You Must Be Joking!
(1965)
A time before a Michael Winner film was a de facto cinematic
blot on the landscape is now scarcely conceivable. His output, post- (or
thereabouts) Death Wish (“a pleasant romp”) is so roundly derided
that it’s easy to forget that the once-and-only dining columnist and raconteur
was once a bright (well…) young thing of the ‘60s, riding the wave of
excitement (most likely highly cynically) and innovation in British cinema. His
best-known efforts from this period are a series of movies with Oliver Reed –
including the one with the elephant – and tend to represent the director in his
pleasant romp period, before he attacked genres with all the precision and
artistic integrity of a blunt penknife. You
Must Be Joking! comes from that era, its director’s ninth feature,
straddling the gap between Ealing and the Swinging ‘60s; coarser, cruder
comedies would soon become the order of the day, the mild ribaldry of Carry On pitching into bawdy flesh-fests.
You Must Be Joking! is not only a forgotten
gem in the annals of classic British comedy, it’s that rarest of rarities; a
really good Michael Winner film.
Winner’s image in the couple of decades until his death was
at least as much a caricatured persona of his own making as it was a consequence
of natural revulsion at the manner in which he held forth with the classic
smugness and disdain of one used to rank and privilege. He was of course, a
famous Tory supporter (when he switched to New Labour it was signal enough of
the corrupting influences that had brought that party to a point where it had
negligible association with its roots), with the corresponding unbecoming views
of its worst proponents (“I want to live
in an intolerant society”). He was a man who reeked of the fondness of
money and luxury. And food. It so happened that one way for him to attain those
things was through making movies, to hell with quality (Exhibit A: he worked
with Cannon and Charles Bronson simultaneously); it was a means to an end.
It’s no doubt symptomatic that Winner worked very little
from his mid-‘50s onwards. He had sufficient wealth, and sufficient other
revenue streams. His final trio of movies, spanning the ‘90s, include
Caine/Moore nadir Bullseye! (they
play dual roles!), Dirty Weekend (gender-swapped
Death Wish, and as appetising as that
sounds) and Parting Shots (Chris Rea
“acts” and loads of Michael’s showbiz pals return favours). He had built up
such a – I’m not sure it’s quite the right expression – cult of personality by
this point, it scarcely mattered that his films were universally derided.
Indeed, it seemed to be almost a point of obligation.
Winner appeared in adverts for Kenko and car insurance,
guested on Shooting Stars!, his
second latex incarnation following Spitting
Image appeared in The Smell of Reeves
and Mortimer’s “little muscle-mad
puppet Michael Winner puppet”. He seemed quite content to mock himself,
nothing able to penetrate his self-satisfied, cigar chomping façade (perhaps
because there was nothing beneath it). To his (vague) credit, he turned down
(allegedly) an OBE for services to British film, although his reasons related
to the worthlessness of the gong rather than the absurdity of suggesting had in
some way been of benefit to the movie industry. He was wont to less than
endearing statements regarding his chosen profession (“A team effort is a lot of people doing what I say”; he sometimes
edited under the moniker Arnold Crust, just so it’s clear he was wholly to
blame) but also amusingly self-deprecating ones (“If you want art, don’t mess about with movies. Buy a Picasso”).
Which doesn’t mean he was ever less than a boorish snob.
The 1980s found him at the peak of his uncreative powers, churning
out two Death Wish sequels for the
lowest rent of low rent studios (the Cannon Group) and a remake of The Wicked Lady with soft porn trappings.
There was also an (inoffensive) Ustinov Poirot movie. The preceding decade
found Winner engaged with ugly westerns and equally ugly crime thrillers featuring
Bronson or Burt Lancaster, but he would try his hand at anything; horror (The Sentinel), a weak swill Raymond
chandler (The Big Sleep), and a Brando
ghost story (The Nightcomers).
