Taking us on a journey through Peter Sellers’ silver screen arrival, Studiocanal’s sublime collection of beautifully restored films features a diverse mix of some of the finest British comedy and drama ever committed to celluloid.
Tracing Sellers’ career from Ealing Comedy to the British Lion years, what stands out is Sellers’ undisputed crown as a master of character creation, mimicry and disguise and his place as one of the finest and most complex character actors and comedians of the 20th Century. But what is also clear is that all of Sellers’ earliest movies had one thing in common: the challenges of a changing post-war Britain.
The collection opens with Alexander Mackendrick’s The Ladykillers, one of the best British movies of the post-war era, and one that feels as fresh and distinctive today as when it arrived on the silver screen in 1955. Often copied, from the Coen Brothers’ misjudged remake to Charles Crichton and John Cleese’s homage, A Fish Called Wanda, none have matched the wit, charm and comedic prowess of Mackendrick’s film, written by William Rose and Jimmy O’Connor.
The set-up is rather simple: the utterly amazing Alec Guinness as the snaggle-toothed Professor Marcus rents a room in the house of an eccentric, gentle but morally formidable old lady, Mrs Wilberforce, the enigmatic Katie Johnson, who lives in a crooked house near St Pancras train station. But Guinness’s rather creepy and cunning ‘Professor” is hiding a secret.
Convincing Mrs Wilberforce that he and his friends, Major (Cecil Parker), Louis (Herbert Lom), Harry (Sellers) and One-Round (Danny Green) are a string quartet, the classical record they play to cover their lack of musical ability hides there true motives: a haphazardly planned robbery at King’s Cross, where Mrs Wilberforce will be the decoy, unknowingly carrying the loot home to them. Of course, once the robbery is complete, the charade breaks, and as Mrs Wilberforce gets wind of the events, unity within our hapless group of robbers soon begins to wane.
With stunning backdrops of St Pancras and King’s Cross covered in soot, The Ladykillers represented a country at a turning point. The Empire of the past was crumbling away, and the crooked houses and dilapidated buildings symbolised a country that still hadn’t recovered from the war. There are echoes of Carol Reed’s The Third Man, which also reflected a crumbling society broken by war. Yet, The Ladykillers is also unmistakably an Ealing Comedy, in the same vein as Kind Hearts and Coronets. However, like Mrs Wilberforce’s house, Ealing was also beginning to crumble; in the same year The Ladykillers hit cinema screens, Sir Michael Balcon would sell the studio, taking the first step towards the studio’s eventual dissolution in 1959.
Remembered rightly for Alec Guinness’s, Karie Johnson’s, and Herbert Lom’s sublime performances, Sellers’ performance as Teddy Boy criminal Harry is rarely discussed as one of his best. Yet The Ladykillers was a significant step forward for Sellers in his silver screen career, and one that undeniably set the scene for the next film in our collection, The Smallest Show on Earth (1957).
Unlike The Ladykillers, Basil Dearden’s The Smallest Show on Earth allowed Sellers’ skills as a master of disguise and character development to come to the fore, while cementing his place at the heart of British Lion Studios for years to come. Co-written by William Rose (The Ladykillers), The Smallest Show on Earth in many ways feels like a classic Ealing Comedy. Yet, times were changing in British film production, just as they were in the landscape of cinema exhibition, and it’s here that Dearden’s movie finds its unique voice.
Throughout the 1950s, smaller historical community cinemas were lost to developers – cinemas that were unfairly and regularly labelled ‘flea pits.’ Picture Palaces, such as the Granada, ABC and Odeon circuits, reigned supreme in the fight against a newly emerging challenge: TV. Smaller filmhouses that had largely played X-rated movies, reruns of classics, and smaller releases faced the might of the Picture Palace and, in many cases, the wrecking ball. Just three decades later, the mighty cathedrals of film would face the same reckoning as the multiplex arrived.
When Matt (Bill Travers) and Jean (Virginia McKenna) inherit a cinema from Bill’s reclusive uncle, their thoughts immediately stray toward a Picture Palace. As they arrive in the small town Bill’s uncle called home, a stunning Art Deco cinema in the centre of town makes their hearts race. Unfortunately, the executor of the will (Leslie Phillips) is about to burst their bubble, as he reveals that the cinema they now own isn’t the huge cathedral of film in town, but is in fact the much older music hall turned cinema Bijou Kinema, just around the corner.
Situated right next to a busy railway line, the Bijou rattles every time a train goes by, its once-ornate walls and interior now a home to spiders, rats, and decay. Bill’s uncle lived on site, and with his small ragtag band of elderly employees, ticket office manager Mrs Fazackalee (Margaret Rutherford), confused caretaker Old Tom (Bernard Miles) and alcoholic projectionist Percy Quill (Sellers), he kept the old building open despite the competition. But can Matt and Jean do the same? And do they even want to, when money is on the table to knock it down?
