GLR March-April 2023

Kenneth Williams Never Stopped Carrying On ART MEMO

E LLEN W ALKER F staple of comedy folklore, even a national treasure. Known for their gag-a-minute bawdiness and uncanny ability to tap-dance around the censors with crafty use of double entendre and innuendo, it’s the type of humor that has lecherous men with wander ing hands chasing squealing young women to the sound of a cheeky slide-whistle and jokes involving characters inexplicably los ing their clothing. As cringe-worthy as I found these anti quated romps, there was one cast member who kept me glued to the screen whenever he appeared. It was Kenneth Williams, the most prolific of the Carry On ensemble, who appeared in 26 films in total. He was usually given the role of the overwrought, snide intellectual in a position of authority. His presence was unfailingly electrifying, with his clipped, nasal vocal intona tions and facial expressions of re markable elasticity. He could elevate even the most lowbrow of breast-re lated puns with a subtle glance, a curt turn of the head, or an elabo rately scandalized vocal delivery. I found him magnetic to watch, and wanted more—preferably to see him perform on his own terms, with out a script, which could be limiting to the natural range he clearly pos sessed. Thankfully, YouTube has those in abundance. Williams was a remarkable raconteur, appearing on many chat shows where he was al lowed to shine, revealing his talents as a storyteller, impressionist, and humorist who could craft a narrative while sagaciously reading the audience response, cultivating a close, conversational relation ship that set him apart from other guests. I then discovered his performance in the Julian and Sandy BBC radio sketches (1965 68), in which he and Hugh Paddick played as two theatrically camp characters who made extensive use of “Polari,” a vocabu lary interpolating Cockney rhyming slang, Romany, and Italian. Millions of listeners tuned in to enjoy the performances of these delightfully flamboyant wordsmiths, while being unaware of the true meaning of their words. Polari was in fact a secret code used by gay men in the mid-20th century to avoid detection from the “Lilly” (police) when ho mosexuality was still illegal in the U.K. The unabashed joyfulness of the characters has OR THE BRITISH, the Carry On se ries of 31 comedy films produced be tween 1958 and 1978 has become a

sured to position my identity in a sexual context, not when I had the witticisms of a fellow neurotic to reassure me that I was not alone in my confusions and aversions. So close was my attachment to Williams that I briefly addressed my own diary entries as “Dear Ken.” That was the other thing I adored about his writing style: how acerbic and playfully waspish he could be about people, films, and TV shows that got on his nerves. He de scribed Benny Hill as an “adipose decrepit,” quipped that a fellow guest on a chat show was “about as loquacious as the Sphinx,” and said of David Lean’s epic Dr Zhivago that “this may be the Great Russian Novel but it’s a pain in the arse as a film.” Yet he was also effusive in his praise of others, even those toward whom he may have been scathing several entries before. The unfortu nate smattering of premature deaths in his circle of fellow thespians revealed his apti tude as a eulogist, illuminating the deceased with his lively writing style and fond anec dotes. His keen, warts-and-all per ception of the human condition was both a gift and a curse. When turned on himself, it came in the form of a ruthless self-analysis that had him flitting between a lofty sense of imperiousness and gut wrenching self-loathing, a cocktail that made his company both disori enting and exhilarating for friends and colleagues. Revisiting his diaries over ten years later is a bittersweet experi ence. My personal favorite will al ways be an entry from October 18, 1978. While recording an audio book for the beloved children’s book The Wind in the Willows , he became irritated with a radio producer who questioned whether he would be able to nar rate the entire script with an “assumed voice.” Williams was mystified. “I found myself maintaining stoutly, ‘It’s all right! It is my voice!’ but I thought after ‘Who else’s voice could it be?’” By the time you reach those final entries, physical illness (he was plagued by stomach problems for much of his later years), social isolation, and a mis guided sense of failure have become too much to bear. He died alone in his flat on April 15, 1988, at age 62, from an overdose of barbiturates. Ellen Walker is a UK-based illustrator, writer, and researcher at the Royal College of Art, specializing in internet storytelling and identity-based digital cultures.

since been credited with playing a part in liberalizing attitudes toward gay identity in the 1960s, culminating in the Sexual Of fences Act of 1967, which legalized homo sexual acts between consenting adults. But, unlike the open, amorous character of Sandy, Williams struggled with his sense of self. Despite being drawn romantically to other men on some occasions, his attrac tions would never be consummated (save for a chaste “fumble” or cuddle). As re vealed by his diaries, which he kept for over forty years, he was a deeply guarded and solitary man, wary of any form of personal interaction, be it physical or psychological. “Living with someone always means a de nial of self in some way,” he wrote, “and I suppose I have always known it was some thing I couldn’t accomplish.” His writings would reveal a man torn between accepting his introverted lifestyle and aggressively lamenting it when feelings of loneliness set in. There are moments of religious guilt and self-hatred regarding his fantasies about

From The Last Years of Kenneth Williams , a 2022 documentary.

other men, yet also moments in which he decries the anti-LGBT prejudice that he and others endured. “Decided not to go to the Blood Donor Centre today,” he wrote in 1983 during the throes of the AIDS crisis. “I will let them ask me in the future, after all this nastiness about homosexuals.” It was through reading these diaries in my teen years that I came to depend upon Williams for some much-needed solidar ity—particularly after an unpleasant experi ence of sexual harassment I had at school. His conflict between craving close compan ionship and resisting the physicality it im plied was a state of being that I had not seen put into words before. At some point I joined Williams in committing myself to a fully celibate, asexual existence. Inspired by Williams’ writings, I no longer felt pres

March–April 2023

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