"I went to see him in it," Alec Guinness noted. "It was pretty lousy. Sellers knew I was in the stalls. Suddenly, in the middle of a speech, he came down to the footlights and saluted and said, 'That's to you, Captain Guinness!' The audience had no idea what he was talking about."

McKern remembered that one night Peter's inventions got the best of him after he showed up for the performance absolutely drunk. It was, in McKern's description, "after some kind of reception or other." Actually, it was after a party thrown in honor of Alec Guinness's knighthood. Peter had stopped by on his way to the Aldwych. Beaujolais flowed, much of it into Peter's glass. Kenneth Tynan picks up the tale: "He arrived at the theater beamingly tight and admitted as much to the audience; 'I am sloshed,' he said, and offered refunds to those who wanted them. Few did, and he went on to give a striking, if bizarre, performance."

Unfortunately, it wasn't just a single night's worth of Beaujolais that was talking. By the first week of December, having appeared in Brouhaha Brouhaha steadily for five months-not to mention the fact that he was already shooting his next picture, in which he starred as three different characters, the male lead and two supporting roles-Peter had grown sick of the theater. He casually mentioned this fact to the press. steadily for five months-not to mention the fact that he was already shooting his next picture, in which he starred as three different characters, the male lead and two supporting roles-Peter had grown sick of the theater. He casually mentioned this fact to the press.

"Very bored" were the precise words Peter chose to describe his experience as the star of a West End hit. He went on to add that he was only giving "about two good performances a week" and was thinking about leaving the show.

Brouhaha's presenters, the International Playwright's Theatre, Ltd., were most displeased by this interview, having put up with Sellers's lack of theatrical discipline all along. Dennis Selinger later said that he "used to get two or three phone calls a week from the management, saying 'Come down here, he's done something terrible.'" This time it was different, though. Peter had gone public. were most displeased by this interview, having put up with Sellers's lack of theatrical discipline all along. Dennis Selinger later said that he "used to get two or three phone calls a week from the management, saying 'Come down here, he's done something terrible.'" This time it was different, though. Peter had gone public.

The firm quickly issued a multipronged statement: Peter Sellers had signed a run-of-the-play contract for Brouhaha Brouhaha; Peter Sellers, under the terms of his contract, could give four-weeks notice beginning in February 1959; Peter Sellers had not given, and at that time was not in a position to give, four-weeks notice to end his participation in Brouhaha Brouhaha; and, finally, Peter Sellers's contract stated that "he shall appear at all performances and perform... in a diligent and painstaking manner and shall play the part as directed by the manager."

Peter Sellers was contrite, at least in public. "What I meant," he told the press, who were only just beginning to sniff the first wisps of an aroma that promised to ripen over the years, "was what any West End actor will tell you-that you are only at your best two nights a week. You do your best every night, but it doesn't always come over."

He gave notice on February 1 and the show closed four weeks later.

Peter Hall, who had accommodated as best he could his one-time-only star's tendency to make unscheduled entrances whenever he was fatigued by the nightly routine of stage acting, described Peter in retrospect: "He was as good an actor as Alec Guinness, as good an actor as Laurence Olivier. And he had the ability to identify completely with another person-to get physically and mentally and emotionally into their skin. Where does that come from? I have no idea. Is it a curse? Often.

"It's not enough in this business to have talent," Hall continued, knowing the end of the story. "You have to have talent to handle the talent, and that, I think, Peter did not have. I think he was a genius. And I think his perfectionism made him extremely neurotic, extremely selfish."

Hall, who was later knighted, believes that a director can only throw up his hands in the face of such a psyche. Many other directors would find themselves in the same situation in the years to come.

"I mean, I'm sure the play or the film was always about him him in his view. It's no good arguing with that." in his view. It's no good arguing with that."

EIGHT.

Walter Shenson, the London-based head of European publicity for Columbia Pictures, ran into Tyrone Power on the street one day in 1958. Power mentioned the novel he happened to be reading at the time and recommended it to Shenson, who read it, bought the film rights, and thereby turned himself into an independent producer. The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared (1959) was his first picture. (1959) was his first picture.

There was something odd about Peter Sellers's interest in signing onto this particular production. Having never produced a film in his life, Walter Shenson was not exactly in the top ranks of the profession when he approached Sellers through Dennis Selinger. But as Shenson recalled, "Peter said he wanted to meet me. The first thing he said to me was, 'Are you a producer?' I said, 'Well, if I make this picture I'll be a producer.'

"What I found out later was that the clairvoyant he used to talk to every morning had said to him-something rather obvious to Peter Sellers-'An American producer is going to ask you to be in a film.' I don't even think he'd read the script yet when he wanted to meet me, because the first question he said to me was, 'Are you a producer?' He could see I was an American."

The clairvoyant in question was Maurice Woodruff, a nationally syndicated columnist of the old Jeanne Dixon school. In short, Woodruff was a showman and a fraud. Peter began to rely on him.

Peter had been superstitious since at least his teens. Later on, he added a bit of paranoia; his postwar girlfriend Hilda Parkin states that he used to insist "that 'mad mullahs' haunted him whenever he slept in a certain four-poster bed in one of my relatives' homes in Peterborough." Now he turned to a syndicated soothsayer.

"He would live, die, and breathe by Maurice Woodruff," the director Bryan Forbes declares. "He wouldn't take a foot outside the house unless he'd spoken to Maurice." Woodruff had seen his mark. Bryan Forbes declares. "He wouldn't take a foot outside the house unless he'd spoken to Maurice." Woodruff had seen his mark.

In Graham Stark's view, Woodruff "clung like a leech."

The Mouse That Roared is a satirical comedy. The Grand Duchy of Fenwick has fallen on hard times. To extract foreign aid from the Americans, the Prime Minister concocts a war with the United States. The express purpose is to lose immediately and reap thereafter the benefits of Marshall Planlike foreign aid. is a satirical comedy. The Grand Duchy of Fenwick has fallen on hard times. To extract foreign aid from the Americans, the Prime Minister concocts a war with the United States. The express purpose is to lose immediately and reap thereafter the benefits of Marshall Planlike foreign aid.

