Stav Meishar, multi-disciplinary performer and creator – The Escape Act: A Holocaust Memoir

Stav Meishar – a stage artist who mixes theatre, circus, music, dance, poetry and puppetry – was born and raised in Tel Aviv in Israel. She attended the Thelma Yellin High School of the Arts and has worked professionally as an actress since childhood, notably starring in Wicked’s original Israeli cast. 

image


After moving to the US in 2008, Stav has performed internationally in Hebrew, English and Yiddish. In 2012 she founded Petit Mort Productions to provide an outlet for multi-disciplinary artists whose works are “innovative, unique and perhaps a bit strange”. In 2013, her play The Dreamer and the Acrobat ran at the NY Frigid Festival, and she made her circus debut on silks in the Off-Broadway revival of The Megile of Itzik Manger.

Stav is now based in Bristol and this month embarks on a UK tour of her solo show The Escape Act: A Holocaust Memoir, which is based on the life of Jewish-German circus artist Irene Danner. It has its UK premiere at Jacksons Lane in London on 23 September 2019.

The Widow Stanton: Is there any showbusiness in your background?
Stav Meishar: Almost everybody in my family is in love with the arts but nobody else makes it. Everybody does other things around it. My mother is an arts critic, lecturer and guide. She knows everything there is to know about arts but when I asked her if she ever wanted to make any, she said: “Heavens, no!” My dad owns a business he funded… it’s kind of hard to explain but it’s like an archive of Israeli folk dancing. So ever since I was little whenever a new Israeli folk dance would be created, he’d get the choreographer and a bunch of volunteer dancers and videotape it, with instructions, so that enthusiasts around the world can learn how to dance.

How did you start performing so young?
I’ve always loved attention [laughs]. There’s video tapes of me when I’m two or three years old doing, like, hand puppetry. Not with actual puppets, just with my hands. I think it was a Mr and a Mrs who met at a movie theatre and fell in love. It was always something I wanted and I used to scour the newspapers when I was little for audition notices. So when there was one for an Israeli production of Oliver Twist I figured, why not be an orphan? [Laughs]

image


So you just auditioned and got the part?

Yep! The production was first in Tel Aviv. There’s a big tradition in Israel on Hanukkah to have shows for the family because everyone’s off from school and the parents are going crazy trying to find something different for the kids. I was… 11, I think, and then the following year it toured all around Israel. I had a lovely time.

What happened about your schoolwork and all that boring stuff?
If I remember correctly, the rehearsals were about a half-hour bus ride from my school and I had to get special permission to leave the last class a bit early, so that I could make it on time. All the kids were really mean to me about it: “Oh, you know, she’s hoity-toity with her rehearsals.” I’d rehearse every day and get home at about 7pm.

But being on tour…
I think because Israel is so small it’s a bit different to what we think of as tours in the UK or US. There were about 50 kids in the cast so the production would hire a bus and I think there was at least one adult from the production with us.

Was the Thelma Yellin school like a Fame school or something?
[Laughs] It’s pretty much what you imagine when you think of a performing arts school; a little bit like Fame. It’s a great school in Israel that still exists and has a great reputation. All the students have to be good at all the regular subjects. You can’t slack off in any of that but you also have to choose one of six artistic majors: theatre, classical music, jazz, cinema, visual arts and dance. So mine was theatre. I was there from 14 to 18.

image


Why did you move to the US?

I always wanted to be in musical theatre, and originally the dream was London. I got accepted at a few schools here but none of them had international scholarships. There was a lot of crying and sadness around that [laughs] and then I picked myself up by the bootstraps and figured, ‘Well, I’ve got to come up with a plan B’, and I got accepted to a musical theatre programme in New York at the American Musical and Dramatic Academy that did have quite a generous international student scholarship.

I worked my arse off for about two years saving every shekel I could and got some help from my parents as well, God bless them, and yes, I moved to the States and studied musical theatre. I graduated and worked in professional musical theatre in New York for about a year and then one day I woke up and realised, ‘I hate it!’. Not musical theatre, I still love that, but the business around it; how mean everybody is and how soul-crunching open calls are. I couldn’t do it anymore.