While a few of his films across that decade are passable
(only a few) it’s fairly evident that, with the passing of the’60s, any
pretence at standards greater than “That’ll do” filmmaking had vanished. His
last collaboration with Michael Crawford (starring in films before he was
sailing under trucks on roller skates and debating the merits of a cat doing woopsies.
And opera singing) was 1970’s The Games
(about Olympic runners) and prior to this you’d be forgiven for thinking Winner
actually had an interest in making films with some merit, integrity or function
above and beyond whether they could secure him his next restaurant bill.
The first half of the ‘60s gives the impression that (a very
young) Winner was taking anything her was offered (so no change there); filmed
variety shows, a naturist comedy (Some
Like it Cool) that might be considered the shape of lasciviousness to come,
murder on campus (Out of the Shadow,
amid the posh nibs of Cambridge University – where he secured a Third), one of
the many singer-starrers of the period (Play
it Cool with Billy Fury), a contemporary Gilbert and Sullivan (The Cool Mikado) and his first Oliver
Reed collaboration (The Girl-Getters,
concerning a group of young men’s seaside town conquests). After You
Must Be Joking! came another good movie, the Dick Clement and Ian La
Frenais scripted The Jokers, with
Reed and Crawford stealing (or borrowing) the crown jewels. A third Reed effort
followed, I’ll Never Forget Whatsisname,
in which Reed’s disillusioned ad exec drops out amid Swinging London (complete
with Orson Welles and implied fellatio), before a final round in Winner’s
best-loved picture (outside of those adored by Bronson fans), Hannibal Brooks.
By his standards then, the last half of the ‘60s was a
fruitful period, with consistently respectable output, and You Must be Joking! kicks that off (including the director’s
slender frame gracing the opening titles, clearly never one for self-effacement
or letting the work speak for itself). Joking
is an infectiously lively, vibrant picture; it’s blessed with a chase/quest
plot that means it’s always moving and Winner can always cut to one of the
ensemble of protagonists if there’s ever any danger of a lull. It’s also filled
with the energy of the period, grasping at the freedoms through an Oxbridge
veil of conformity and good manners. On the periphery, and sometimes up front,
is the kind of youth appeal that could be found infusing Richard Lester’s films
(an area Winner had dabbled in, but without anyone as auspicious as The Beatles as his stars). He isn’t so
inventive, of course, but merely going with the flow of the era means he
doesn’t need to be.
The screenplay came courtesy of Alan Hackney. The story is
credited to Winner, who probably came up with it over a spot of lunch; to be
fair he had a surprising number of story/screenplay credits, or perhaps not
since it further illustrates that he was quite a rotten all-rounder. If Joking has the air of a movie that could
have been made a decade previously in shape, if not in detail, that’s most
likely Hackney’s influence. His start in the film industry came when the
Boulting Brothers adapted his novels Private’s
Progress and I’m All Right Jack,
two of the best British comedies of the ‘50s (both featuring the inimitable
Terry-Thomas, who also graces Joking
to splendid effect; it’s just a shame he lurks on the periphery of the action).
Credits followed including Two Way
Stretch, Sword of Sherwood Forest
and Operation Snatch (T-T again, and Lionel Jeffries).
Hackney lends the
picture the class struggle hues that permeated his Boulting pictures, doubling
up against and emphasised by the enforceability of rank. The educated classes
are, naturally officers, and either idiots or entitled snobs (or Americans, a
different class entirely) – while at once being likeably deluded or buffoonish –
whereas the lower ranks are working class types or, more shockingly still,
Scottish.
It isn’t difficult to see where Winner found inspiration. The
overblown, only partially successful It’s
A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World was the treasure hunt movie to beat all treasure
hunt movies (Joking’s byline “It’s a Mad-Mad Whirl of a Hunt for guys and
gals and goodies” overtly invokes that picture, although this is far to
good to be dismissed as a cheap cash-in); it’s the perfect loose structure for
a plot, as it sets up a tangible goal and no one has to worry about messy
details like acts. All that’s necessary is dividing time between the disparate
protagonists. It can also be as taut or as bloated as necessary (the excess and
indulgence of World is its downfall).