At first, Shenson only considered Peter for the role of Tully Bascombe, the bland and well-meaning gamekeeper who leads the Fenwick forces against the United States-and wins. But another Columbia executive mentioned the idea of Peter playing two supporting roles as well, and despite Peter's later claim that he resisted the notion, he told Shenson at the time that he knew he could play all three: Tully; Prime Minister Mountjoy, a goateed aristocrat; and the Grand Duchess Gloriana XII, a full-figured regent. As it happened, Sellers was least least comfortable playing Tully, the role he'd originally been offered and the most lifelike of the three: "I don't quite have a handle on the leading guy," he confessed, "but we'll come up with something." comfortable playing Tully, the role he'd originally been offered and the most lifelike of the three: "I don't quite have a handle on the leading guy," he confessed, "but we'll come up with something."

Whether because of the original benevolent augury or simple good will, Peter caused no trouble during the production of The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared. "He got along with everybody," Walter Shenson said. "I think he liked the idea of working for Americans." Peter's costar, Jean Seberg, later told a reporter that "to work with him is to love him. He's angelic."

The film's director, Jack Arnold, described him in somewhat more detail: "Peter was a marvelous improvisational actor, brilliant if you got him on the first take. The second take would be good, but after the third take he could be really awful. If he had to repeat the same words too many times they became meaningless. But it was such a joy to work with Peter because he was such an inspired actor. Sometimes he would literally knock me off my feet. I'd fall down convulsed with laughter."

With Peter having to rush back to the Aldwych nearly every evening to star in Brouhaha Brouhaha, filming of The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared began in mid-October with three weeks on location in Surrey and on the Channel coast. The production moved on to Shepperton sound stages on November 10. Despite the general goodwill on the set, Arnold described the first day of began in mid-October with three weeks on location in Surrey and on the Channel coast. The production moved on to Shepperton sound stages on November 10. Despite the general goodwill on the set, Arnold described the first day of shooting as being somewhat tense, owing to the seemingly countless takes it took Jean Seberg to get her lines right. Seberg was used to being directed, at times to the point of browbeating, by Otto Preminger, for whom she had starred in two dramas, shooting as being somewhat tense, owing to the seemingly countless takes it took Jean Seberg to get her lines right. Seberg was used to being directed, at times to the point of browbeating, by Otto Preminger, for whom she had starred in two dramas, Saint Joan Saint Joan and and Bonjour Tristesse Bonjour Tristesse (both 1957). (Seberg was only seventeen when Preminger cast her in (both 1957). (Seberg was only seventeen when Preminger cast her in Saint Joan Saint Joan, her first film.) The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared, however, was a comedy, the director wasn't a tyrant, and Seberg was consequently cut adrift from her method. According to Arnold, "By take twenty-five Peter didn't know what he was saying either. He was just spouting gibberish. I could see he was really getting crazy."

Seberg's need for multiple takes aside, Peter's schedule was purely grueling-especially after The Goon Show The Goon Show's ninth series began recording in November-so much so that he actually hired an ambulance to whisk him away from each day's shooting of The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared to his evening's performance in to his evening's performance in Brouhaha Brouhaha. It was much better than a limousine or any of his cars. He could lie down.

A bit simplistic but still very funny, The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared did well enough at the box office in England, but it was much more widely popular in the States, probably because its satire struck a more genial note with the benefactors of American foreign relations largesse than it did with the recipients. And while Peter gives one great and two good performances in the film, he hadn't yet achieved the kind of direct, natural rapport with the camera that eventually made him a superstar. Tully is the weakest of the three for exactly that reason; agreeable blandness barely registers on celluloid unless the actor is a technical genius. The two caricatures, Mountjoy and Gloriana, required much less skill because they were built on excess. did well enough at the box office in England, but it was much more widely popular in the States, probably because its satire struck a more genial note with the benefactors of American foreign relations largesse than it did with the recipients. And while Peter gives one great and two good performances in the film, he hadn't yet achieved the kind of direct, natural rapport with the camera that eventually made him a superstar. Tully is the weakest of the three for exactly that reason; agreeable blandness barely registers on celluloid unless the actor is a technical genius. The two caricatures, Mountjoy and Gloriana, required much less skill because they were built on excess.

Gloriana XII remains one of Peter Sellers's greatest creations. With a bust too large and a voice too deep, she's Margaret Rutherford with testes.

Tully pleasantly introduces her to his American captives: TULLY: Your Grace, uh, this is General Snippet-he's a rear general. Your Grace, uh, this is General Snippet-he's a rear general.

SNIPPET: I warn you, Madam, I know the Geneva Convention by heart! I warn you, Madam, I know the Geneva Convention by heart!

GLORIANA: Oh, how nice! You must recite it to me some evening. I'll play the harpsichord! Oh, how nice! You must recite it to me some evening. I'll play the harpsichord!

A few years later, Shenson asked Peter if he'd be interested in starring in the sequel, Mouse on the Moon Mouse on the Moon (1963). Sellers was by that point an international star, so he rather loftily turned Shenson down. In fact, by that (1963). Sellers was by that point an international star, so he rather loftily turned Shenson down. In fact, by that point Peter had stated in public that he never liked point Peter had stated in public that he never liked The Mouse That Roared The Mouse That Roared to begin with. Shenson ended up replacing him with two other actors-Ron Moody and, yes, Margaret Rutherford. (Moody played Mountjoy; there was no Tully.) to begin with. Shenson ended up replacing him with two other actors-Ron Moody and, yes, Margaret Rutherford. (Moody played Mountjoy; there was no Tully.) But Peter did suggest a director for the picture: Richard Lester. "Who's he?" Shenson asked. "He's another American-you met him at my house at my Christmas party." Lester did end up directing Mouse on the Moon Mouse on the Moon for Shenson, after which the producer-director team went on to make for Shenson, after which the producer-director team went on to make A Hard Day's Night A Hard Day's Night (1964). (1964).