The Smallest Show on Earth is, in essence, a love letter to cinema and to the community venues that were being lost at the time. But what really stands out is Sellers’ transformation into an elderly alcoholic projectionist, who is the last person around who knows how to operate the Bijou’s ancient projection equipment. It’s worth remembering that Sellers was only 31 at the time of the release of The Smallest Show on Earth, yet his performance convinces us he is the same age as the characters his two co-stars, Rutherford (65) and Miles (50), play. This mastery of disguise and character development, which would become his hallmark, would also take centre stage in the next film in the collection, Carlton-Browne of the F.O. (1959).
Great Britain and its vast Empire may have emerged from the Second World War as victors. Still, the global fallout from a new world order in which the United States of America and the Soviet Union dominated global politics was only just beginning.
Great Britain was, to all intents and purposes, broke when the war ended, with rationing still affecting its population. Loans would help to heal some of these wounds, but one thing was unavoidable: the British Empire was over, and a new world order had begun. Eager to exit the countries that fought alongside us during World War II, British foreign policy officials hurriedly drew up plans to leave countries, and the term “partition” became a buzzword for managing Britain’s decision to reshape its place on the world stage. This was despite those partitions leading to substantial conflict and division in countries where the British had previously used them, including Northern Ireland.
The Boulting Brothers always had a keen eye for exploring the socio-political themes that made Britain tick, often taking a scalpel to British politics, class structure, and history through social satire. They were the embodiment of the British ability to laugh at oneself, and each of their films in this collection is a testament to that. It could be for that reason that the Boulting Brothers and Sellers developed such a strong partnership for many years.
In Carlton-Browne of the F.O., it was the upper-class boys’ club of the Foreign Office, and the rush to reshape, offload, but retain some influence over colonial territories that came under the Boulting Brothers’ microscope. Carlton-Browne of the F.O. is a tightly honed and beautifully performed dig at British foreign policy during the 1950s, and one that, like many of the Boulting Brothers films, feels just as relevant in today’s world as it did in 1959.
Roy Boulting and Jeffery Dell’s film is the tale of a long-forgotten British colony, Gaillardia, where self-rule was granted years ago but, for some reason, the message didn’t quite get through. Nobody in the British establishment has ever heard of this small Pacific island; their feelings are summarised by a newspaper headline that asks, ‘Gaillardia, where is it?’ ‘What is it?’ ‘And why is it?’
The job of unpicking this knotty situation is placed on the desk of Carlton-Browne (the fantastic Terry Thomas), a charming and utterly clueless foreign-office diplomat who is only there because of his father’s reputation. However, Carlton-Browne’s job is about to become even trickier when the reigning King of Gaillardia is blown up during a British Council Morris dancing performance, presumably by the Russians, and his Oxford University son (Ian Bannen) hurriedly returns to the island to take the throne.
So Carlton-Browne and his equally clueless army chaperone are dispatched to the island to ensure British interests are protected at all costs, as rival factions vie for control in a country governed by Señor Amphibulos (Sellers), a corrupt Prime Minister far more interested in lining his own pockets.
Titled The Man with the Crooked Hat in the United States, Boulting and Dell’s film is very much a Terry Thomas picture, with his wonderful performance the glue that holds together a series of delightful comedy set-pieces. Sellers is on form as Amphibulos, yet we don’t see enough of him for his perfectly drawn character to step fully from the celluloid shadows. That said, in true Sellers’ style, when he is centre stage, for example, in the brilliant arrival of Carlton-Browne and Colonel Bellingham of the Bays (Thorley Walters), he steals the show.
There’s a lot to love in this deliciously satirical tale of the end of Empire and the heating up of the Cold War, and while it occasionally feels rushed in pulling all the strings together, it is a joy to behold all the same. With an ensemble cast that includes Nicholas Parsons, John Le Mesurier, Luciana Paluzzi, and a small appearance from the wonderful Irene Handl, Carlton-Browne of the F.O. is a British comedy gem that, sadly, isn’t discussed enough among cinephiles despite its modern-day relevance. I can only hope the immaculate restoration from Studiocanal brings Boulting and Dell’s film the fresh appraisal it so richly deserves.
Having explored the lament of Empire, the Boulting Brothers turned their eye to the Trade Union movement, class conflict and labour relations in I’m Alright Jack (1959), and once again Sellers would also return, this time as union shop steward Fred Kite, in a film that remains one of his best.
I’m Alright Jack allowed Sellers to take the lead alongside Ian Carmichael’s Stanley Windrush, a manipulated aristocrat placed on the factory floor for ulterior motives by his rampant capitalist uncle (Dennis Price) and a fellow factory owner played by Richard Attenborough. Sellers’ Lenin-worshipping, well-meaning, power-hungry and militant shop steward steals the show as the Boulting Brothers explore post-war austerity, capitalism, industrial relations, and race relations, with the latter slightly ham-fisted in its exploration (something they would remedy in Heavens Above!).