Terry-Thomas, of course, appeared in World.
As with many of his features, he’s the highlight. The subgenre has seen
sporadic entries since, including 1979’s Scavenger
Hunt and more recently 2001’s Rat
Race.
Major Foskett: I am a major, you are a sergeant. Majors
give orders, sergeants obey them.
American Sergeant:
But I’m not even in your army, sir.
Major Foskett: That’s not my fault.
The treasure hunt in question is the chosen form for an army
initiative test. Conscription had been over for half a decade at the time of Joking, but that doesn’t prevent the
test subjects having predominately ambivalent attitudes to the armed forces
(the American officer simply resigns at the end, so presumably he wasn’t
conscripted). Winner famously avoided National Service by pretending to be gay,
something he later said he regretted, and his willingness to mock the military
is evident throughout.
The reason for the hunt is flimsy at best; we are told that,
even in the age of nuclear warfare, “tricky
situations still turn up”. The competitors must engage in a scenario
whereby “the whole country’s been
devastated” and is now enemy territory. They are required to collect “a few symbols of British life to be buried
for posterity”. That at least one of these has absolutely nothing to do with the British way of
life is hastily covered by “in its
broadest terms of course”. The prize is a 10-day trip around the world (“As long as we can spare”) and “The first man back will be the man we’re
looking for the complete soldier for today” (alert, wide awake, selfless).
He will also have a firm foothold on the promotion ladder, although understandably
this is considerably less of an incentive.
During the opening section authority is mostly emphasised as
a collection of silly fools. Wilfred Hyde-White’s General Lockwood is the
sceptical old duffer, and Terry-Thomas’ Major Foskett is an army Psychological Officer
(so double the danger there). Perhaps Winner is drawing on his own experiences,
although the depiction of psychology in most comedies of the period is that of
a profession deserving ridicule. Foskett is no exception; this is all his
bright idea, and he’s terribly enthusiastic about the whole deal (“I say, sir! That’s initiative for you!”
he proclaims when a trio of contestants escape the starting point of a maze by
helicopter), with apparently no awareness of the potential consequences.
The
army itself is identified as thoroughly unscrupulous, sending its men out on
this mission but “If any of you get into
trouble we shall deny all knowledge of you”; it’s also run by the upper classes
(Denholm Elliot’s competing captain is evidently a career soldier who doesn’t
take soldiering seriously and treats the whole thing as an extension of his school
days). Indeed, the army is a law unto itself and had to fend off questions in
parliament on previous occasions when it embarked on such manoeuvres.
The competitors have 48 hours to complete the mission, and
must do so “entirely on your own with no
one allowed to help you” (they also have to leave their ready cash); in
practice only the ranks actually obey this rule, further underlining that rules
are there for the masses and not those who make them.
There are six items to be retrieved; the Silver Lady emblem
for a Rolls Royce motorcar (Foskett has already swiped the one off Lockwood’s
car), the Lady Frances McDonald (“a
blushing harbinger of spring”; only Sergeant Major McGregor knows it’s a
rose), an electronic hare from a greyhound race track, a flight of those
plaster ducks (those on tiles are also acceptable) and a lock of hair “from that rather gorgeous French pop singer,
Sylvie Tarnet” (the most random and by definition un-British item; her
autograph is required also as proof, but as we shall see it’s no proof at all)
and the sixth item is announced as a secret they will find out in the field.
Lloyds’ employee: The worlds leading insurance organisation and we haven’t even covered our most treasured and historic possession.
This turns out to be the Lutine Bell, salvaged from the wreck of the HMS Lutine
in 1859; Lloyds of London had insured the ship and hung the bell at the Royal
Exchange (historically it was rung when news of overdue ships arrived). In
keeping with the film’s digs at the sturdiness of any respected societal
structure, the exemplar of insurance is found to have failed to cover their
most iconic emblem/possession.