One summer day Peter took his new Paillard Bolex 16mm movie camera into an open field at the end of Totteridge Lane in North London and shot some footage of Spike acting up. Dick Lester added some stuff, and the film ended up getting nominated for an Oscar.

The Running Jumping & Standing Still Film (1959) was a game played by buddies-a way of having fun for about 70. Graham Stark pitched in, along with his girlfriend, Audrey (who later became his wife). Joe McGrath did the titles. Bruce Lacey, a props manager at Granada Television, managed to come up with some props. Johnny Vyvyan and David Lodge appeared, as did the comic Mario Fabrizi. (1959) was a game played by buddies-a way of having fun for about 70. Graham Stark pitched in, along with his girlfriend, Audrey (who later became his wife). Joe McGrath did the titles. Bruce Lacey, a props manager at Granada Television, managed to come up with some props. Johnny Vyvyan and David Lodge appeared, as did the comic Mario Fabrizi.

Milligan missed the second day of shooting, which occurred some time after the initial shoot. Bitterness resulted.

Spike: "Most of the jokes in it are mine. I wrote the jokes, and I directed part of it. Then I had to go to Australia, and I left the film with Peter, and Peter gave it to Dick Lester to edit. And he did something I would never do. He put music on it in the background-what for I don't know. Some kind of saxophone player...."

Lester insists on the other hand that "it was written in equal parts by Peter, Spike, and myself."

"We shot only one take for any gag," Lester explains. "When we got the rushes, we took them to Peter's house the next Sunday to edit in his study. The editing, which was really just topping and tailing, took two hours," a process that occurred on a minimal editing machine perched on one of Peter's drums in the attic of St. Fred's. ("Topping and tailing" refers to the process of removing the first and last frames of a piece of film footage and leaving the usable center.) "Every gag we shot, every piece of film that we shot, is in the finished film. We showed it to our wives by projecting it onto the wall in the living room. we shot, is in the finished film. We showed it to our wives by projecting it onto the wall in the living room.

"We never had any plan to distribute it when we made it," Lester claims. "We were just friends who wanted to make a film to enjoy ourselves." Nevertheless, the "just friends" were hungry, ambitious filmmakers. Peter quickly screened it for Herbert Kretzmer, the London television reviewer and fan of the Fred Freds, who told him "You've got to show this around," a supportive but redundant piece of advice, since that was what Peter was already doing.

They transferred their 16mm home movie to 35mm, had it sepia-toned ("daguerreotype pigment made from condensed yak's breath," according to Sellers), and got it into the Edinburgh Film Festival. A scout from the San Francisco Film Festival saw it, and the next thing anyone knew it was nominated for an Academy Award.

The category was Short Subject (Live Action). And since Peter was credited as the film's producer, if The Running Jumping & Standing Still Film The Running Jumping & Standing Still Film won the Oscar, the little man, naked and golden, would be his. won the Oscar, the little man, naked and golden, would be his.

They were up against a French effort, The Golden Fish The Golden Fish, produced by Jacques Cousteau: An Asian boy watches an old, big-nosed man wearing a long black coat and beard, win a beautiful goldfish. It swiftly hides from the evil old man under a rock. After breaking the boy's milk bottle, the old man gives him a coin. The boy places a bet on the goldfish and wins. The Jew winds up with a crummy minnow. Obviously more heartwarming than The Running Jumping & Standing Still Film The Running Jumping & Standing Still Film, The Golden Fish The Golden Fish won. won.

In America, Frank Sinatra had had a hit album in 1955 called Songs for Swingin' Lovers Songs for Swingin' Lovers. In England in 1959, Peter Sellers recorded one of his own: Songs for Swingin' Sellers Songs for Swingin' Sellers. Sinatra's album cover featured a dancing couple beaming into each other's eyes. Peter's featured a tree on the trunk of which hangs a wanted poster with Peter's mug on it; from a high limb hangs a corpse wearing cowboy boots and spurs.

The album begins with a pseudo-Sinatra, an impersonation that even Peter Sellers could not do. Speaking Speaking as Sinatra might have been possible; duplicating that literally inimitable singing voice was not, so a crooner named Matt Monro was hired for the equivalent of about $50. Monro is credited on the album as Fred Flange. as Sinatra might have been possible; duplicating that literally inimitable singing voice was not, so a crooner named Matt Monro was hired for the equivalent of about $50. Monro is credited on the album as Fred Flange.

The actress-comedienne Irene Handl recorded several of the cuts with Peter, including one that skewers BBC radio talk shows. But the highlights are Peter's sniveling, ham-ridden rendition of "My Old Dutch," the song his mother forced him to perform onstage in white tie and tails at age two, a fact that might explain why the contemporary version has a distinctly nasty edge. Then there's a certain Mr. Banerjee's production of Peter, including one that skewers BBC radio talk shows. But the highlights are Peter's sniveling, ham-ridden rendition of "My Old Dutch," the song his mother forced him to perform onstage in white tie and tails at age two, a fact that might explain why the contemporary version has a distinctly nasty edge. Then there's a certain Mr. Banerjee's production of My Fair Lady My Fair Lady: MR. B BANERJEE: I am walking through the marketplace one day at Maharacheekee, which is near Bombay, and I am walking by there, and I am saying to my friend, who is with me, "Look! There! Over there is a beautiful and untouchable girl!" And I am saying to her, "Come with me, my dear-I will make you touchable!" I am walking through the marketplace one day at Maharacheekee, which is near Bombay, and I am walking by there, and I am saying to my friend, who is with me, "Look! There! Over there is a beautiful and untouchable girl!" And I am saying to her, "Come with me, my dear-I will make you touchable!"

