Imagine that your child returns home from the Montrose Academy one afternoon and starts to talk about that “one” teacher. Stopping to listen, you hear the teacher alternately described as guru, enabler, co-conspirator, communicator, visionary. Your child returns again and again talking about the same teacher. Perhaps you aren’t entirely sure what to make of it all, but you go with the flow, at least for now.
Many of us can quickly conjure-up that teacher in our mind’s-eye, and will find the opening sequences of “Mr. Burton” (Ffilm Cymru Wales/BBC Wales), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse, oddly familiar. It is during World War Two, in the South Wales steel-town of Port Talbot, and we are inside the classroom of English teacher, Mr. “P.H.” Burton, studying William Shakespeare. As we relax into the scene, our own memories crystallise as many little details emerge: P.H. attends class with an academic gown over a pin-striped suit, is never without a tie, and he has noticed something striking, unusual, perhaps even unprecedented: one of his pupils, Richie Jenkins, has no problem memorising a complex passage of Shakespeare in a very short time. After an invitation to join an amateur dramatic society is accepted, P.H. also notices that Richie can act. From this small flicker, two hours later, a world-famous Shakespearean actor, Richard Burton, emerges as if from a chrysalis, autographing programs in the foyer of the famous theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon. However, in the process, the Richie we meet in Port Talbot has to discard his familial roots, lose his Welshness and even his own name.
Born “Jenkins,” Richie lost his mum when he was two years old, and was taken by his sister (and her husband) because his alcoholic father proved utterly incapable of looking after him. At the movie’s heart are the repercussions of the relationship between P.H., played by Toby Jones, and Richie, played by Harry Lawtey. P.H. coaches Richie as an actor, moves him into his lodging, uses contacts to get him auditions, and finally adopts him, for which he has to pay Richie’s father £50. Is P.H. physically attracted to Richie as well, as Richie’s father and some other members of the community apparently believe? Like a skilful biographer, the film weighs the evidence for and against such a hypothesis and determines that, overall, it is unlikely, but cannot be dismissed out of hand. What can be concluded with absolute certainty is that Richard’s career as an actor would have been downright impossible without P.H., in fact he would never have left South Wales at all.
“Mr. Burton” bridges the huge gap from Richie to Richard by allowing Harry Lawtey ample space to develop his character in modest increments, one step at a time. The film feels very sure-footed, making progress in an industrious way: it is a pleasure to watch realisation dawning on the faces of the actors as the penny drops, not just once but over and over again. It is such a joy to see an unknown actor doing so well playing such a huge role as Richard Burton. Not only does he have to live that life, he also has to act as both young Richie and mimic the acting of the later star Richard. Take a scene on one of the hills above Port Talbot. P.H is demonstrating how to say vowels, to project, to control his breathing. Just watch how closed Richie’s body is, how gangly, awkward. But even better is what he can do with his eyes. At the point where Richie discovers that P.H. writes radio-plays, there is this glint of admiration, enthrall, perhaps love, but not envy. It’s a wonderful moment, upon which the camera rightly lingers.
In order to provide a counter-ballast to such an unrecognised actor, the producers chose Toby Jones, who is, of course, well exposed to audiences of contemporary stage, film and television. His exceptional experience as an actor allows him to be utterly believable teaching acting. He successfully walks a fine line between encouragement and control, and manages the inevitable rebellion when it comes. At a deeper level, the audience needs space to consider how much of the ambition P.H. has for Richard is to get back at some of the anti-Welsh prejudice he has had to tolerate.
Given that the BBC are one of the producers, it was very brave to include a line in the radio-play scene where P.H. tells Richie that the play was commissioned by a “regional service,” not for the BBC proper (the one in London). The reason Richie has to change so dramatically is that neither his education nor his Welsh accent quite cut it. He is told that actors “have to move in certain social circles,” but, when he tries to jump through the hoops, he hits a solid wall of Establishment contempt: (paraphrasing), “we can’t have someone that sounds like that here;” and later, the sneer as the expression “miner’s son” is used (and then followed immediately by “not that I have anything against miners sons, of course,” completely giving the game away). His type can be tolerated so far but his Welshness is used to beat him with, as the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card by the condescending Establishment gatekeepers, who, after all, hold all the actual power.
There is much to sit back and enjoy in “Mr. Burton,” as well as the acting. The score, by John Hardy, is played by the BBC National Orchestra of Wales; many of the locations (listed in detail in the closing credits) are local schools, streets, buildings; most of the actors are Welsh; the production team is chock-full of Welsh surnames. And best of all is the scrumptious South Wales idiom: “up to our eyeballs, man” [pronounced “mun”]/“I’ll do anything, I will”/“upstairs, he is”/“I wanted to thank you properly, I did.” And, just as my old boss used to call me (and everyone else), “my lovely.” Music to my ears.
Maybe, when that child returns from school, we might consider one of the suggestions from P.H., to read: “… must keep reading, Jenkins, there is nothing more important.”
Adam Poole
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