Whitehall farce -- as a double act
BACKING INTO THE SPOTLIGHT by Michael Whitehall (Constable £18.99)
FOR a generation of actors, Michael Whitehall was one of the best agents in the business: savvy, urbane, with connections to the biggest movers and shakers in showbusiness.
Then, late in life, came the inspired decision by TV execs to pair him with his actor-comedian son Jack in various talk shows and travelogues, the result of which was that, after years of operating in the shadows, Whitehall found himself backing into the spotlight.
Hence the title of his memoir. Waspish, scurrilous and unashamedly non-PC, the book see-saws between reminiscences of his own upbringing in post-war Kent and his newfound celebrity status in the age of Twitter and Instagram.
Whitehall grew up in that bastion of suburban Britain, Beckenham, the product of a saintly father and social-climbing mother, Nora, whose signature dish was the apogee of respectability: melon with glacé cherry, overcooked roast lamb and sherry trifle, washed down with a bottle of Blue Nun.
Their house was a shrine to all things genteel, including a TV set covered when not in use by a green baize cloth and a knitted doll placed over the loo rolls in the lavatory ( never ‘ toilet’) to save anyone the embarrassment of having to look at them.
Upon leaving home, Whitehall had a dizzying array of jobs, including spells as a shelfstacker, film critic and social secretary to the singer and entertainer Tiny Tim. He also had three stints as a prep school teacher, during which he became friendly with an inspirational English teacher, Charles Bonham.
Despite his talents, Bonham was not a man to share lodgings with.
‘Indelibly etched in my memory,’ recalls Whitehall, ‘is the sight of him lounging in our bath, and with a lit cigarette resting on the soap dish, eating cold baked beans out of a tin, off a very grubby comb.’
Whitehall’s three decades as a leading theatrical agent offer some wonderfully gossipy stories about the acting fraternity, involving (among others) Rex Harrison, Kenneth More and Nigel Davenport.
One of the best tales involves his client and best friend Nigel Havers, whom Whitehall employed in an unlikely role.
Needing to sell their house in Hammersmith, Whitehall arranged that, in addition to the brewing coffee and freshly baked bread awaiting potential purchasers, the nation’s favourite charmer would be discovered having a cuppa at the kitchen table.
When a starry-eyed divorcee came to inspect the property for a second time, Havers duly played a blinder. ‘I’m thinking of buying the house up the road,’ he purred. ‘It would be great to have you as a neighbour.’
Needless to say, the woman bought the property on the spot — and Havers was never seen in the street again.
Now in his eighth decade, Whitehall is a fine raconteur, gloriously unreconstructed and still deeply suspicious of modernity.