Mr. Banerjee then sings a tabla and cymbalsfilled version of Lerner and Loewe's charming, already-a-chestnut song, "Would That Not Be Lovely" ("warm face, warm hands, warm foot").

Songs for Swingin' Sellers ends with "Peter Sellers Sings George Gershwin." It goes like this: (chord) "George Ge-ersh-win!" ends with "Peter Sellers Sings George Gershwin." It goes like this: (chord) "George Ge-ersh-win!"

In September 1959, the British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan traveled to Balmoral to ask that Parliament be dissolved. Elizabeth II, always a gracious hostess, entertained her guest by showing a movie-I'm All Right, Jack (1959), starring Peter Sellers. (1959), starring Peter Sellers.

A social satire that reveals the one characteristic common to all the classes in Britain-strident self-interest-I'm All Right, Jack brought Peter such acclaim that the force of his performance successfully distorted the satire. As conceived, written, and directed, the film is a bitter attack on postwar British industrial paralysis, the class-based antagonism, particular to the 1950s, that the historian Arthur Marwick calls Britain's "industrial cold war." But as performed by Peter, Fred Kite, the martinet chief shop steward at the armament factory Missiles, Ltd., is so commanding a figure of contempt and blame that all the other characters' corruption or daftness fades away, leaving brought Peter such acclaim that the force of his performance successfully distorted the satire. As conceived, written, and directed, the film is a bitter attack on postwar British industrial paralysis, the class-based antagonism, particular to the 1950s, that the historian Arthur Marwick calls Britain's "industrial cold war." But as performed by Peter, Fred Kite, the martinet chief shop steward at the armament factory Missiles, Ltd., is so commanding a figure of contempt and blame that all the other characters' corruption or daftness fades away, leaving I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack to seem like a scathing denunciation of lazy, overpaid, communist-sympathizing trade unions. to seem like a scathing denunciation of lazy, overpaid, communist-sympathizing trade unions.

Peter himself didn't find the Conservatives' landslide victory in the fall of 1959 a complete coincidence to his film's extraordinary popularity: "I heard the Tories liked it. It probably did more good to them than it did to Labor." heard the Tories liked it. It probably did more good to them than it did to Labor."

Ironically, Peter didn't want to do the film at all. It wasn't because he didn't approve of the film's politics, which never seem to have crossed his mind. ("I don't vote," he later said. "Never have. There are things about the Tories I like, and things about the Socialists. I suppose the ideal would be some kind of Communism, but not Soviet Communism, so what could I vote for?") It was because he didn't think his part was funny.

He later claimed to have been offered the role after playing on the director John Boulting's cricket team in a charity match, but there was a bit more struggle behind it. As Roy Boulting, the film's producer, describes Peter's response to the offer: "He read it. And he didn't want to do it. So we asked him, 'Why, Peter?' He said, 'Where are the laughs? Where does one get a laugh?' We had to explain to him as best we could that we didn't regard him as a Goon for this film-that he was going to be playing a real character."

Peter grew more interested in the role, but he was also attracted by the complete package the Boultings were offering. In January 1959, Peter and the Boultings announced their new five-picture nonexclusive deal. (A nonexclusive deal permits an actor to appear in other producers' films.) "It's worth 100,000," Peter declared; an American newspaper put the figure at $280,000. I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack would be the first made under the new terms. "For an actor," Peter explained, "a term contract is a bit like a marriage. You've got to have confidence in your partner." would be the first made under the new terms. "For an actor," Peter explained, "a term contract is a bit like a marriage. You've got to have confidence in your partner."

I'm All Right, Jack was not Peter's first picture with the Boultings. In 1958, he'd filmed a supporting role-Terry-Thomas was the lead-in a weak foreign-policy satire called was not Peter's first picture with the Boultings. In 1958, he'd filmed a supporting role-Terry-Thomas was the lead-in a weak foreign-policy satire called Carlton-Browne of the F.O. Carlton-Browne of the F.O. (1959), though that film had not yet been released when (1959), though that film had not yet been released when I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack began shooting in January. Terry-Thomas plays the title character, the bungling head of an obscure subsection of the Foreign Office. He's sent to the remote and ridiculous island nation of Gaillardia, a former colony granted the privileges of self-government fifty years before, but nobody in either Britain or Gaillardia has yet been informed of the decision. Peter plays the slimy Amphibulos, who sounds disconcertingly like a Greek waiter. began shooting in January. Terry-Thomas plays the title character, the bungling head of an obscure subsection of the Foreign Office. He's sent to the remote and ridiculous island nation of Gaillardia, a former colony granted the privileges of self-government fifty years before, but nobody in either Britain or Gaillardia has yet been informed of the decision. Peter plays the slimy Amphibulos, who sounds disconcertingly like a Greek waiter.

Gaillardia is a mix of burro-driven carts, unbearable heat, assassinations, and a Baroque palace enjoyed by its handsome, young, British-educated, British-looking king (fine-featured Ian Bannen under brownish makeup). The rest of Gaillardia is treated to fairly harsh satire, though the conquering Britons are scarcely more competent. Peter, clad in a rumpled, ever-damp, and ill-fitting white cotton suit, and wearing boot-black hair and a matching droopy mustache, provides a precise blend of obsequiousness and contamination as the king's greasy-palmed minister. His best moment in the film is a simple one: Conferring on the Gaillardian crisis on a beach with Carlton-Browne while being fanned and rubbed by two nubile native girls, Amphibulos, who has been lying on his back, rolls himself over (with some labor) and says, gesturing toward a nipple, "Over heeere, dar-leeng." British-looking king (fine-featured Ian Bannen under brownish makeup). The rest of Gaillardia is treated to fairly harsh satire, though the conquering Britons are scarcely more competent. Peter, clad in a rumpled, ever-damp, and ill-fitting white cotton suit, and wearing boot-black hair and a matching droopy mustache, provides a precise blend of obsequiousness and contamination as the king's greasy-palmed minister. His best moment in the film is a simple one: Conferring on the Gaillardian crisis on a beach with Carlton-Browne while being fanned and rubbed by two nubile native girls, Amphibulos, who has been lying on his back, rolls himself over (with some labor) and says, gesturing toward a nipple, "Over heeere, dar-leeng."

