Well, I’d always felt I could easily answer Mastermind questions on Baxter, the detail of his life growing up in a posh close in Glasgow’s West End near the BBC where he would come to work. Of course, I could trace his career path, the appearances as a seven-year-old on the talent circuit, the radio shows as a young teenager, his stint in the army’s concert party where he and Kenneth Williams created clever variety shows and a very special bromance. And, yes, I could talk about Stanley’s rapid career progress through subsidised and on to commercial theatre, becoming a variety star before leaving for London and starring in the silly but fun film comedies such as Father Came Too. And then came phenomenal television success.
But what did I really learn from the man himself? Well, I’ve tried to explore the experience via categories.
Stanley was a little like Mr Chips, even if the public-school Latin teacher never had gay affairs, dressed up in heels and a bra and danced the salsa with a fruit-salad on turban on his head. The comedy star was a huge font of knowledge, extremely erudite and able to slide effortlessly from discussions on Paul O’Grady’s Lily Savage to the merits of Sartre. (He thought her very funny. Sartre less so.) In public, Stanley even dressed a little like Arthur Chipping; he was never flamboyant, no shiny suits, no bright colours, no soft patent shoes. Instead, he enjoyed the armoury of heterosexuality which a tweed suit and a stiff brogue strongly suggested.
And like Mr Chips, Stanley was incredibly punctilious and punctual, almost to the second. “Arrive at 1pm,” he said of our first meeting at his lovely art deco home in London’s Highgate Village. And he meant 1pm. And we’d eat lunch until 1.30, chat ’till 3.30 and then stroll around the village or Hampstead. At 6pm on the dot we’d have G&Ts, always poured with a mischievous smile. (“Not so large this time, Stanley”). And at 7pm we’d continue chatting at his favourite Italian restaurant, where he sat with his back to the wall. “I like to see my audience,” he admitted.
And I learned much about the delights and sadness in his life. He told me of his complex relationship with his parents, and the performances they gave for most of their lives. Stanley’s mum was a desperate entertainer, a lower middle-class housewife who, in another time would probably have joined an am-dram group and played the role of the haughty duchess in a restoration comedy. And she would have been great at it. Yet, the social mores of the turn of the century period didn’t allow for it and so she created a little star and lived vicariously through him. But she always, always, asked way too much of her pupil. “You MUST do better, Stanley!” When she passed away, Stanley actually admitted it came as some relief. “I loved my mum,” he said in soft voice. “But not every day.”
As for Stanley’s dad? Well, he was a quiet, unassuming actuary who hated the very idea of Stanley becoming an actor and joining the ‘misfits.’ However, Stanley revealed that one day, in his late teens, he went to visit his dad at his Commercial Union office in town. And what struck him was the photo of a handsome young soldier which took centre place on his dad’s desk. Why would his dad have this framed pic? All Fred Baxter would reveal was that the young man had been killed in the war. “Looking back, I think my dad may have been gay. There’s no doubt he loved my mother. But they slept in separate rooms. And I never witnessed a single act of affection. I know this was a different time when people – especially Scots people – didn’t show affection, but never a single cuddle did I see.”
Like the fictional schoolteacher Arthur Chipping, Stanley didn’t easily allow love to intrude into his life. Mr Chips’ wife had died of course, but Stanley’s heart was seemingly dead to possibility after he fell in love with his best friend at school. Yet, the love the 17-year-old felt was unrequited. And he wasn’t going to take the chance on that happening again. By the time Stanley joined the concert party as part of his National Service, fully aware of his sexuality, he proceeded to “graze in the lush fields of opportunity.” Yes, he wanted fun. He loved to have sex. But he loved it to be uncomplicated. Of the moment. It would be many years later before he met Louis and his heart was well and truly captured.
I thought I had an understanding of what it was like to be a gay man in Fifties Britain. I read of the arrests of John Gielgud, Alec Guinness and Wilfrid Brambell. I knew of the Russian spies’ connection with Anthony Blunt and the disgraceful treatment of journalist Peter Wildeblood. But I had no real idea of the true horror of persecution until Stanley spoke of the impact upon his life when he was arrested for Importuning.