The joys of You Must
Be Joking! derive from its comic scenarios and the parallel, and at times
overlapping, adventures of its characters. So who are these behemoths of
British comedy?
Terry-Thomas’ peak decade was undoubtedly the period from
1955-65 (although the subsequent five years also saw a few gems), and his
persona here is only a break from the norm in that he’s not playing a frightful
stinker and scoundrel. He essays a variation on his officer figure in Private’s Progress, to the extent that
he quotes his most famous phrase from that film when he insists none of this is
his fault, “It’s them. They’re an
absolute shower, sir!” He also delivers his best-loved line, all gap tooth
and broad grin, with the less than consoling “Oh hard cheese, Clegg” when Bernard Cribbins’ hapless Royal
Engineer’s tunnelling again fails to set him free. Thomas is at his most fun
when he’s being a complete rotter, but he’s still a delight as the hopelessly
enthusiastic and misguided Foskett. “It
should be rather fun, actually” he cheerfully pronounces as the test kicks
off.
Winner once commented “For
years in the English film business, if you wanted a Terry-Thomas-type comedian,
you were lucky if you got Terry-Thomas”. The only shame here is that T-T’s
very much on the periphery of the action. Nevertheless, he makes every scene
count; from his natural superiority over the insolent American who should bally
well obey his orders, to his complete disregard for the meeting he intrudes on
between the officer ranks of his transatlantic cousins.
His psychiatrist fits
the general stereotype that they have absolutely no idea about the real world,
since his quest causes havoc, gets his superior arrested, and the winner proves
to be absolutely the worst “complete soldier
for today” since he promptly quits. Indeed, Foskett actually considers this
a good thing (“I say, sir. What a
gesture!”) while Lockwood has the more accurate appraisal (“More like mutiny”). Hackney doesn’t give
Foskett the best of exits; while it’s appropriate that he should be arrested
for conspiring to steal the Lutine Bell, his confession that a man came to his
school and said the army needs a psychiatrist “and I believed him” is feeble; even T-T can’t make that one sing.
Wilfred Hyde-White is another iconic face of classic British
comedy. Recently seen to unlikely effect as renowned criminal Soapy Stevens in Two-Way Stretch, his mild-voiced
patrician figure is used to great effect here. Patronising Clegg (well,
everyone does) and only really concerned with the effect the test might have on
his status (“Do you really think I’m
going to risk not getting a knighthood just to cover up for you?” he asks
Foskett on learning about the Lutine Bell), he’s taken down by one of his
subordinates (Lee Montague’s Mansfield, who puts the blame for all his
pilfering on the General; “Oh, sir. How
could you? He must have had a difficult childhood. I’d love to get the case
history,” responds Foskett, gullible as ever, to the news).
It’s a feature
of such pictures that the falsely entitled establishment should be toppled by the
honest masses, and this is no exception, but it’s also the case that – almost
without exception – the (sometimes nominal) antagonists in these pictures are
the most engaging characters.
This type of picture lives or dies on the casting, and
Winner’s assembled competitors complement each other marvellously. Five
soldiers are ordered to take part, although it isn’t explained why an American
is involved. We know why in reality; Columbia doubtless insisted its UK
production office included a representative for homegrown appeal. Presumably
the edict extended to his being the chief protagonist and winning, so one guesses that, beneath the surface charm, Hackney
intentionally kicked against this and made him thoroughly unscrupulous and
effectively a deserter.
Staff Sergeant Mansfield is probably the least memorable of
the contestants. Serving in the Army Corp of Transport, he represents your
classic wheeler-dealer type – the sort Dickie Attenborough played in Private’s Progress and James Beck would
deliver to perfection in Dad’s Army a
few years later. Insolent and entirely disinterested in the service outside of
what he can make on the side, Mansfield has much potential but he’s side-lined
by other plotlines. And, while Lee Montague is effective enough as the cockney wide
boy who thinks any tight spot can be resolved with an army requisition form (“Better than cash”), he only really lights
up when pitched opposite Lionel Jeffries’ by-the-book McGregor (“Why don’t you go and jump in Loch Lomond?”)