According to Roy Boulting, I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack's Fred Kite was based on the Electricians Trades Union shop steward at another studio: "He was a very funny little man-unintentionally funny, but he was funny." Peter, who took the Boultings' word for it that his role would certainly pull laughs if performed realistically, received confirmation when the Shepperton Studios Works Committee, which represented the various filmmaking trade unions, showed up on the set to watch the filming of one of Peter's earliest scenes. They recognized Fred Kite's type immediately and, according to Roy Boulting, reacted all too well during a red-light-flashing, camera-rolling take: "They burst into laughter, which they couldn't contain. I saw the change in Peter's face. He hadn't thought it was funny himself, but now he knew. It was was funny." Thanks to Peter's skill, Fred Kite was also poignant. As the critic Raymond Durgnat has noted, "There is something sadly sympathetic about his pig-headed notions." Maxine Ventham, who chairs the lively Peter Sellers Appreciation Society (Spike Milligan, patron; David Lodge, president; HRH the Prince of Wales, honorary member) notes that this "sadly sympathetic" effect derives mainly from Peter's sensitive, vulnerable eyes: "Fred Kite is betrayed by them," Ventham rightly declares. funny." Thanks to Peter's skill, Fred Kite was also poignant. As the critic Raymond Durgnat has noted, "There is something sadly sympathetic about his pig-headed notions." Maxine Ventham, who chairs the lively Peter Sellers Appreciation Society (Spike Milligan, patron; David Lodge, president; HRH the Prince of Wales, honorary member) notes that this "sadly sympathetic" effect derives mainly from Peter's sensitive, vulnerable eyes: "Fred Kite is betrayed by them," Ventham rightly declares.

Spike Milligan, of course, took a contrarian view of the film's politics: "He was heavily pressurized by the Boultings, through the writing, to become this character, because the Boultings were violently against trade unions. And they used this as the spearhead of their attack: Peter Sellers representing something that they hated. He ended up making a very great film for them."

The sarcastic title I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack refers to the Boultings' original satirical target, the money-grubbing, every-class-for-itself attitude the filmmakers ascribe to all of England in the 1950s. (As David Tomlinson's Lieutenant Fairweather explains to the admiral in refers to the Boultings' original satirical target, the money-grubbing, every-class-for-itself attitude the filmmakers ascribe to all of England in the 1950s. (As David Tomlinson's Lieutenant Fairweather explains to the admiral in Up the Creek Up the Creek, "To put it in the Queen's English, 'You scratch my back, and we'll scratch yours, Jack.'") The film begins with a pre-credits sequence. Sir John Kennaway, an old white-haired man, sleeps peacefully in a deserted clubroom. The camera tracks slowly forward. A servant appears and informs Sir John that the Germans have surrendered-that World War II is over at last. Crowds are shouting in triumph outside the window; Sir John barely registers the news. "Look hard," a bland voice over intones, "for this is the last we shall see of Sir John," who rises from his club chair and totters out of the room-"a solid block in an edifice of what seems to be an ordered and stable society. There he goes, on his way out." There is another reason to look hard at Sir John. He's Peter, all but hidden under bleached hair and a prosthetic nose. in the Queen's English, 'You scratch my back, and we'll scratch yours, Jack.'") The film begins with a pre-credits sequence. Sir John Kennaway, an old white-haired man, sleeps peacefully in a deserted clubroom. The camera tracks slowly forward. A servant appears and informs Sir John that the Germans have surrendered-that World War II is over at last. Crowds are shouting in triumph outside the window; Sir John barely registers the news. "Look hard," a bland voice over intones, "for this is the last we shall see of Sir John," who rises from his club chair and totters out of the room-"a solid block in an edifice of what seems to be an ordered and stable society. There he goes, on his way out." There is another reason to look hard at Sir John. He's Peter, all but hidden under bleached hair and a prosthetic nose.

After a rock-and-roll credits sequence featuring the title song, we meet the protagonist of I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack-Stanley Windrush (Ian Carmichael), Sir John's well-named symbolic heir, a man whose class would have entitled him to the same clubby, do-nothing life had a catastrophic world war not provided the working class with some political muscle. Stanley's father has blithely withdrawn to a nudist camp. Stanley, though, feels the need to earn a living. Too bad he's incompetent at everything but reading the Times Times. Interviews and training programs at a variety of industries (soap, candy, corsets) having failed miserably, Stanley lands at Missiles, Ltd. It's a setup: Stanley's aristocratic Uncle Bertie (Dennis Price), in collusion with the equally corrupt but bourgeois-born Sidney De Vere Cox (Richard Attenborough), knowingly sends the idiotic Stanley into Bertie's munitions factory in order to muck everything up. The reason: so that Missiles, Ltd., won't be able to fulfill its new Arab-contracted munitions order, thereby forcing the contract to go-at a higher price, naturally-to Cox's own company, of which Bertie, of course, is a hidden partner.

With his sparkling smile and utter ineptitude, Stanley is perfect for the job. He instantly arouses the workers' suspicions, and they call in Fred Kite, the shop steward. Kite marches into the office of Major Hitchcock (Terry-Thomas), the personnel manager, and in a complicated, dead-on accent Peter hadn't employed before-a Cockney base overlaid with semieducated pretension and its carry-along insecurity-Kite demands that Stanley be sacked: "In permi'in' him to drive one of them trucks, I would say the management is willfully je-ro-podizing the safety of its employees!" Hitchcock quickly agrees, but when he mentions that Stanley has been sent into the factory by the Labor Exchange, Kite, who sees himself as the embodiment of labor, instantly demands that Stanley not not be sacked: "We do not- be sacked: "We do not-and cannot!-accept the principle that incompetence justifies dismissal. That is victim-I-zation!"

