In more than half a century of television viewing nothing has haunted me so much as what was transmitted on the evening of 15 April 1984. ‘Thanks, love,’ said Tommy Cooper, in mid-turn, to the dancer who had fastened his cloak. Then he clutched his chest and, as if in slow motion, collapsed on to the stage; the famous fez remained on his craggy head, a little awry. Cutting through the raucous laughter of the audience, who were under the impression that this was all part of the act, came the terrible sound, magnified by his radio microphone, of the great comedian’s last gasps of breath. The curtain fell and the programme switched to a commercial break with a caption bearing the unfortunate legend Live from Her Majesty’s.
Cooper had died in harness, like the veteran vaudevillian played by Bert Lahr in Always Leave Them Laughing, the 1949 film which gives John Fisher the subtitle for this definitive biography. The star of that film, Milton Berle (known as ‘The Thief of Bad Gags’) is revealed as a crucial influence upon Cooper’s development as a comedian not long after a BBC audition report had categorised him as ‘an attractive young man with indistinct speaking voice and extremely unfortunate appearance’. ‘Watch the film today’, writes Fisher, ‘and it amazes as an archaeological reference guide to so much that became solidified within Tommy’s own act.’
Fisher duly finds the gentle ribbing of the crowd (‘I can always look at an audience and tell whether they’re gonna be good or bad. Good night!’); the targeting of a make-believe individual (‘This gentleman down here — your head is shining right in my eyes’); the remorseless literal-mindedness (‘A man came up to me in the street.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in