It might have been
more effective to cast someone broader; Montague, the first storyteller on Jackanory, has the slight air of a less
camp Frankie Howerd (who appeared in Winner’s The Cool Mikado two years earlier). He features in only one notable
scene without other main cast members present, in which he purloins a hare from
future Doctor Who and Worzel Gummidge Jon Pertwee (“What’s the army want an electronic hare for
then?”; “Target practice”). But
it’s Mansfield’s savvy and slyness that topples his superior officer, attesting
that his criminal activities were entirely at Lockwood’s behest (“I’m just their tool they’re all in it”).
The morality of the picture in this regard would appear to be that the
privileged are de facto at fault, and the balance needs to be redressed by fair
means or foul (very un-Winner).
Lieutenant Morton, US Air Force, is played by Michael Callan
and represents spirited ‘60s youth. He’s in on the scene; he can even cut some
moves. A hit with the ladies, Morton relies on dolly birds to do the hard work
for him (so immediately breaking the rules). Generally, he coasts on others’
goodwill towards him.
Callan’s actually really good here, fitting in seamlessly
with his British co-stars and game to have his romantic lead goof it up with
the rest (his messing up of the theft of the Lutine Bell is especially
memorable). The actor’s career included a fair amount of film work prior to
this (he appears in the same year’s Cat
Ballou) but Callan spent the remainder of his remaining career mostly doing
TV guest roles.
Morton has the lion’s share of the action but, if this
handsome young lead is intended to reflect callow youth, his behaviour as a
shallow user out for himself is markedly not a positive image. Morton is
defined by his ladies’ man ways and indifference to his career; we first see
him dropped off after a heavy weekend with girlfriend Annabelle (Gabriella
Licudi).
Licudi, the daughter of an Irish naval engineer father and
Gibraltan mother, was educated in a number of countries before settling in
England in her teens. Her career was cut short in the ‘70s when she relocated
to Africa to run a safari lodge (eventually returning to London). She also had
roles in the David Niven Casino Royale
and Winner’s The Jokers. Staying with
Bond connections, Annabelle was
dubbed by Nikk Van der Zyl (it’s her posh tones that are so alluring, then).
Van der Zyl also dubbed Licudi in The
Jokers, and her run of Bond girls
throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s borders on the all-inclusive (Honey Rider, Jill
Masterson, Domino, Royale’s Vesper
Lynd, Kissy Suzuki and Solitaire).
Annabelle is one of Joking’s
most appealing characters, a posh London lass who delights in idea of a
treasure hunt (“How simply marvellous!”)
and is a cheerfully terrible driver. While the picture flagrantly stereotypes
women drivers it does so with likeable zest; sped up footage, pedestrians
leaping out of the way, and Annabelle’s staunch belief in her rights of the
open road (“Super they’ve had it. Serves
them right!” she says of Beatles-esque
super group The Cavemen when their
Rolls breaks down).
There’s also giving and taking away here; fun is had with
her entrance into the men-only Tweedles Club to secure the name of the final
item on the list (“It’s a girl, sir”).
This scene is also notable for an implied use of the f-word (Winner would go
ahead and drop it plainly in a film two years later); “Oh, f-antastic!” blurts Morton on discovering the final item. “Watch your language, please sir” comes
the stern warning from the club porter.
Annabelle is foolishly devoted to Morton (“Stay put, Timmy darling I’m coming round to
get you”) and entirely proactive in his mission (she’d be better at the
test than any of them). Her language is peppered with “supers” and “simplys”,
accompanied by a feisty self-confidence. In the botanical gardens she loudly announces
“The heat! Any minute and I’ll simply
have to rip off every one of my clothes” next to some passing nuns.
