Master of Kiwi vernacular, poet of human frailty
There’s something very satisfying about how the son of our greatest politician coincidentally knows our greatest writer and the mother of our greatest comic. From Seddon to Mansfield to Dagg: that’s Pa¯ keha¯ New Zealand culture in a nutshell.
To mark the first anniversary of John Clarke’s death New Zealand on Screen extracted a clip from the 1988 film
and emailed it out to interested parties. It’s 1 minute 18 seconds long and should be required viewing for all. John plays a used car salesman, improbably named ‘‘Cyril’’, who is attempting to offload a Mark III Zephyr to the protagonist, Temuera Morrison. Quite apart from the Fred-Dagg-meets-Jake-the-Muss subtext, it’s a joy to behold the master of the New Zealand vernacular practising his art over a decade after departing our shores. We can rest assured that John wrote his own material. Cyril is an expert in reverse psychology, employing a technique that’s the diametric opposite of the hard sell. He talks the vehicle down, volunteering its faults, if not taking actual pride in them. The sale is concluded in record time. Morrison is putty in his hands.
John’s use of language had that effect. If you paid it the attention it warranted, he won you over so effortlessly that you thought it was your idea. A fan once put this another way, telling him ‘‘what you do is a secret between you and your audience’’. John’s was inclusive humour, grounded in a curiosity about the human condition, plenty of research and contemplation and an innate sense of what made people and institutions tick. Whether the New Zealand farmer, the Australian politician, an accident-prone farnarkeling champion called Dave Sorenson or Cyril the used car salesman, all John’s creations had their own internal logic. No matter what the comic exaggeration, they were all recognisable as ‘‘us’’. Amongst a great many other things, the man was a poet of human frailty.
a posthumous publication of John’s work selected and introduced by his daughter, Lorin, showcases just how many ‘‘other things’’ there were in the genius’s repertoire. From reflections on the character of his ancestors to penetrative essays about his parents and eulogies for departed friends such as Paul Holmes, the book is part autobiography. We learn of John’s origins, of his strained relationship with a still-loved father and a warm, deeply respectful one for a mother whose success as a writer and performer informed John’s own.
I found the material on Neva ClarkeMcKenna to be particularly moving. I had read it before, years ago, after belatedly hearing of her death and emailing condolences. John, the most thoughtful of celebrity correspondents, had replied quickly, providing a link to the essay, which he had posted on his website. His mother’s background had parallels with my father’s family. Dad’s eldest sister was also a Neva and my grandmother was also born in Gisborne, albeit 11 years before John’s mother. There’s every likelihood that the two had crossed paths. John was also well acquainted with Te Karaka, the small settlement inland from Gisborne, where the old Swainson farm was located.
This gave me a special, if slightly irrational thrill, the idea that Fred Dagg knew where my great-grandparents farmed. The sensation was renewed when I spotted a passing reference to Te Karaka in We had the place in common.
The essay on Neva is all about such connections. John’s mother had an eclectic array of friends, some of whom counted amongst the great literary figures of the 20th century. Anthony Burgess, who had just published
entertained John one afternoon in the family kitchen. John A Lee was another visitor. James K Baxter was the postman. Barry Crump was introduced to the proto-Dagg when John was but 12, the man making an impression equal to his work.
Neva’s social group extended to Tom Seddon, the son of the iconic politician Richard Seddon. One day, whilst holidaying in Rotorua, the junior Seddon happened upon a young lady of his acquaintance weeping under a willow. As he consoled Katherine Beauchamp, she told him how she had just turned her heartbreak into ‘‘a marvellous story’’.
There’s something very satisfying about how the son of our greatest politician coincidentally knows our greatest writer and the mother of our greatest comic. From Seddon to Mansfield to Dagg: that’s Pa¯ keha¯ New Zealand culture in a nutshell.
Of course demonstrates that John’s was a world-class talent, one that demanded a stage larger than we could ever afford him. ‘‘Satirist’’ is too reductive a label. The book brims with literary criticism, poetry and history, touches on sport and religion and puts politics to bed. John Clarke was a philosopher.