In Toronto in 1976, actor Gary Files enjoyed a masterclass in comic timing, instinct and control from Frankie Howerd
Frankie goes to Canada I
have to confess I was desperate. I was working in Toronto and my agent put me up for a new comedy that was to star Frankie Howerd. The 1976 comedy series was originally to be called Oooh, Canada! But they quickly changed that to The Frankie Howerd Show when they realised he had a surprising following among Canadian viewers. Although born and brought up an Australian, I decided I would go to this audition reading as a Canadian – and a berserk one at that. The part was the idiot son of Mrs Otterby with the very ‘end of the pier’ name of Hardin I Otterby. Thanks to my ability with accents, I was able to pull off being an outrageous Canadian idiot lad, and in doing so made the writers laugh. Which got me the role for the pilot. When Frankie arrived to do the pilot, I decided I had to continue to talk like a real Canadian and not in my normal Australian accent at any time, or I might well lose the job. We found out from Frankie later that he’d been through some tough periods by the time he’d got to us – so he was very suspicious of all us locals at the start of rehearsals. But, in a very short time, he came to realise there were no problems with the professionals he was working with, and that none of us was anything but very much on his side. From then on, he was a wonderful and very creative friend who shared his unique talent and comic expertise freely. After I’d made it very clear that my sexual preferences were heterosexual, the subject never came up again, and rehearsing with him was a fascinating exercise in comic control. Although he
14 The Oldie September 2021
always seemed to be ‘winging it’, he kept in all the funny bits that happened by chance and ad-libs that went on in rehearsal. Once Frankie decided the changes he wanted to finalise, they were fixed very firmly into our scripts. We’d also noticed that he had a surprisingly tatty wig that didn’t quite match his greying hair. In the beginning, it was like the Fawlty Towers sketch about not mentioning the war. One was desperate not to look at the wig, even in passing – which became very hard, especially when he was at speed, doing his thing. But, thank God, after a while we didn’t notice it at all. I remembered him most, from my time in England, in the TV series That Was the Week That Was (1962-63), when he just sat on a stool and talked wittily to the live audience about the political scene. He told us he had no idea what he was talking about, not being at all political. It was simply the fantastic scripts he was getting from a stable of amazing writers such as Peter Cook and John Cleese. His magic was making their words live as his words, with all those special interjections of his… ‘Oooh, no! Listen! Don’t laugh…’ It astonished me that he delivered those killer lines and asides ‘straight down the barrel’ of the camera. In North America, we would rather die than be caught delivering anything straight to camera.
He delivered those killer lines ‘straight down the barrel’ of the camera
Our rehearsals taught me just how he managed that intimate effect. He had a ‘slave camera’ – one that stayed on him only – during the taping of the show. Anything that was funny outside the rehearsed script during taping (say, an unusual reaction from the audience) he immediately reacted to on the slave camera – and got a second laugh. Most of these extras were kept in when the final compilation tape went to air. One memorable moment was over the delivery of a letter Frankie was expecting that was very important to the script. ‘Oooh, I think I hear the postman,’ he said to the slave camera, as the rest of us chatted on in the background. However, the letter flap on the front door hadn’t been used for years and wouldn’t open properly. Still, the props man was determined to keep pushing the letter through. We all shut up and turned to look at this macabre ‘thing’ that was very slowly coming through the flap until it fell, accordion-like, to the floor. Then we all roared with laughter. ‘Keep it in,’ Frankie said, ‘I’ll get two out of that.’ As with all great comedians I’ve come across over the years, there was a lurking sadness – even loneliness, deep inside. Despite his having Dennis Heymer (1929-2009), his manager and life partner, with him, it persisted. I was having my own problems at the time. My marriage of nine years was coming apart and I was living in a huge house with the wife of one of Canada’s finest actors, who was away on tour. I said to her, ‘Please let’s talk for a bit so I can use my own accent – I’m going nuts all day doing Canadian on and off the set.’