Kite takes Stanley in as his lodger and suggests that he read some Lenin. "I see from your particulars," he tells his perplexed guest, "you was at college in Oxford. I was up there meself. I was at the Baliol summer school in 1946. Very good toast and preserves they give you at tea time, as you probably know." Kite's English-heimish wife (the marvelous Irene Handl), and his voluptuous daughter, Cynthia (Liz Fraser), welcome him with open arms-particularly Cynthia. She quickly whisks poor Stanley away to a necking session in a garbage dump.

By the end, Stanley has succeeded in driving all of British industry to its knees by causing a national labor strike. He becomes a national hero, briefly, and eventually exposes the various scam artists on a televised debate led by Malcolm Muggeridge (playing himself), only to find that the keystones of British power are not so easily dislodged. Told by a judge to acknowledge his own mental illness, Stanley withdraws to the nudist camp.

The film's editor, Anthony Harvey, believes that Peter's performance in I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack is due in large measure to his trust in John Boulting, who "had the most wonderful rapport with Peter, I think, of all the directors" for whom Harvey witnessed Peter performing. (This is quite a claim, for Harvey went on to edit is due in large measure to his trust in John Boulting, who "had the most wonderful rapport with Peter, I think, of all the directors" for whom Harvey witnessed Peter performing. (This is quite a claim, for Harvey went on to edit Lolita Lolita and and Dr. Strangelove Dr. Strangelove, among other films.) Ian Carmichael, who plays Stanley, found Peter both easy to work with and companionable in their off-hours. "During I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack he seemed to get on terribly well with everybody. He was a very amusing man. He could be amusing sitting in his chair in the studio waiting for takes. He was he seemed to get on terribly well with everybody. He was a very amusing man. He could be amusing sitting in his chair in the studio waiting for takes. He was always always amusing. I like peace and quiet when I'm working; I don't like to be distracted by a lot of loose gossip. But Peter was very light and frothy with everybody all the time. Of course it all changed later. amusing. I like peace and quiet when I'm working; I don't like to be distracted by a lot of loose gossip. But Peter was very light and frothy with everybody all the time. Of course it all changed later.

"He was a zany sort of chap in many ways. He would have great fun with a tape recorder, and he had great fun in sort of recording things and conversations with you. Also, he played the ukulele, singing songs into his microphone and then playing them back at different speeds. That gave him enormous pleasure.

"He had a cinema in the attic in his house, where he had a 16mm projector," Carmichael recalls. "And a couple of times he said, 'Come and have a meal on Saturday night and see a film. What would you like to see?'"

(Anne has a rather different memory of St. Fred's: "a house with cameras, lights, and lots and lots of cable all over the place. And drawers and cupboards full of cable, and plugs and lamps, and everything.") cameras, lights, and lots and lots of cable all over the place. And drawers and cupboards full of cable, and plugs and lamps, and everything.") Carmichael continues: "He had a set of drums there, too. [But] his main fixation really was motor cars. He used to change his cars about as often as he changed his socks." Still, Peter liked to give others gifts as well as himself. "He was very generous with his money," Carmichael points out. "His makeup man was Stuart Freeborn, and as the picture was coming to an end, he bought him a real top-of-the-range tape recorder with huge speakers and everything-the Rolls Royce of tape recorders."

There was some tension involving Terry-Thomas, however: "Peter hated a lot of takes. I mean, he would [want to] print the first and second take if possible and not go on. He thought that by every take his performance diminished. He had a bit of a problem with Terry-Thomas because Terry had a problem with lines. I'd been with Terry when he'd gone through thirty and thirty-five takes." With Carmichael's comments in mind one can't help but notice that Anthony Harvey has edited Peter and Terry's first scene together in such a way that the two actors are mostly in separate shots, and that when they do appear onscreen together, Terry is for the most part sitting behind his desk listening to Peter rather than delivering any lines himself. Those moments are handled in medium shot from a different angle.

Liz Fraser, who played Kite's daughter, had troubles of a different sort: "I do remember some scenes-and I don't mean film scenes-that he and I had, and which I tried to extricate myself from. In retrospect he wasn't so much a nasty man as a childish one."

At home during the holiday season each year, Peter and Anne set up a classic Christmas negativity scene. At 1 P P.M. on Christmas Day, a full holiday luncheon was served to the kids and Anne's parents, who, according to Michael, "would have to vacate the house" by 5 P P.M., at which time Peg and Bill arrived for an equally elaborate Christmas dinner. Peg, by this point, was smoking two packs a day and drinking heavily, even to the point of hiding fifths of gin under the mattress. Whenever she greeted Michael and Sarah, she kissed and hugged them both. The trouble was, these fierce displays of grandmotherly love often lasted for ten minutes at a time.

Anne and Peter had begun to argue. A lot. When they fought, Peter tended to grab Anne's left hand, pry her wedding ring off her finger, and throw it in whatever direction was handiest. One flew out of a Paris window. tended to grab Anne's left hand, pry her wedding ring off her finger, and throw it in whatever direction was handiest. One flew out of a Paris window.

Then the Sellers family moved into a twenty-room Elizabethan estate after Peter nearly torched St. Fred's.