This crisis was in about 2010 and I was in a really dark place for a while and decided, ‘I’m just going to see as much theatre and performing arts as I can and see if I can get inspired by any of it, and take as many classes as I can in all kinds of different things’. So I took yoga, and I took Pilates and all kinds of stuff… and I took a silks class and uh… well… yeah, fell in love. [Laughs]

Where did you learn your circus skills?
I trained for a long time at the Circus Warehouse in New York, which is a fantastic space with really high-level professional training. It’s not a university, it’s not accredited, but the level is super high and the coaches are all fantastic.

image


I see also you play ukulele and do poi spinning… have you got anything else up your sleeve?

I had a year or two of trying a bunch of different things. I still play the ukulele mostly for my own pleasure. I took a street show to the Edinburgh Fringe for a couple of years where I put together Shakepearean monologues with whatever was popular that day on MTV, on the ukulele. So Taming of the Shrew and how badly he treats her, how awful he is leading into  Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. That was fun for a little while.

Oh, and poi spinning… I do a lot of things none of them in any way as professional as I do theatre. You can’t do too many things well. You do a lot, you end up being OK at most of them. I’m skilled in a lot of things but wouldn’t consider myself expert in all of them. Theatre is where I’m most confident… history, specifically World War II history is something I’m very confident in, and Jewish education is something I feel an expert on. Circus is always a tricky thing because I’ve been doing it long but I have never done it with enough… let’s put it that way, I started late and I’m lazy.

Have you done stuff at Circomedia, being in Bristol?
Yeah, I just did one year full time there, basically shadowing their foundation degree students doing all the practical stuff but none of the academic stuff, because I already have my degree. It sounds much more than I’m capable of. Yes, I just graduated from a full-time programme; I’m still pretty shit at circus but I never intended, like, I don’t market myself as an acrobat. I’m a multidisciplinary artist who has a lot of tools and because this current project is about a circus artist, I had to have some circus skills thrown into the melting pot of the show, but I’ve been really adamant with everybody where I’m performing, don’t market it as circus show or people will be really disappointed. It’s a theatre show. It has puppetry, it has circus but I’m no more a circus acrobat than I am a puppet master.

image


So let’s talk about The Escape Act. How did it come about?

It was completely random. I started my Jewish education company, Dreamcoat Experience, and our niche, so to speak, was teaching progressive Jewish education using performing arts: drama, music, puppets, thing like that, and I started weaving circus methods into our curriculum. I was curious if anyone had done that before and I went to Google and I typed in ‘Circus Jews’ and one of the first things to come up was the New York Times obituary for Adolf Althoff, the German circus owner who saved this Jewish family. I just remember reading it and my jaw dropping to the floor going, ‘How is there not a movie about this?’. It was incredible. I just started going into this Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole from which I never emerged.

You’ve written about Irene Danner’s story for Circus Talk, but give us a brief outline of her story.
In seven years of research, I uncovered a lot and it’s a big story. The short of it is, Irene, born Danner, was a descendent of the Lorch family, Jewish Circus royalty; they were the most famous Risley act of their time. They performed with the Ringling Brothers in America, they went on tour with Circus Sarrasani in South America, they really were the celebs of their time. The circus closed when she was about seven years old; they went bankrupt around 1930 with the rise of anti-semitism and people not really wanting to see ‘the Jew circus’ anymore.

Irene trained as a acrobat from when she was little and got her first job when she was 13, with Circus Busch. She was the flyer for the horse-riding troupe The Carolis and was there for three years until the law changed and Jews weren’t allowed to work anymore. About three years later she went to see the Circus Althoff and fell in love with their clown, Peter Bento. Peter asked Adolf if he would give her a job. Adolf knew it wasn’t legal but he didn’t really give a shit, excuse the language. That’s his, not mine. She was not allowed to marry Peter because of the racial laws of the time but they had two kids during the war and three more afterwards.

image


At some point when the Jews were starting to get deported, she persuaded Mr Althoff to let her family join as well; so her sister and her parents, and all four of them survived the war. Other members of her family didn’t make it. If you visit their house there are a few stumbling stones outside for all those who perished. The idea is that you shouldn’t just be reminded of the Holocaust when you decide to be by going to a memorial, but that you stumble upon them.

