Goodbye, possums!

Ifirst met Barry in London in 1963. I’d seen his one-man show on stage in Australia, where he was already well known. Apart from a couple of appearances in small clubs, he had little reputation in London. He did odd jobs (as did I), including breaking old vinyl discs in a record factory.

He dressed conservatively in those days, usually in Edwardian style, with waistcoat and hat. Over the years, his ensembles became increasingly bizarre, with an array of brightly coloured jackets and trousers and, at times, painted shoes.

He never abandoned wearing ties, although in Australia men of all ages amble through city streets in shorts and T-shirts. The only men wearing ties are politicians and those on trial.

There is quite a bit of information about his early years (in fact, all his years) in the autobiographies he wrote: a couple as Barry Humphries (My Life as Me is superb), a couple as Edna Everage and one or two as Sir Les Patterson. I think that Les Patterson’s The Traveller’s Tool is the funniest book I’ve ever read.

It’s delightfully politically incorrect by today’s puritanical standards – probably by the standards of any era. My favourite chapter is ‘My Tool in Your Hand’.

Two books by Barry that I find myself constantly re-reading are collections of poems he values, both privately printed in exquisite binding: At Century’s Ebb (2008) and Poems I Like – an Anthology

Responsibly Sourced (2021). Among the latter collection is a poem by John Cooper Clarke (the only living poet included), Things Are Gonna Get Worse

Two of the verses follow.

What, me worry? I should care, Shit for brains, wire for hair, I seen the future and I ain’t there, Things are gonna get worse.

Things are gonna get worse, nurse, Things are gonna get rotten.

Make that hearse reverse, nurse, I’m trying to remember everything that I’ve forgotten.

During those years in London – the 1960s – I realised that Barry’s addiction to alcohol was a major career impediment. He amazed me by managing to deliver brilliant performances in Lionel Bart’s Oliver and Maggie May, as well as playing Long John Silver in a production of Treasure Island at the Mermaid.

I realised, when I went backstage one afternoon, that he’d managed to play Long John while totally inebriated, improvising dialogue which had the audience collapsing with laughter.

In 1972, Barry was visited, in hospital, by people from Alcoholics Anonymous after an incident in Melbourne where he was robbed by a couple of pub roughnecks and dumped by the side of a road. The AA people were persuasive –he never drank again.

His quick wit never ceased to astonish me. Edna’s endless bons mots on her TV shows were never scripted by a team of backstage writers but always produced by Barry on the spot.

In San Francisco, I once stayed with him for a week while he was doing a stage show. Every night, his wife, Lizzie, and I would go to pick him up. Invariably, I saw the last half hour or so of his show and was amazed that the jokes and situations – as well as the overall running time – varied considerably from night to night. There was a loose overall structure, but Barry’s irrepressible humour couldn’t be shovelled into a fixed time.

Last year, my wife and I went to York to see the stage show Barry was touring around England. In the dressing room, after the performance, Barry slumped into a sofa and said to me, ‘Why am I doing this, at my age?’

I replied, ‘Because there’s nothing you like to do more than go on stage, tell anecdotes and hear people laughing.’

I was struck, from the first time we met, at Barry’s incredible range of interests – apart from acting. He was fascinated by Oscar Wilde and the Sitwell family, particularly Osbert and

Sacheverell. He collected books, invariably first editions, and had a flair for unearthing many of the minor, or half-forgotten, writers and poets of the 19th and early-20th centuries. He knew every rare-book dealer in England – just as he seemed to know every art dealer.

His art collection must contain thousands of paintings, sketches and lithographs. The works are all figurative, all exquisitely painted. Many are tastefully erotic but, apart from Charles Conder and perhaps Jan Toorop and Jan Frans de Boever, there are few widely celebrated artists.

Barry had little interest in modern popular/punk rock/hard rock music, but admired Stephen Sondheim, Andrew Lloyd Webber and George and Ira Gershwin. He appeared on Broadway with the musicologist/singer Michael Feinstein, performing works by many of the great American songwriters of the 1930s.

He was also fascinated by the group of Weimar composers, among them Kurt Weill and Mischa Spoliansky, persecuted by the Hitler regime for their ‘degenerate’ music. His presentation of a number of the Weimar songs was acclaimed in Sydney and London in 2018.

His taste in classical music also tended to gifted but less acclaimed figures. He became friends with the Belgian composer Jean-Michel Damase, a distinguished pianist who composed melodic orchestral pieces. I met him with Barry. Damase, a quiet and gentle man, always seemed to me to be slightly puzzled by the admiration of the tall Australian actor.

Similarly, Barry was a fan of the German composer Ernst Krenek. Krenek’s music was also labelled ‘degenerate’ by the Nazis, which resulted in his wisely moving to America. He lived for some years in Palm Springs and died there in 1991. Barry visited Krenek a number of times in the 1990s and promoted his music in Australia – which led to his celebrated 1920s opera Jonny Spielt auf being presented in Melbourne in 2022.

Barry was surrounded by – and friends with – many celebrities in England, America and even Australia. Unlike many famous actors, he was never obsessed with his own fame, though he appreciated its being responsible for the best table at restaurants.

His courteous, amiable manner was extended to everyone he met and everyone he worked with. Stage crews, as well as actors, returned to his shows for literally decades. In the Sydney hospital, he was visited by a group of Lesettes – girls from Les Patterson’s stage appearances many years previously. The hospital was inundated with phone calls from wellwishers abroad, among them King Charles.

One of my sons, Benjamin, has Down’s syndrome. He has known Barry all his life and saw many of his stage shows and, of course, the two Barry McKenzie films I directed. When in England, Barry always remembered to contact him by phone or to visit him on the Isle of Wight. They had long conversations on Benjamin’s favourite topics: (a) Fawlty Towers; (b) the Beatles; (c) Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em; (d) Doctor Who. Benjamin called me when he was told that Barry had died and said, ‘I cried when I heard.’

I’m sure that many people cried. I was somewhat taken aback at the outpouring of positive articles and TV coverage in Australia, as there had been so much talk over the previous year or so about Barry’s political incorrectness (!) and right-wing political views (nonsense!).

With his death – his loss – there has been widespread realisation of the extent of his genius.

Bruce Beresford directed The Adventures of Barry McKenzie (1972) and Barry McKenzie Holds His Own (1974), both starring Barry Humphries.