Subsequently she promises of MacGregor’s procured rose, “I’ll charm it out of his kilt in no time” and proceeds to do so. In
fact she proves a bane to the bashful “mad
Scotsman”, later setting the police on him. She also helps Morton out with
the Bell, lending him a pressure gun (“I
saw it, in an absolutely super film”).
It’s especially galling then that
Morton’s gratitude for all this is to run off with a French pop singer; we can
only agree with the sentiment of Annabelle’s lovely posh totty; “After all we’ve been through together.
She’ll never look after you when you’re old”.
Even before Morton inveigles himself with said star, it’s
evident that he has a roving eye. You wouldn’t be able to seriously call Joking bawdy, but its strongest
innuendos are laced into these scenes; his encounter with a pair of breasts
through a bookshelf in the library (an obvious gag, but a funny one; he reaches
the top shelf, removing a volume only to encounter a man’s bulldog face) to the
demand “Hey you! Take those pants off!”
(the woman whose washing line Morton stole from has clearly modified her
language for American audiences, but it makes the line even more of a double entendre,
given our definition of pants). James
Robertson Justice, as imperious and disappointed in the human race as ever,
cameos as a librarian in this scene, getting in a few shots at Americans having
to import titles (the Brits are allowed to be superior, since they lose the
competition).
Soon after this, Morton, taking donations of ducks “for the Peace Corps”, happens across a
busty housewife (Gwendolyn Watts) alone in her flat. Presaging many a Confessions movie she removes her flimsy
nightgown to reveal nowt but a negligee. And then who should turn up but her
husband, louche charmer Leslie Phillips; “Hello,
ducks. You been at it again?” Yes, the punchline can be seen coming, but
you have to admire Hackney for aiming low; “It
was only your ducks I wanted” protests Morton, before making a hasty exit. Irene
Handl cameos as a neighbour, but then no comedy of the period would be complete
without her.
The French pop singer is the Brigitte Bardot-alike Sylvie
Tarnet, the one whom everyone in the land is besotted with and whose hair is
one of the items on the treasure hunt. Her fan base comprises a great many
adult men, from Foskett down (“We get
lots of requests all from “nephews”. Sylvie seems to have that effect on them”).
Patricia Verbo, who died in a car crash the year after the picture’s release, is
all cute smiles and dimples as Sylvie, and there’s no question of her appeal. For her part, she probably finds Morton a
refreshing change from all the uptight Brits she meets every day, and he does an
enthusiastic job as her dancing support. She picks up Annabelle’s mantle of
aiding him in his quest such that by the final scene Morton is referring to
Annabelle as his ex-girlfriend.
Morton is out for himself and has no sense of responsibility
towards the (British) armed forces (“If
you ever have a war, though, let me know who wins”) so it’s interesting
that his indifference comes in a year when the US was significantly escalating
its campaign in Vietnam. It also seems entirely
appropriate that Morton’s unscrupulous behaviour should be housed beneath a
winning charm, and it’s clearly a cynical comment on one level; whether this is
more pointedly a judgement on the youth of the day or a reaction to enforced Yankophile
casting is unclear, however.
Denholm Elliot furnishes Captain Tabasco, Brigade of Guards,
with a wonderfully smooth confidence. He expects the world to come to him, and
proceeds to prove it does for the next 90 minutes. Further suggesting that he’s
an entitled sort is his regiment, a cushy administrative/ceremonial detail
where he can relax and put his feet up. He has evidently seen action at some
point (“The army’s up to its old tricks
again. Still, it’s better than that campaign in the western desert”) so
presumably has even healthier disdain for getting his hands dirty.
Tabasco is entirely indifferent to his task, except in as much as he
feels obliged to follow it through with as little personal effort as possible.