The Escape Act is as faithful to the story as I could make it but I took some artistic liberties. For example, she joined the Althoff circus because she fell in love, but in the show I’ve made it that she joins because she misses performing and she wants to do what she loves. It’s a bit of a feminist twist; she’s making her own path.

So in the show, you’re doing a bit of trapeze and juggling but it’s a theatre show?
It is definitely a theatre show. It’s quite text heavy.

How did you go about your research?
I started at the Yad Vashem Museum – the big Holocaust museum in Israel – because the obit mentioned that Adolf Althoff and his wife Maria, had received the honour of the title ‘The Righteous Among the Nations’ from Yad Vashem, which is a special sort of order, I guess, for Gentiles who saved Jews during World War II. As they’d given them this honour I assumed they’d have files on them and indeed they had.

They had interviews with both Adolf and Irene… photos… and then I just started visiting museums, archives, libraries, just picking information wherever I could, speaking to whoever I could. I wish I spoke German; my research would have been so much better. A lot of my info came from a wonderful book called Jewish Identities in German Popular Entertainment. It’s the only English book available that talks about circus performers in Germany during that era. Of course I looked at the bibliography and saw where I could branch off from there.

image


One of the books I got in German is this tiny little book that’s all interviews and testimonies from Irene, her husband, Adolf, basically everybody involved. I crowd-sourced the translation. I just reached out on Facebook and got something like ten German speakers to translate two chapters each voluntarily. So I got the whole book translated out of the goodness of their hearts. One of my favourite things described was the friendship that Irene and her husband had with a Moroccan acrobat called Mohammed; Muslim, of course, and being Jewish, I was like, yes, Jewish/Muslim friendship, yay! He was their best friend during the war and he helped hide them, he protected them, they were really each other’s backbone.

Years later when I went to Irene’s town and interviewed her kids, who are now in their seventies, I asked them if they were still in touch with any of the saviours. Her eldest son was like: “Ja, ja, we still speak, Christmas cards, birthday cards, but the one we are really in touch with, we speak every week on the phone, is Uncle Momo.” It just took me a second… I’m like, ‘Do you mean Mohammed?’. He goes: “Yes, yes, he lives in Tangier now.” ‘I’m sorry, is he still alive?’. “Yes, he just celebrated his 94th birthday.”

It was just incredible! So here I am in a living room in Germany, learning that there’s one person still alive from that era, and here’s the real amazing thing… this was in May and in June my husband and I were booked on our honeymoon, guess where? Morocco! That was incredibly random. It was meant to be. I told Irene’s son, ‘It so happens we’re going to Morocco. Will you please connect me with Mohammed?’. So a few weeks later, there we were in his living room in Tangier.

image


What does it mean to you to be performing the show in Germany on the anniversary of Kristallnacht?

I think I’m actually more terrified than honoured, because her kids are probably going to be there and I’m so terrified that they’ll be angry at me for making changes. That’s my own demons and whatnot. I think as an artist it’s something of a trait to imagine a worst-case scenario. It’s something we do to ourselves but I’m sure it will a wonderful experience and hopefully her kids will love it. I did ask for their blessing and they gave it to me.

But just talking to you I get emotional about bringing the show on Kristallnacht because this is where it all took place. Even when I visited there last year it was really emotionally difficult to be in that synagogue where I know Kristallnacht happened, and to be in the family’s home where I know Irene saw her own grandmother being snatched away. In those places there’s a visceral element to being in the spot where it happened. Like visiting Auschwitz is different than reading about it. And there is a scene in the show that takes place on Kristallnacht, so to be at the synagogue where it actually happened, in the town where it actually happened, in front of that family, I mean, it’s… ahh! It’s an incredible gift that they’ve given me to invite me to do my show there.