He was found Not Guilty in court, but such was his terror of being outed – he knew his career would be over – Stanley was afraid to look any man in the eye in the street. He sought psychiatric help to have his sexuality altered. And he wasn’t being paranoid. His contract with Rank Pictures was effectively cancelled. Stanley felt forced to flee the country, to take off to work in Australia in a farce. I learned that Stanley Baxter hated farce. “Too English. Too silly,” he said, shaking his head. But I also learned that while Stanley built a career on dragging up, on television and in panto, he didn’t consider it a major entertainment form at all. He didn’t like the likes of Danny La Rue. Or rather his act, which was simply dressing up as a woman. “If you’re going to appear as a woman there has to be a point to it. For me, it’s about creating a heightened comedic version of the likes of the women my mother had round for tea. Yet, I wasn’t mocking these women. Just having a little fun with their mannerisms.”
Stanley became a headmaster of expediency. He married Moira Robertson because he really liked this chic, erudite, talented young actress. But also, because she threatened to end her own life if he didn’t. However, the principal reason he agreed to marry this fragile creature was because she offered him safety, protection against being outed as a gay man (practicing homosexuality was illegal in Scotland until 1980). But I learned they were a couple who did love each other, in their own way, remaining incredibly close friends until Moira’s death in 1997.
Mischief
Stanley Baxter and Rikki Fulton checking if it’s time for The Five Past Eight Show at the Alhambra theatre (Image: Newsquest Media Group)
Now, Mr Chipping never did go down this route, but Stanley taught that being a little mischievous in life can be a very, very good thing. A great release. Stanley couldn’t reveal his true predilection for example, but he could strongly hint at it in his television sketches. “My name is Gaylord Beauregarde,” he declared in his wonderful Gone With the Wind pastiche. “But you can call me Gay.”
Angst
What I realised during our two decades together as friends – which included holidaying at his villa in Cyprus – was that Stanley Livingstone Baxter was a classic Gemini, capable of showing incredible confidence and fear, almost at the same time. He taught that we have to try to contain the nerves. Before panto performances he would touch the warm radiator. It became a metaphor for how he hoped the response of the audience would be.
Spotlight-grabbing
While in Paphos, I would drive us to the beach every day in his little Fiat Punto. One day, I began to sing a little bit, something summery like Summer Holiday. Stanley then began to sing, but another song completely. And loudly. Coincidence? I wasn’t sure so I repeated the process the following day. Sure, enough, Stanley leapt in again. The point of the story? What he was saying, indirectly, to every potential performer is it’s perfectly right to grab the spotlight when you can, even if the only the light on your face is coming through the tiny window of an small Italian car as it putts along a Greek island dirt road.
Carpe Diem
What I also gleamed from Stanley was that we should grab at moments when we can be happy. Don’t assume they will simply arrive. Stanley admitted one day that he’d have loved to have the chance to direct. He could have made it happen, but before he knew it the time had passed. Considering what he knew about creating great theatre and television he would have been a great teacher in the Chips league and inspirational figure.
Stanley Baxter was an international class worrier; thanks to the pressure his mother placed upon him to be the very best. And like Mr Chips, he worked immensely hard to succeed. (He would begin working on his panto scripts in July). But I Iearned that sometimes he could well manage a little self-denial, and that’s not a bad thing. When Stanley worked at the Citizens Theatre in 1948, he had dreams of becoming a straight actor. However, although directors and critics realised his dramatic parts so often slid over the edge into comedy, Stanley didn’t. Thankfully, his comedy genius all too often outed itself, and introspection wasn’t called into action.
Complexity
Stanley Baxter underlined that many people, particularly those who work in showbiz, are immensely complicated. They can be shy – yet appear entirely extroverted. They can steer away from showbiz parties for fear of having to make idle chit chat but still have a panto audience of almost 2000 eating out of the palm of their silk-gloved hand. The dichotomy really can’t be explained; it just is.
Stanley was often demanding. “Don’t read that newspaper before me,” he said on holiday. “I like to be the first, to read it fresh.” But he was also extremely giving; he wished to know the detail of my life; he cared about the people who meant so much to me. And he wallowed in the closeness of friendship. “Tell your friends you love them,” he declared. I’m not sure he followed his own advice too often but certainly adored his pop manager pal John Reid; he missed Kenneth Williams and David Bell and Bruce McClure dreadfully. And he had an incredible connection with actor pal David Holt. Stanley certainly loved the attention and praise of other actors. “So delighted you brought Alex Norton up to meet me,” he said of the Two Doors Down star. Such a lovely man.”
And I learned that Stanley Baxter too was a lovely man. Yes, he had his little moments, his continual direction of off-stage life could be a little exacting. But almost all the time spent with the star was terrific. To be around Stanley Baxter was simple a once in a lifetime experience, an awesome education in life and entertainment. And a confirmer he had indeed created the greatest television comedy of any other British performer.
Being Stanley Baxter, BBC1 Scotland, Hogmanay at 10pm.
