Читать книгу You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone: The life and work of Eric Morecambe - Gary Morecambe - Страница 11

‘To the audiences in the UK it went way beyond finding Eric and Ernie funny; it was the whole nostalgia their memory and reputation brought to the stage production. As well as being genuinely, unmistakably on the highest level funny, Morecambe and Wise’s best work coincided with moments in the life of the nation—especially Christmas—when everyone was together. Symbolically they came to represent that togetherness.

‘In a sense, Eric and Ern hijacked Christmas, but it was the most beautiful piece of hijacking that meant that at that moment when the people of the nation were together they were simultaneously finding themselves associated with Morecambe and Wise’s comedy.’

Opening on Broadway would be less about Morecambe and Wise and more about the camaraderie of all double acts. I understood the logic behind the decision, but was concerned that by removing the spirit of Morecambe and Wise we were removing the whole purpose of why we originally set out to stage the show.

The general feeling was that many theatregoers who came to see the West End production were American, Japanese, Chinese, and other, and they enjoyed it enormously, laughing their way out into the Covent Garden night when the curtain came down. I wasn’t convinced about that: surely, I thought, its success was due to the feelgood factor of Eric and Ernie working on those mostly British members of successive audiences who remembered Christmases past? That invisible awareness was actively, if unwittingly, being sucked up by those in the audience not in the least bit familiar with Eric and Ernie or their work. In New York that would not be possible as there would be no such underlying sentiment.

I must credit David Pugh for having the balls to give it a whirl, as it was his reputation and money on the line. And—if in hugely diluted form—he did get Morecambe and Wise introduced to a much wider audience.

Decisions can be made quickly—if rashly—in the entertainment business I discovered, and in February 2003 one relatively under-utilized consultant to the US production was flown out in first-class style to join the team as the opening night loomed. My mother, Joan, was also to be there for that night, which, while it was expected, was a bit discomforting given that her husband—half the raison d’être of the London production—had inevitably been reduced from being the play’s subject to appearing in the programme notes.

My mother and I were put up at the colourful Algonquin Hotel at 59 West 44th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, a spit from Times Square. The reason I mention this hotel with a hint of admiration is because one of my great heroes, Harpo Marx, a gentleman and a giant of visual comedy, many decades back would frequent the place to play cards with some of his mates: screenwriter Robert Benchley (father of Peter Benchley, who gave us the novel Jaws!) and poet, critic, and short-story writer Dorothy Parker, to name but two. They and others formed an exclusive club, the Round Table, to pursue their delight in gambling, intellectual conversation and dry wit. The only rule seemed to be that you had to be able to take the knocks—there was no room for taking offence or acting self-important. Harpo was invited to join this elite club by his good friend the critic Alexander Woollcott. As some people get excited by treading the well-worn paths that Eric Morecambe trod, I get the same thrill from being in the vicinity of where a Marx Brother stood, walked, talked, breathed, laughed, cried, and anything else they might have done, especially when it is my favourite Marx Brother, the mute and blond, curly-locked Harpo—not that he was either of those things in real life, of course. And I was doubly blessed when discovering the theatre we were opening at was the Lyric—the very same theatre the Marx Brothers had opened at with the musical The Cocoanuts many decades earlier.

One of the first people my mother and I stumbled across at the Algonquin was actor Roger Moore and his wife Kristina. Roger had been the stalwart guest star of the London production. I don’t think any guest star made as many appearances. He even guest-starred in towns such as Milton Keynes on a wet Wednesday afternoon while the play toured for a while. A long way from his homes in Monaco and Switzerland. Although he wasn’t due to appear on the opening night on Broadway—‘They don’t think I’m famous enough!’ he told us with his usual disarming charm—he did guest on many subsequent nights there, in between which he would fly all round the world doing his sterling work for the United Nations Children’s Fund. In fact this fast and furious lifestyle was to prove a little too much for a man who was in his mid-seventies at the time. During one of the Broadway performances Roger blacked out on stage. The audience thought it was part of the show. Eventually he came round, still on stage, to find Hamish McColl (who loosely represents Ernie Wise in the play) standing above him. ‘Are you all right, old boy?’ asked Hamish. ‘I think so, old boy,’ replied Roger, who then insisted on finishing that night’s performance before being transferred to hospital by the paramedics who had been summoned immediately and were waiting in the wings.