Do you feel, with the rise of the far right, that your show is even more relevant now and it’s even more important that people should hear this story?
Yes, absolutely. It’s been in my mind ever since I started researching this history, and every time I think it’s going to become less relevant, it has to get better from here, it doesn’t. It’s getting worse. Every historian has this feeling of helplessness where you see history repeating itself and yet people do it anyway. Even with Germany and all that history, when I talk politics to people, they’re like: “Oh, but it’s getting better now. Gays have the right to marry, trans people are accepted.” But if you look at history, the Weimar Republic happened right before the Nazi regime. They had, like, the biggest gay parties, they had cross-dressers, they had cabarets, they had this amazing period of artistic and sexual liberation and then this happened. I’m not sure that an improvement necessarily says an upward motion.

When I first starting working on the show the thing I really kept thinking about was how the Holocaust was taught to me. Growing up in Israel it’s a big subject in our curriculum. We study it, I dare say, a bit too early, but one of the most powerful experiences that I had growing up and that I saw as a Jewish educator in America is that schools would bring survivors to tell their stories first hand. And that’s always been for me and my students the most powerful experience, more than watching movies, more than seeing pictures of naked skinny bodies. Just having a person there telling you this is what happened, this is what they did to me, to my sister, to my parents, it’s different. And it’s a resource that’s not going to be available forever. Survivors are dying out and the thought that led me in this work is, ‘OK, what experience can I create that would get as close to a first-hand telling as possible?’.

image


I’d like to think this show is a good alternative. It’s not perfect, it’s never going to replicate that, but telling a story in the first person as if it were my story and taking those moments of stepping away from the character, and being myself and telling my own experiences, more about the after-effects it has, I think that’s powerful for everyone. What’s it like for someone who is descendent of refugees from a genocide? How does that affect you? Here’s this person who was never in the camps, who never starved and who had a pretty cushy, privileged life and yet there’s this scar that was her inheritance, and it’s never going to go away.

Would you say this show is the highlight of your career so far?
It’s definitely the most ambitious project I’ve taken. I’ve been a performer for most of my life but I’ve always interpreted other people’s work. That’s what actors do, and this is not the first time I’m doing my own project but it’s the first time I’m doing, first of all a project that I’ve vested so much time and effort in, but it’s also the first project that has autobiographical elements. So the show I would say is 95 per cent Irene’s story but the rest is me and my history.

The way it’s structured is when there are points when her experiences sort of trigger my own memories growing up, I take a step out of Irene and become myself, the house lights go up and I talk to the audience about my own experiences. It’s a wonderful thing as an artist to be able to share that sort of vulnerability with an audience, and it’s absolutely terrifying and it’s difficult. It’s so raw and it’s weird because those things haven’t happened to me. I’m telling the stories of my ancestors and still, yeah, it’s right there in the really innermost parts.


Stav Meishar performs The Escape Act: A Holocaust Memoir at Jacksons Lane in London on 23 and 24 September 2019, before a UK tour.

Picture credits: Michael Blase; Asaf Sagi; Kati Rapia: Shirin Tinati: Gilad Kfir

For Jacksons Lane tickets, click here 

For tour dates, click here

Stav’s website

Twitter: @stavmeishar

Follow @TheWidowStanton on Twitter

Interval

The Widow is busy with other things at present — mainly having fun — and will restart her interviews if and when she feels like it…

image

Archive feature 2012: ‘Mr Follow Spot’, Linford Hudson

Following this year’s Olivier Awards when Linford Husdon’s lengthy career received special recognition, we thought we’d mark the occasion by posting this feature. I was lucky enough to be shown behind the scenes at the London Palladium by him and to stand on the famous stage while he shone his light on me. He’d deiblerately left me in the eyrie, that is the follow-spot room to see if I could find my way back down. Luckily, I bumped into someone who knew the way!