With a stellar cast including Terry Thomas as a manipulative HR manager, Margaret Rutherford as Windrush’s aunt and the always-amazing Irene Handl as Mrs Kite, I’m Alright Jack isn’t just one of the Boulting Brothers’ most satirically sharp explorations of post-war Britain; it’s one of the best British films of the era alongside The Ladykillers. It’s also the film that finally gave Sellers the space to take centre stage, paving the way for his leading-man status in the movies still to come and his eventual move to Hollywood in the mid-1960s.
Two Way Stretch (1960) would see Sellers take on the role of Dodger Lane, a criminal genius and leader of a tight-knit bunch of prisoners including David Lodge and the fabulous Bernard Cribbins, who hatch a plot to commit the ultimate crime with a perfect alibi, the caniveing and wholly untrustworthy Soapy Stevens (Wilfrid Hyde-White). Along with his misfit crew, Dodger plans to escape from prison, steal a priceless cache of diamonds and then return to his cell before any of the guards, including the hard-nosed Crout (Lionel Jeffries) and the Governor (Maurice Denham), notice. But who said being a criminal mastermind was easy?
Two Way Stretch, directed by Robert Day and written by John Warren, Len Heath, and Alan Hackney, is a true British crime caper classic, and much of this is down to expertly written characters and the outstanding performances that embrace just how ridiculous the whole premise is, especially given that Dodger and Co. only have a few days left of their prison sentence!
Based on the novel ‘That Uncertain Feeling’ by Kingsley Amis, Only Two Can Play (1962) is one of the most fascinating of Sellers’ films from the British Lion years. Released with an X Certificate in British cinemas, many expected Only Two Can Play to be a classic relationship comedy, yet Sidney Gilliat’s film isn’t a straightforward comedy or farce, nor is it a 60s’ kitchen sink drama; it’s a fascinating hybrid mix of all three.
Only Two Can Play took Sellers in a different direction. At a time when his first marriage to Anne Howe in 1951 had hit the buffers, Only Two Can Play hinted toward Sellers’ personal turmoil in life and love, creating a performance that remains fascinating to watch. Sellers plays John Lewis, a Welsh library clerk and town theatre critic, married to a loving wife with two children living in a rundown flat in a shared house. John Lewis dreams of escape, longs for something new, including women and sex, and wants nothing more than to walk away from the monotony of his life.
His long-suffering wife, Jean (Virginia Maskell), knows he is unhappy, and from the outset, it’s also clear she knows he looks at other women. So Jean attempts to persuade John to apply for an upcoming promotion at work that would raise John’s salary and make life easier for both of them. However, John knows that any promotion opportunity will also see his henpecked colleague Jenkins (Kenneth Griffith) apply, and Jenkins has much more knowledge of the Welsh language than he does; a sure winner at any interview. But that’s all about to change as John meets married socialite Liz Gruffydd-Williams (Mai Zetterling), who changes her male concubine more regularly than her perfume.
Liz clearly wants John, and John thinks he wants Liz, and so begins an affair that never really gets off the starting line. Meanwhile, Jean starts to explore her own escape with John’s arch-nemesis, the local poet and playwright Gareth Probert (the brilliant Richard Attenborough). John’s about to learn that the grass isn’t always greener, no matter how much you think you want to switch things up.
With a cracking ensemble cast featuring John Arnatt, John Le Mesurier, Sheila Manahan and more, and a killer score composed by Richard Rodney Bennett, who would later score Murder on the Orient Express, Only Two Can Play is not only a carefully crafted drama, but one of Sellers’ most honest performances. Sellers was a master of disguise and a genius in character creation. However, in Only Two Can Play, there is no elaborate mask for him to hide behind, in a story that very much reflected the demons sitting on Sellers’ shoulders as his first marriage collapsed. There’s an honesty in Sellers’ portrait of John Lewis that feels rare in his silver screen career. John isn’t necessarily likeable; he is flawed, selfish and always seeking something and someone else. Nothing in his life quite seems to fit; much like Sellers.
Peter Sellers’ behaviour behind the scenes of Only Two Can Play was volatile, especially toward his co-star Virginia Maskell, who would tragically die just five years later following post-natal depression. Maybe that behaviour was down to Sidney Gilliat’s film feeling too close to home? We may never know the answer to that question, but it’s a question that makes Only Two Can Play one of the most fascinating films and performances of Sellers’ early career.
Following roles in Waltz of the Toreadors, The Dock Brief and Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita, the next film in our collection would see Sellers reunite with Cribbins and Jeffries for another crime caper, The Wrong Arm of the Law (1963), directed by Cliff Owen.