It should be for lesser mortals (everyone else) to carry out the legwork and
his bidding. Chief of these is the devoted Poppy Pennington (Tracy Reed, who
also appeared in Casino Royale, Dr. Strangelove, The Avengers and UFO among
others). Unlike Morton, Tabasco may engage in enthusiastic debauchery (he comes
undone with some suspect oysters, much to the amusement of James Villiers’
put-upon Bill) but he doesn’t desert Poppy (he needs his servants, after all).
Elliot can also pull off a cape, which is something of an art.
Tabasco’s relaxed aspect is very funny and very British; he
sits drinking tea while waiting for Binky’s helicopter to extract him from the
maze and installs himself in the Ritz as soon as he’s on the other side. He
calls on an artist friend to make him some ducks, gets his hare delivered on a
silver platter (“Yes, it won the second
race at Wembley”) and manipulates Bill into lifting the replica Lutine Bell
through the promise of carnal indulgence with a couple of beauties once
encountered during a weekend in Brighton (he also has some “lovely oysters just for your din-dins”).
The extent of the louche Tabasco’s undoing is those bad oysters; he is squared
with Mansfield in some respects, just higher on the pecking order, and
manipulates the system to his own ends, carrying on without blemish once the
escapade is over.
Sergeant Major Sidney McGregor of
the Cameron Highlanders (although we’re also told he’s with the 41st),
played by the late great Lionel Jeffries, is the real star turn in You Must Be
Joking! Jeffries would go on to write and direct a couple of great family
films a few years later (The Railway
Children, The Amazing Mr Blunden).
His most recognised screen roles (aside from Caractacus Potts in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) are a series of
belligerent authority figures, notably hitherto opposite Peter Sellers in Two-Way Stretch and The Wrong Arm of the Law (both with Bernard Cribbins).
McGregor is a classically
hamstrung character, his determination and rigour constantly undermined by his
encounters, but his staunch set of codes mean that he remains unbowed even in
the final frame. He is also a broad Scots stereotype, but played up for lovable
eccentricity and (in Jeffries words “comic
humanity”). He’s the only competitor who believes in the army, defined by
crazily exaggerated standing to attention (he nearly topples backwards, his
hips are thrust so far forward and his back so far backwards) and saluting, bellowing
deafening orders and responses to same, and possessed of one of the most
eccentric running styles ever committed to celluloid.
His cry of “Pogue mahone!” on pole-vaulting over the maze wall and crashing down
in a neighbouring greenhouse is, unbeknownst to Jeffries at the time (it became
a popular chat show anecdote) Gaelic for “Kiss
my arse”. Later, McGregor runs
headlong through a plate glass door, before noting “It’s an old commando thing”.
Annabelle: There’s this mad Scotsman chasing me!
McGregor’s nemesis proves to be Annabelle, who procures the
rose from his sporran after luring him to a random couple’s residence (one of
whom is Arthur Lowe). Jeffries even makes the act of taking a shower (“A wee rinse”) a miniature masterpiece (“Oh, that smarts, that smarts” as he
sings The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond).
It’s Annabelle who defines McGregor repeatedly as a mad Scotsman and before
long everyone’s at it (“There’s a wild
Scotsman on the loose”, “He’s wearing
a moustache and a blue towel”).
Perhaps McGregor’s most endearing feature is his habit of
talking to himself; “Oh Sidney, that’s
very lucky” he notes after coming across some scaffolding. “Sidney, this could be a big mistake,”
mutters McGregor on being invited aboard plastered Graham Stark’s plane (“Good show, whoever it is”, responds
Foskett to the sight of Sidney parachuting to the finish line). His blissful “Quite pleasant actually” as the wind
blows up his kilt carries with it the delight of an uptight man letting his
mask slip for a moment. Jeffries exaggerated accent gets laughs even at
inconsequential lines; startled by a disturbed birds, he responds “Bards, just wee bards Frightened the life
outta me”.
