Adventures In The Screen Trade… August 31, 2006
Posted by John Hodson in : General, Film General , 2 commentsThe death of Glenn Ford - briefly, one of Hollywood’s brightest shining stars, and who famously, William Goldman tells us, Paul Newman didn’t want to be - brings to mind the brushes I had with a couple of my Tinsel Town heroes as a bright eyed and bushy tailed junior on one ‘those’ small town local rags in South Lancashire.
You know the type I mean; headlines such as ‘Man Trips Over Kerb’, ‘Town Empties for Wakes Week’ or ‘Mayoral Chain - The Big Debate’. In the case of Glenn Ford it was ‘Hollywood Star Comes to Horwich’; for the Canadian born Ford’s family hailed from that sleepy little town between Bolton and Chorley. And in the late ’70s, his visit was big news.
Ford was no longer a big star by then of course, but for the Horwich & Westhoughton Journal it just pipped ‘Councillor Warns of Pond Danger’ as the lead story. And he had, relatively recently, taken the role of Pa Kent in Superman that had sparked many a fan to remark: ‘Good grief, is he still going?’ Unfortunately, Mr Ford proved to be the shy retiring type; he flew in, he flew out again, and we had to rely on such second hand quotes as: ‘He’s a lovely man; no edge to him’ (’edge’ being considered the reserve of the ‘posh’). ‘Took three sugars in his tea and in a chipped mug. No complaints.’ Well, it seemed like that. ‘Superman’s Dad; Lovely Man’ might even have been the following edition’s headline.
And I never did get to meet him to tell him I thought he was smashing in The Big Heat…
The second (not very) close encounter, albeit post-mortem, occurred when Robert Shaw died of a heart attack at the end of August in 1978. The son of old Doctor Tom Shaw, the future star of A Man for All Seasons and Jaws had been born in Westhoughton where his father was a G.P., and something of a local character.
Doctor Tom, in the best tradition of the Irish stock character, was renowned for his fondness for taking the occasional nip. Fortunately, as he made his rounds in a buggy, the horse was well-used to his master being, shall we say, asleep at the wheel, and would often return him home, sat bolt upright on the narrow sprung seat, bowler at a jaunty angle, snoring loudly.
The mere mention of his name brought a smile to many a lip decades after the Shaw family upped and left the little Lancashire town, and when young Robert, (who would only have been a very small child when he departed), made it big, ‘Howfen’ (as it was known in local ‘Lanky’ dialect) claimed him as one of its own. Which is why, next to the column reviewing the Sacred Heart Dramatic Society’s latest farce (the farce was usually a drama, by the way), or the Anderton Choral Group’s musical hit (hmmm; their Sound of Music was particularly, ah, memorable), there would often be a couple of paragraphs on ‘Westhoughton Man in TV hit’ or ‘Next Stop Hollywood for Shaw!’
So, Robert dies. He’s front page news right around the world; so why should we be any different? The editor gets it into his head that for some unaccountable reason, his family is going to have the remains shipped over from his beloved Ireland to have him buried in his birthplace. I have to stake out the local cemetery. Seriously.
I first nip over to the Presbytery and quiz the priest, an amiable middle-aged Irishman (there are the usual rumours surrounding his relationship with his housekeeper; he’s wary of any approach by Her Majesty’s Press). I ask the question, and, head peeping round the narrowest door gap, he responds: ‘Good God no!’ He laughs nervously, shoots me a shy, ’see-I’ve-nothing-to-hide’ smile, then adds, fatally, ‘…at least, I haven’t been informed.’ So I’m to keep a watch on the churchyard for any signs of a grave being dug (and then I would ask who it’s for, which added to the growing suspicion that I was a looney). Oh, and ring the crem, because you never know. And we’ve got the number of his agent, so give him a bell. The laughs, at each and every enquiry, grew louder. Groan.
I was finally released from this hell when - surprise, surprise - Robert was buried ‘neath the green sod of auld Ireland. But even that was worthy of a sniffy ‘Snub for Westhoughton’ piece; though that hasn’t stopped them putting a plaque on one of the several houses Doctor Tom owned during his tenure, and naming a pub after his illustrious son.
Ah, showbiz - bright lights, the smell of money, hot and cold running women (no, wait; I’m describing the Amusement Arcade on Market Street…)