1963 was a transformational year for Sellers; not only did it see his final collaboration with the Boulting Brothers, which I will explore later in this article, but it also saw Sellers bring Inspector Jacques Clouseau to life in Blake Edwards’ The Pink Panther. Of the three films bearing Peter Sellers’ name in 1963, The Wrong Arm of the Law is the least discussed. This delightfully entertaining, tongue-in-cheek crime caper sees Peter Sellers play the quick-witted crime boss Pearly Gates, who hides his criminal activities by disguising himself as a French fashion designer (marks for spotting the closeness of Sellers’ accent to Clouseau).
However, as a new criminal gang enters town posing as police officers, Sellers’ and Cribbins’ crime syndicate find themselves entering into a farcical alliance with Lionel Jeffries’ Inspector ‘Nosey’ Parker, who is keen to impress his boss, the always brilliant John Le Mesurier. While Bernard Cribbins doesn’t get half the screen time he deserves, Sellers and Jeffries steal the show. Add the impressive direction of Owen, and Galton, Simpson and Antrobus’ brilliantly sharp screenplay and The Wrong Arm of the Law ticks pretty much every box in the classic British crime caper. Plus, top marks for anyone who spots Dick Emery and Michael Caine in uncredited supporting roles.
Heavens Above! (1963) was to be the final collaboration between the Boulting Brothers and Sellers, as Hollywood called. By the early 1960s, British society was undergoing a radical transformation, as a new generation challenged the foundations of post-war 1950s conservatism like never before. Having already explored these significant societal shifts and changes in relation to the armed forces in Private’s Progress, international relations in Carlton-Browne of the F.O. and trade unionism in I’m All Right Jack, it was only a matter of time before the Boulter Brothers took a scalpel to the Church of England in Heavens Above!
Heavens Above! arrived in cinemas four years before John Lennon famously said “we’re more popular than Jesus,” during a Beatles press conference. It was a comment that was taken entirely out of context in the United States, causing a major fuss for The Beatles. Of course, we know that Lennon was in no way comparing The Beatles to Jesus, but simply stating that while many Britons would self-describe as Christian, British society was in fact becoming far more secular.
Heavens Above! also explores this march toward secularism as Reverend John Smallwood (Sellers), a naïve but passionate and quietly revolutionary man of the cloth, arrives in the small town of Orbiston Parva following an administrative error that should have seen a different, less radical Reverend Smallwood (Ian Carmichael) hold the keys to the vicarage and church.
Orbiston Parva has long been in the pocket of the wealthy Despard family, whose drug factory makes Tranquilax, a three-in-one sedative, painkiller, and laxative. People don’t have time for the church or its teachings. Still, Smallwood is determined to change that and challenge the town’s religious apathy with his belief that God is love, Christianity is kindness, and there’s no mistaking the real three-in-one: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Within hours of arriving, Smallwood’s choice of Church Warden is met with controversy by the local elite, as he hires the equally gentle and passionate local dustman, Matthew (Brock Peters), to serve in this role. The controversy has nothing to do with Matthew being a dustman; it’s purely because of the colour of his skin, even if, in true British style, that’s never directly mentioned. Then there is Smallwood’s decision to take a large family of squatters, the Smiths, led by the fabulous Eric Sykes, Irene Handl, Miriam Karlin, and Roy Kinnear, into the sprawling local vicarage on their eviction from a field designated for factory expansion, much to the disdain of Major Fowler (William Hartnell).
However, Smallwood is about to earn the allegiance of Lady Despard (Isabel Jeans) as plans to distribute free food to the townsfolk take shape, a decision that will ultimately lead to chaos, greed, and conflict in Orbiston Parva. While many point to the critique of Britain’s growing secularism, like most of the Boulter Brothers’ films, Heavens Above! is in reality a layered and complex exploration of many social topics from religion to class, capitalism, charity, and the newly formed welfare state, and it’s themes continue to speak to us today through increasing poverty, the use of food banks and the growing wealth of the uber-rich.
Sellers channels a Brummie-born, God-fearing brother from his past at St Aloysius’ College in Highgate, run by the Brothers of Our Lady of Mercy, in bringing John Smallwood to the screen. It’s a subdued comic performance, one that centres on the emotions, beliefs, and deeds of a compassionate, good man, facing the realities of a world that will never match his doctrine. It’s in Sellers’ ability to capture quiet moments of reflection as the utopian world of Smallwood begins to collapse under the pressure of human greed and consumption that Heavens Above! hits its stride in what is undoubtedly one of Sellers’ most underrated characters and performances.
Studiocanal’s beautifully restored Peter Sellers Collection isn’t just a must-own for fans of Sellers; it’s an unmissable exploration of British filmmaking at its boldest, most brazen, and brilliant best. Pre-order now.
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