By Liz Arratoon

image


It can only be The Mousetrap that’s had a longer West End run than Linford Hudson, who next October will have worked at the London Palladium for 50 years. Slim and dapper, the softly spoken British Jamaican is the historic venue’s elder statesman, and describes it as “my theatre, my home”. Its Hall of Fame, lined with photos and ephemera of past and present stars, reads like his personal CV. He knows every crevice of the building, even pointing out a tiny nick he made in a wall when he first arrived to record his height.

Linford came to the UK on September 9, 1963. It might have been traumatic to leave his island home and hit the capital in the Swinging Sixties, but he loved it. He’d watch TV’s Sunday Night at the London Palladium with his mother and walk past the Drury Lane and Aldwych theatres after school, taking in the scene. “I loved the hype of it all, the little lights flashing and dancers dancing, and kept going back. It was glamorous.” Just a month later, he saw an advert in the Evening Standard for a job at the Palladium and knew it was his way into a world that already entranced him. “It was for a pageboy. I came along and they employed me and I’m here still.”

He’d show people to the boxes and take messages or mail to management and artists. At 18, they said he’d grown too tall, but something better lay ahead. He explains: “When I was a pageboy I’d go up to the bio box [follow-spot room] in my break to look around and watch the shows because theatre was my first love. Mr Peter King, who was in charge of the limes, didn’t mind and said he’d teach me. I never looked back.”

But things were very different then. One of the hardest things to learn was the lethal carbon arcs; the red-hot carbon rods he had to put together to create a flame, which shone through a reflector and two lenses on to the stage. “They’d last 28 or 30 minutes. You’d have to turn them off and change them over with pliers in about six seconds without burning the theatre down, because we had a wooden floor then.” Linford laughs off the scars on his wrists, saying: “I could do it blindfold.” They also gave off noxious fumes and he had an allowance for milk, which supposedly neutralised the effects.

Another thing he had to learn was the feeling, the finesse of the lights, making the movement of the iris – the pin spot – smooth. “You have to fade it. Once you can feel a song, after a while you get used to it. I conquered it because Mr King was a very good teacher.” For example when someone such as Shirley Bassey lifted her arms, hit a high note and took a bow, he’d have to be ready to capture it down to her fingertips.

The equipment obviously advanced with time, and Linford reels off its technical details. Every spotlight – and there are about 20 types; German, Japanese, American Super Troupers, English and French – has its own sights, which he doesn’t use because “it can make you late on a cue. When you have artists going off and others coming on, there isn’t time to fade off and pick up again.” The huge lights give off incredible heat, which in summer is almost unbearable, but despite such hardships, and spurred on to succeed by a racist insult from another staff member, he mastered the job easily.

image


He has since lit show after show and everyone who was or is anyone. When asked to name his favourite or greatest star – maybe Josephine Baker who “still had an amazing physique and voice in her 70s”, Ella Fitzgerald or Judy Garland, whom he lit but never met – he’s slightly nonplussed. “That’s the biggest question because I’ve worked with them all. You find nice people, you find miserable people. Roy Castle was a brilliant guy, Frankie Vaughan (pictured above) was brilliant, Harry Secombe… the old boys were brilliant people. I can name names right down the line… Ethel Merman, Bette Davis, so many wonderful artists, man. Better Midler was fun to work with, Debbie Reynolds when she came with Carrie Fisher was brilliant, but my favourite lady, who I call my English rose, was Julie Andrews. Charming!”

The list is endless, and though the father of six and grandfather of ten stopped collecting autographs for a while because his kids kept taking them, he held on to Frank Sinatra’s. He remembers heady times when he was earning £12 a week and Sinatra sent his bodyguard with a massive £1,000 tip to share with the crew. “I worked with Frank here, at the Albert Hall and Festival Hall but you couldn’t get close to him. With Sammy [Davis Jr] it was different.” They’d go to London’s Playboy Club together and Sammy, always known as a big spender, would throw parties for everyone in the Palladium bar and take them and their families to events such as a new James Bond film.

