A talent to amuse

Rev Peter Mullen salutes the genius of Noël Coward, 50 years after his death

It’s 50 years since Sir Noël Coward died, aged 73, at his Firefly home in Jamaica, on 26th March 1973. And yet we’re no nearer to doing justice to his personality and talent. T S Eliot called him ‘the real thing’. And Time magazine praised him as ‘full of cheek, chic, pose and poise’ – but he was even more than that.

What can you say of a man who wrote 65 plays – most of which were stonking successes in the UK and in the States –and eight musical comedies, performed hundreds of scintillating revues and cabarets, and was described by Laurence Olivier as ‘the 20th century’s finest actor’?

And then there all those songs from which we can all sing a line or two: Mad Dogs and Englishmen; Some Day I’ll Find You; A Room with a View; and (Don’t Put Your Daughter on the Stage,) Mrs Worthington

As a child actor, he began at the top with the great Gertrude Lawrence, who mothered him. Coward recalled how she ‘gave me an orange, told me a few mildly dirty stories and I loved her from then onwards’.

Coward was no mere luvvie: as soon as the Second World War broke out, he gave up the theatre and offered himself for war work. George VI wanted to give him a knighthood for his achievements in the secret service but was dissuaded by Churchill, who was repulsed by Coward’s camp demeanour and louche reputation.

But the main reason behind Churchill’s antagonism was that Coward opposed him on the abdication issue. Coward said of Edward VIII’s sweetheart, Mrs Simpson, ‘We don’t want a cutie as Queen of England!’ His knighthood had to wait until 1970.

The war work was serious stuff, for which he earned his place on Hitler’s list of those who would be shot on sight once the Nazis had taken charge of the country. Bernard Shaw, Bertrand Russell and H G Wells were also on that list, prompting Coward to say, ‘Just think of the people I shall have to be seen dead with.’

You could think I’m making things up, inventing a fantastical fictional character, when I expand on this catalogue of his talents and triumphs. He was first choice to play James Bond in Dr No (1962) but turned it down, saying, ‘No, no, a thousand times no!’

He also refused the invitation to take the part of Humbert Humbert in the film of Lolita (1962). Coward said, ‘At my time of life, the film story would be logical only if the 12-year-old heroine was a sweet old lady.’

For his memorial service at St Martin-in-the-Fields, the Poet Laureate John Betjeman composed and recited a poem, John Gielgud and Laurence Olivier read verses and Yehudi Menuhin played Bach.

The Queen Mother unveiled the statue of Coward that stands in the foyer of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. After being thanked by his partner, Graham Payn, she replied, ‘I came because Noël was my friend.’

He also enjoyed 19 years’ close friendship with Prince George, Duke of

Kent. He admitted there had been ‘some dalliance’. On the Duke’s death, he said, ‘I suddenly find that I loved him more than I knew.’

Dalliance? He was known for it.

Kenneth Tynan said, ‘As a child actor, he was Slightly in Peter Pan and he’s been wholly in Peter Pan ever since.’

Louche was his style and camp his signature; part of the act – of the Noël Coward phenomenon. But he was insistent that his private life should remain private. About rumours of his homosexuality, he quipped, ‘I think there are a few old ladies in Worthing who don’t know.’

A few years ago, when a poll was taken among actors and critics, Coward came second only to Shakespeare in the list of those who had most influenced the theatre. Kenneth Williams said, ‘None of us would have been anywhere without Noël.’ His friend Lord Mountbatten adored him and described him simply as ‘the Master’.

Why did he never – quite – become a national treasure? Partly because homosexual relationships were illegal during most of his lifetime. Outside the arty, theatrical milieu, most people didn’t much like those they called poofs and queers.

He was a virtuoso satirist; his cynicism was genuine. For me, what makes him so attractive and so lovable is that the chosen victim of his sharpest mockery is himself, as when he said, ‘Ivor Novello’s profile and my mind are the most beautiful things in the world.’

Or when, in 1969, a reporter apologised to him, saying, ‘I hope you haven’t been bored having to go through all these interviews for your 70th birthday and being made to answer the same old questions about yourself.’

The Master replied with a shrug, ‘Not at all – I’m fascinated by the subject.’