s languid presence would elicit an emotive side to Hancock, one not previous witnessed in any of his past offerings.
Writing of the script took six weeks to complete - an initial thrashing out of the story-line in Paris was followed by an extensive six-week session convened in a flat near Regent's Park. Rewrites would continue long after, with Philip Oakes coaxing as much as he could from the mercurial Hancock. He painted a stark portrait of their creative process in his 1975 biography of Hancock
Philip Oakes: "The day began at 8.30 a.m when I would urge Hancock out of bed. An hour later he would present himself at the office, where I would be retyping the previous day's work, and sit moodily in the corner. The collaboration took the form of my showing him the rough sketch of a scene I had prepared and then trying to penetrate his reactions. Sometimes they were enthusiastic. He was a generous man when he found something funny. At other times they were chilling."
Writing of the script took six weeks to complete - an initial thrashing out of the story-line in Paris was followed by an extensive six-week session convened in a flat near Regent's Park. Rewrites would continue long after, with Philip Oakes coaxing as much as he could from the mercurial Hancock. He painted a stark portrait of their creative process in his 1975 biography of Hancock
Philip Oakes: "The day began at 8.30 a.m when I would urge Hancock out of bed. An hour later he would present himself at the office, where I would be retyping the previous day's work, and sit moodily in the corner. The collaboration took the form of my showing him the rough sketch of a scene I had prepared and then trying to penetrate his reactions. Sometimes they were enthusiastic. He was a generous man when he found something funny. At other times they were chilling."
The script completed and cast collected, a crew was assembled for shooting in the spring of 1962. Despite coming under the distributive umbrella of the Associated British Picture Corporation (the company that had contracted Hancock for a four-picture deal) the hands-on production was undertaken by MacConkey Productions, Hancock’s own company and named after his property in Lingfield, Surrey. While he had initially hoped to direct the picture himself, a young TV director - Jeremy Summers - was chosen by Hancock to take care of the picture. While Summers had proved himself on the small screen, he had yet to direct a major motion picture. Nonetheless, the film scored a sizable coup in securing Gilbert Taylor as director of photography. Taylor’s keen eye intimately realised the brittle ephemera of the seaside, and even with monochrome film stock to play with, he’d beautifully capture the ambiance of both setting and its dramatic moments. Already something of a legend in cinematic circles, Taylor would go on to score massively shooting the Beatles’ first film, A Hard Day’s Night in 1964.
Evidently, shooting locations were going to be pivotal to the success of the picture. Evidently eager to relive the ambiance of his youth in Bournemouth, Bognor Regis in West Sussex - a fairly atypical seaside town - was chosen to act as a backdrop for the picture. With a pier, arcade and a smattering of antiquated ice cream and gift shops in operation, the action would be as believable as required. Furthermore, the mostly sandy coastline would be able to host many of the beach-side adventures. A host of Bognor’s landmarks would be worked directly into the film. In addition to the beach and pier, the promenade, several cafes and the town’s amusement arcade would also be utilised. For the film's finale, the Royal Hotel on the Bognor seafront would play host to several exteriors. While the crew themselves would be housed in the same hotel, Hancock and his wife would stay at the swankier Royal Norfolk a few hundred yards along the promenade. For the purposes of the film, Bognor would be renamed Piltdown.
For the residents of this largely unremarkable town, the influx of a major film company would enliven the early part of the season. With a need for crowd scenes in several sequences, requests for auditions were advertised around the town. Astonishingly, over 2,000 members of Bognor populous applied for the few hundred positions available, and were formally auditioned at the Royal Norfolk hotel by the film’s producer Gordon Scott.
Filming was under way by May 1962, with the interiors being shot at Elstree Studios first before moving down to Bognor Regis. The story-line was, even by British comedy standards, adventurous - with scant traces of Hancock's former alter-ego. It was clearly a gamble to expect the British public to warm to Hancock’s re-branding of a character so embedded in the national psyche. Nonetheless, with the previous success of The Rebel and with the film’s associate cast boasting several household names, there was always the chance that it could accrue some sympathetic or even curious interest.
Filming on and off set had its moments. Most recall Hancock's heavy drinking during the filming and his combative relationship with wife Cicely. There was great excitement on set when photography doyen Henri Cartier-Bresson arrived on a commission to capture Hancock at work on the picture. The actor was clearly in awe of Cartier-Bresson, remarking that being the focus of such a legend was "like being photographed by Rembrandt." There were lighter moments after work was completed. Filming a major event in the quiet environs of the West Sussex locale, members of the cast (including Hancock) would engage in games of cricket on the beach. Filming completed after six weeks, Hancock would switch his attentions to a new series of comedies for ATV.
Initial reaction to the first screenings were mixed. The film was radical on many levels, and this was no more apparent than from the opening few minutes. With Hancock and Syms enduring a painful encounter over the breakfast table, the ritualised behaviour and cold looks was a clear reference to Hancock’s own moribund relationship at home. Devoid of any dialogue, it was evident that the relationship (both off-screen and on) had evidently run its course. It’s only when the action moved outside that the palate of the film assumed a brighter texture.