The move to Chipperfield had been planned, of course. One can scarcely trade in a fire-damaged fake Tudor for a much larger real one-one of England's legendary stately homes, a seven-acre park, a tennis court, a swimming pool, paddocks, and two Tudor barns-without some advance planning. In fact, Peter had sold St. Fred's by early November 1959, though he and Anne and the children were still living in it, when he decided to throw a party on Guy Fawkes Day. (On November 5, 1605, thirteen profoundly aggrieved Roman Catholics attempted to blow up Parliament in an attempt to launch a Helter Skelterlike uprising against King James I and the Anglican church. The conspirators got as far as loading thirty-six barrels of gunpowder into a cellar under the House of Lords, but at nearly the last minute the plot was foiled. Guy Fawkes, one of the conspirators, was in the cellar when the king's soldiers burst in. He was tortured and killed, of course, and ever since, Guy Fawkes Day has been celebrated each year by British pyromaniacs, though it remains unclear whether they are honoring Guy's death or his urge to blow up the government.) Wally Stott was one of the horrified guests: "I had nearly bought Peter's house! I paid a deposit on it, but after we were in escrow I decided I didn't want to buy it. It was a long way from the center of London-it was on the outer fringe, and I'd always lived in town. So I backed out. After that [Peter's friend, the actor] Alfred Marks bought it. But Peter was still living in it for a short time, because his new house wasn't finished.

"During this time, November 5 came around. On Guy Fawkes Day there are always a lot of fireworks and bonfires. Peter loved fireworks-this was the very, very childish element in him, like the walkie-talkies and the cars-and of course he had to have fireworks. He got some of his friends around, and they were letting off rockets in the garden. Peter's living room had a big plate glass door that opened onto the garden, and on the inside he had his Arriflex movie camera on a tripod, and he was taking movies of the fireworks. There was a rogue firework, which instead of going up went straight at the house, into the living room, and set fire to it. It caused tremendous destruction. I thought, 'My gosh, that could have been my my house!'" house!'"

"I wanted a place I could walk around without crossing any streets. It is a very civilized exile," Peter said of his new 17,500 estate. Twenty-three miles north-northwest of London on the border of Hertford and Buckingham, Chipperfield was magnificently excessive. "You've bought bleeding Buckingham Palace!" Graham Stark exclaimed on his first visit. Peter also paid for the staff to match. As Anne later described the array, "We had three gardeners, two dailies, a nanny, a nanny for Peter-his dresser, Harry-a cook, and a butler."

Peter had bought the place on impulse. "We saw this advert in the Sunday Times Times for this manor house in Chipperfield," Anne remembers. "So we went out to have a look at it, and Peter decided, there and then, for this manor house in Chipperfield," Anne remembers. "So we went out to have a look at it, and Peter decided, there and then, he had to have it he had to have it."

It was at Chipperfield, says Anne, that the marriage "really turned sour."

It didn't start off that way, according to Michael, who has described his life as being "comparatively happy at this time. I think Sarah and I had both learned how to fade into the landscape." By the expression "at this time," Michael seems to be referring to a period of several months.

At both St. Fred's and Chipperfield, Peter tended to bring pets home. Hamsters. Goldfish. Kittens. Puppies (two Labradors, a cocker spaniel, a pair of white Maltese terriers). Guinea pigs. Rabbits. The trouble was, he almost always gave them away at the first provocation. Except for the terriers, who stayed for a while, a single poorly timed bark or puddle and out the animal went.

There was a parrot, too. Peg, cleverly, taught it to say "Bollocks." Peter, reactively, became enraged the first time "Henry" swore at him and immediately forced Anne to call Peg and insist that his mother keep and care for the bird herself. That Anne had to place the call is itself notable, since Peter called his mother at least once a day and usually more often. But despite the fact that it was phrased as Anne's demand and not Peter's, Peg complied. She took Henry and fed it nothing but the best seed until Henry swooped down on her one day as she lay naked in her bathtub and began pecking. At that point Peg dispatched Henry on a hastily arranged, one-way trip to its birthplace.

In 1960, after all the receipts were totaled, I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack turned out to be the biggest box office hit in Britain. British Lion hadn't given the film a larger-than-usual advertising budget, but word of mouth had made it an initial success, and its sheer longevity did the rest. The only region in the United Kingdom in which this industrial satire didn't work was the working-class mining districts of Wales; the characterization of the union steward may be blamed. turned out to be the biggest box office hit in Britain. British Lion hadn't given the film a larger-than-usual advertising budget, but word of mouth had made it an initial success, and its sheer longevity did the rest. The only region in the United Kingdom in which this industrial satire didn't work was the working-class mining districts of Wales; the characterization of the union steward may be blamed.

In London, however, the film was a smash. I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack ran for seventeen weeks at Studio One, and it was an art-house hit in New York as well, breaking all house records at the Guild Theater, where it ran for over four months. ran for seventeen weeks at Studio One, and it was an art-house hit in New York as well, breaking all house records at the Guild Theater, where it ran for over four months. The Observer The Observer's film critic declared in her end-of-year wrap-up that "Peter Sellers's performance in I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack is the best piece of acting in any British picture." The British Academy of Film and Television Arts (which was then called the Society of Film and Television Arts) agreed. When it named its nominees for Best British Actor, among them were Laurence Olivier (for is the best piece of acting in any British picture." The British Academy of Film and Television Arts (which was then called the Society of Film and Television Arts) agreed. When it named its nominees for Best British Actor, among them were Laurence Olivier (for The Devil's Disciple The Devil's Disciple) and Richard Burton (for Look Back in Anger Look Back in Anger).

Peter won.

NINE.

A grayed, haunted Peter wanders toward the camera in the opening sequence of grayed, haunted Peter wanders toward the camera in the opening sequence of The Battle of the Sexes The Battle of the Sexes (1959). "Every war produces its hero"-the narrator announces-"the man with that little extra something that other men haven't got. The superman." (1959). "Every war produces its hero"-the narrator announces-"the man with that little extra something that other men haven't got. The superman."