Mostly, though, McGregor is defined by his resolute
failures; “Give me back my flower!”
he cries plaintively as Annabelle careers away in her sports car. His
apparently crafty plan to retrieve the Lutine Bell from the Thames is memorably
curtailed by the realisation that it is low tide, so his procurement of a deep
sea divers suit is to no avail (Morton has fetched it forth earlier); Winner’s
use of still frame jump cuts to show this scene is one of his better
innovations in the picture, helping to maintain a sprightly, poppy tone.
There’s more poking at McGregor’s nationality when Clive
Dunn (playing an old man even here, despite being 45) refers to him as a “foreign gentleman” (“I’ve had dealings with you foreigners before”).
His own national pride is highlighted during a moment of wistful absurdity; his
eye for the ladies comes to the fore as he notes of Miss Tarnet, “She’s a fine piece, that. A fine piece.
Scots blood there alright”.
Clegg: Dig? Me? I’m a married man.
Which leaves only Sergeant Clegg of the Royal Engineers, the
man who never gets out of the maze. Well, he does but he ends up right back in
it again. Cribbins was at the tail end of his junior sidekick phase at the time
(despite being in his late 30s), and Clegg is the epitome of the unimaginative
everyman. Being an engineer he can only think about his captivity in linear
fashion. Every breakout is forlorn, whether it’s coming up in Foskett’s bedroom,
under Lockwood’s chair or a soldier who has “come across him in the rhododendrons”.
Cribbins’ little man is
patronised by his officers (they treat him rather like a poorly pet). Thus Clegg,
who has nine kiddies (!), is losing it by the time he digs a tunnel to the
finishing line, tripping up McGregor with his spade (Clegg swipes his items).
He is understandably petulant when he discovers that all his effort was for
nothing (“I said you know what you can do
with the army”) before being barked into line by the Scotsman (“Remember you’re a soldier!”) Jeffries
and Cribbins have such good chemistry, it’s a shame Cribbins is relegated to
his own little plot thread throughout.
The gourmand director delivers his comic set pieces with zip if not exactly
panache, from the helicopter escape and the subsequent “fox” hunt (commonly
used at the time – and much dated – is the sped up comedy footage) to the
catalogue of disasters that beset the attempts to lift the Lutine Bell. Less
overtly humorous are the scenes involving the Miss Tarnet’s press office, with
the lines of fake autograph signers and fake hair suppliers.
There’s a sense that Winner and Hackney are
taking particular delight in shattering the illusions of a youth industry that
is all window dressing; The Cavemen
even wear animal skins, so manufactured have pop groups become in the few years
since The Beatles arrived. There’s
also the competition between autograph signers, an added bizarreness (Damaris
Hayman. Miss Hawthorne in Doctor Who’s
The Daemons, plays one of the eager
signers).
Winner’s scene transitions are continually inventive, from
animated cutting to take us to Clegg still beavering away, to keyhole and bell
shapes. He also favours the aforementioned fast cutting of still photos,
jazzily forwarding the narrative in seconds rather than providing a whole
scene. Accompanying this is a hugely enjoyable, playful score from Laurie
Johnson (of The Avengers and The Professionals fame). Johnson’s
contribution to the irrepressible energy of the picture is vital.
I couldn’t argue You
Must Be Joking!’s case objectively (and as titles go Joking’s isn’t the most illustrative or enticing). I know it’s a
Michael Winner movie. I know it’s derivative of a well-worn genre. And I know
the screenplay isn’t the most finely honed of specimens. I couldn’t even argue
that it ends on a satisfying note (Morton really shouldn’t have walked off with
the prizes). But it’s one of the most exuberant and satisfying of British
comedies, populated by a compendium of comedy performers firing on all
cylinders. Sure, I can point to much sharper films – any elements of satire and
commentary are incidental, rather than the result of a strong point of view –,
but as a whole this a bright, irresistible confection. I’m quite sure many may disagree, but, well, that’s hard cheese.