Outside of Hancock's screen-wife desire to climb the social ladder, there were many poignant moments leading up to the finale. Given that Hancock’s seaside youth was a major reference point, a young boy (played by Sylvia Syms' nephew Nicholas Webb) was chosen to act as a reflection to the leading man's formative years. Young, gangling and without any provenance, Hancock adopted the lad for a haunting sequence when he witnessed the youngster sheltering from the rain. In need of some reparation from the elements, he'd buy the youngster an ice cream at a beach-side cafe, and engage with him for a few moments. Intrigued by the young boy’s relishing of the desert, Hancock would order the same dish; each movement mirroring the young boy's. The sequence, complete with close-ups of Hancock’s exaggerated features, ran for around nine minutes. For those desperate for the verbal slapstick of old, this vignette would have probably left many disappointed. Nonetheless, its indisputable charm - especially when set against Hancock’s sense of alienation - marks it out as an emotional high-point of the film.
Hancock’s best friend off-screen, John Le Mesurier, would feature in a couple of key sequences where words turned towards marriage and relationships. The depth of feeling embedded in the dialogue between Wally and the ‘Sandman’ would chime with the dilemma facing Hancock and his faltering relationship with wife Cicely. Accompanied by knowing glances, this brief exchange was telling, especially given later events in Hancock and Le Mesurier’s own personal lives.
Wally Pinner: "I tell you this, I’d change places with you any day of the week."
The Sandman: "Really?"
Wally Pinner: "You’ve got your freedom."
The Sandman: "Oh yes."
Wally Pinner: "Got nobody nagging you to make something of yourself."
The Sandman: "Oh no, certainly not."
Wally Pinner: "You made a very wise decision to stay single."
The Sandman: "Yes well, actually it wasn’t my decision. The lady said 'no'"
Wally Pinner: "Oh I see."
The Sandman: "‘Well, it’s probably for the best. As I see it, marriage is a matter of give and take. Not all of us are equipped for that sort of thing."
The picture’s finale forges a brief and yet reluctant détente as Hancock relents to his wife’s demands to attend a civic reception in honour of the town’s anniversary. Regardless of a brief dive into slapstick, the dénouement of the picture leads towards a way out of the couple’s marital stagnancy.
Predictably, publicity for the film harked back to Hancock's prior incarnation as TV "funny man". While press-book, poster, front of house stills and a trailer were all duly cobbled together, it was evident that attempting to hang the fortunes of the film on the success of The Rebel was a largely fruitless exercise. Presumably to afford the production a vital "U" (under 18) certificate, the film underwent a series of cuts. One edited sequence that amounted to around 8 minutes of screen time, featured a scene where a grumpy Hancock loaded up his car with his associate played by Hugh Lloyd. This segued with Hancock then driving through Bognor and throwing the town's Mayor (played by Ronald Fraser) a thinly-veiled "V" sign.
Critics expecting a re-run of The Rebel weren't overly impressed with The Punch and Judy Man, many finding it impossible to take Hancock’s new direction seriously. The Daily Mirror, previously a spirited champion of Hancock, was mixed in its critique. "The story is too slight and patchy," ran their review. "The film wobbles between merit and mediocrity." The Daily Express was altogether less impressed. "I won’t bother you with the story," read its dismal review, ‘which on paper will look even flimsier than the film. All I will say is that he (Hancock) is a Punch and Judy man who hates snobs with a wife who loves them. It takes him 96 minutes to tell her that ‘ordinary folk’ are best – and I am afraid that is 96 minutes too long.’ Only The Monthly Film Bulletin (now Sight And Sound) had the vision to assess the film's potential. "Botched though the film often is, its faults (and its virtues) are never wearily conventional. The whole tone of the comedy is quiet, under stressed, a little melancholy…. At some time, in someone's mind, The Punch and Judy Man existed as a distinctive and very engaging comedy. It hasn't come through on the screen quite like this, but one warms all the same to its performance and to its little, lugubrious jokes.’ While the movie met differing box office success in the UK, it was clear that its international potential - especially in America - was never going to happen. Hancock made only two further appearances on the big screen, with cameos in Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines (1965) and The Wrong Box the following year. His popularity on television still unswerving, Hancock would fail to receive the acclaim on the larger screen he so desperately wanted.
Given Hancock's prolific television and radio oeuvre, this imaginative interlude in the comic’s career has been largely passed over. With the film fast approaching its 50th anniversary, I implore you to catch it as soon as possible (it’s on YouTube) and bear witness to another side of the genius that is Tony Hancock. It’s time someone did.
© Words - Simon Wells 2011 (revised 2013&2018) Help and invaluable research assistance as regards photos and text - my thanks to Jeff Hammonds of the Tony Hancock Archives