When Peter learned that the writer-producer Monja Danischewsky had adapted James Thurber's satirical short story "The Catbird Seat," transposing the action across the Atlantic to Scotland, he told Danischewsky that he wanted to play the lead-the mild-mannered clerk- turned- would- be- killer. The Battle of the Sexes The Battle of the Sexes was written, cast, and filmed before was written, cast, and filmed before I'm All Right, Jack I'm All Right, Jack's blockbuster release made Peter a bona-fide movie star, and as a consequence Sellers's casting wasn't as easy as one might assume in retrospect. According to Danischewsky, "it was a fight at that time to get the finance people to agree that he was a big enough name for the budget." Peter's financial connections helped; Danischewsky credited Sellers for being "a tower of practical help to me as a producer, for he found for me two 'angels' for the end money." (Danischewsky doesn't specify the angelic capitalists' identities.) Danischewsky found Peter to be a dependable actor, qualifying his praise with a few sympathetic, sensible observations: "He's really an absolute sweetie to work with. Terribly sensitive. An easily hurt man-but desperately. Once he knows you're on his side he'll do anything on earth for you."

Filmed on location in Edinburgh and at the Beaconsfield studios in London, The Battle of the Sexes The Battle of the Sexes concerns the intrusion of heartless modernity and grotesque feminism into the staid House of Macpherson, makers of fine Scottish woolens. Peter is Mr. Martin, a teetotaling, nonsmoking clerk of indeterminate age. Sellers plays him purposefully vaguely. With his air of resilient beatenness, Mr. Martin could be anywhere from forty to seventy-five. Upon the death of Old Macpherson, the company falls into the inept concerns the intrusion of heartless modernity and grotesque feminism into the staid House of Macpherson, makers of fine Scottish woolens. Peter is Mr. Martin, a teetotaling, nonsmoking clerk of indeterminate age. Sellers plays him purposefully vaguely. With his air of resilient beatenness, Mr. Martin could be anywhere from forty to seventy-five. Upon the death of Old Macpherson, the company falls into the inept hands of the son-Robert Morley in a Lane Bryant kilt. The British-educated (and therefore, as his dying father says, "soft") heir, true to form, swiftly hires a lady efficiency expert, a brassy American divorcee (Constance Cummings), who wreaks havoc with new time clocks, metal filing cabinets, and a confident insistence that the House of Macpherson forgo sheep for synthetics. Mrs. Barrows speaks in italics: "And as for those hands of the son-Robert Morley in a Lane Bryant kilt. The British-educated (and therefore, as his dying father says, "soft") heir, true to form, swiftly hires a lady efficiency expert, a brassy American divorcee (Constance Cummings), who wreaks havoc with new time clocks, metal filing cabinets, and a confident insistence that the House of Macpherson forgo sheep for synthetics. Mrs. Barrows speaks in italics: "And as for those weavers weavers, well, I mean they can just draw draw their their pensions pensions and and take take to their to their caves caves, that's how much you need them them." Mr. Martin concludes that he must murder her.

It's a remarkable performance on Peter's part, because he lets his audience notice, but only barely, Mr. Martin's transformation from obedient functionary to noble killer: A well-timed dart of the eyes when Mrs. Barrows speaks. A touch of sarcasm, mild almost to the point of imperceptibility. (Mrs. Barrows demands a time and motion survey; Mr. Martin responds: "We've plenty of time here, Mrs. Barrows, but there's not a great deal of motion.") The film would play better today if it weren't for the gleaming, distracting misogyny of the late 1950s, of which poor Constance Cummings is the shrill vehicle.

Mr. Martin's abortive murder of Mrs. Barrows in her kitchen, said to be mainly improvised while shooting, is one of Peter Sellers's classic comedy sequences: the hand on the butcher knife, the knife hesitatingly put back in the drawer, the decisive reaching into the drawer when Mrs. Barrows turns her back, the ensuing attempt to stab her to death with a wire whisk. But in comparison to the rest of the film, the key sequence comes off as strangely canned. Because it's the climactic set piece, the laughs depend not only on Sellers's having prepared the ground in all of his previous scenes but also on the director's sense of timing. Peter's performance is superb throughout; Charles Crichton's direction isn't quite up to the task in the key sequence. Still, Peter's plunging the knife into Mrs. Barrows's wooden door strikes a rivetingly autobiographical note. Luckily for Peter, contemporary audiences had no way of knowing it.

His increasing fame brought him into stellar company-and a small controversy. In early January, the British Film Institute set up a lecture series to be held at the National Film Theatre. The proposed guest speakers were an unusual trio: Ivor Montagu, the filmmaker, theorist, associate of both Sergei Eisenstein and Alfred Hitchcock, and winner of the Lenin Peace Prize of 1959; Peter Sellers, the movie star; and Leni Riefenstahl, Hitler's in-house director, the cinema's most talented fascist. Prize of 1959; Peter Sellers, the movie star; and Leni Riefenstahl, Hitler's in-house director, the cinema's most talented fascist.

Montagu, who hadn't won the Lenin Prize for nothing, fired off a letter denouncing Riefenstahl. Sellers fired off one of his own denouncing Montagu for denouncing Riefenstahl. The BFI tacitly denounced Riefenstahl by rescinding its own invitation to her, though it used parts of Sellers's letter to Montagu in its press release announcing the denouncing: "Miss Riefenstahl has presumably been invited to lecture because of her outstanding talents as a filmmaker," Peter had written. "Alongside her contributions to the art of filmmaking, our efforts, if I may say so, Mr. Montagu, appear very puny indeed."

At the end of the month was a more notable milestone. On Thursday, January 28, 1960, nine years' and ten series' worth of Goon Show Goon Shows drew to a close. The series was still immensely popular, but it had played itself out, and, for the time being, at least, it was time for the threesome to say farewell to one another. In "The Last Smoking Seagoon," the worn and torn but still farcical Milligan, Secombe, and Sellers gamely worked their way through one of Spike's lesser works, the tale of Nicotine Neddie's attempt to quit smoking. Milligan and Secombe were famous, but Sellers was now a flashy star, a fact acknowledged in the final show: (Sound of screeching limousine) SECOMBE: Heavens! A ninety-five-foot-long motor car covered in mink! It must be Peter Sellers! Heavens! A ninety-five-foot-long motor car covered in mink! It must be Peter Sellers!

SELLERS: No, he hasn't heard of this one yet. No, he hasn't heard of this one yet.