Though known as Mr Follow Spot, he’s been much more than that. “I’ve been a plumber, carpenter, electrician and follow-spot operator here. I love rigging. I’d climb along very long trusses without a harness in the old days. It kept me fit,” he says, grinning. Down the years, Linford has also worked in TV and film, lighting Live at the Apollo and movies such as My Life with Marilyn. He’s worked with all the Royal Family; the Queen Mother, the Queen, Princess Margaret, Prince Charles and Diana, Princess of Wales on Symphony for the Spire at Salisbury Cathedral, and spent three days preparing and lighting her funeral at Westminster Abbey, which he says was “an honour”.

He’s lit 41 Royal Variety Performances – more than anyone else ever – and counting. “That show is the show,” he says, “All the people in the theatre business want to work on it. I missed a couple but all those boys at the Coliseum are my pupils. I taught at the National Theatre and the BBC. Everywhere I go, someone wants me to teach them, and I’ve been doing it for 25 or 30 years so I can pass it on.” His legacy to the business is indeed huge.

Now 66, the Palladium has told him to take a break, meaning his minimum 12-hour days are down to a more reasonable eight. “They invented a job for me, so I still come in and take pride in the building I love. It’s magnificent. It’s given me a very good living and taken care of my family. I’ve no regrets. Once I perfected my work everyone gave me jobs… the 02, Wembley Arena. When there’s a big show, they call for me. I’m semi-retired but when they call I still go and do it.”

It’s doubtful anyone in the business can imagine the Palladium without Linford, but he says should that time come, the theatre will be in safe hands. Its lighting team of Danny Turner, George Antoniu and Chris Barstow is headed by chief electrician Dave Draude, whom Linford describes as “a brilliant guy, brilliant knowledge, brilliant brain. He’s very good at his job. His boys are brilliant too, and will take care of this place for me. All my friends have moved and my teachers have passed away but I’m glad I can walk out of the building and know everything will be all right.”

image


This feature first appeared in The Stage in 2012

Archive feature 2012: Pulling Strings, Frank Mumford, marionettist

To mark the unveiling of our friend Frank Mumford’s most famous puppet – Mademoiselle Zizi, with her accompanist Fyodor – as part of the Victoria and Albert Museum’s permanent collection in London, we are posting this archive feature about him and his wife Maisie, and their amazing showbusiness lives.

By Liz Arratoon

image


Flicking through my aunt’s Contact the Elderly newsletter, I noticed an old photo of an extremely stylish couple holding two extraordinary puppets. They turned out to be Frank and Maisie Mumford, who, from the 1940s to 1970s, performed with their internationally acclaimed marionette troupe. Though Maisie died in 1985, Frank – now in his nineties – is living in the same tiny London mews flat they shared since 1946. He has lost none of his charm or humour and, with perfect recall, he explains: “My nearest sister, the youngest of three, was ten when I was born, so I was a loner. I grew up with Somerset Maugham and HG Wells’ books and started to create a world of my own.”

Recovering from mumps when he was six, he converted a Maynard’s sweet box into a miniature theatre and, fascinated by cinema, saved up for a Pathe Kid projector and started making films. “I cut a proscenium in the front and had curtains and cut figures out of magazines with hairpins to hold them.” But it was when his English/drama teacher gave him the American puppeteer Tony Sarg’s book, Marionettes and How to Make Them, that his life’s work took off. Originally billed as Master Mumford and His Marionettes – he played London’s Wood Green Empire at 14.

image


“I had a stand of puppets at the School Boys’ Exhibition at Alexandra Palace from 1933-36. I got a job at Edmonds of Wood Green in display and had a permanent puppet theatre, performing afternoon shows and special ones at Christmas to bring people in. I learnt and learnt and learnt with a captive audience. At about 15 I began to have friends who were professional sculptors, painters and musicians. When I was 16 or 17 we formed the first Puppet Productions and played all London’s small theatres.” From opera to ballet, nothing was beyond their scope.

In 1938 Maisie Tierney joined the troupe, but it disbanded at the outbreak of war in 1939. They married in July 1944, and that September Frank was taken prisoner at Arnhem. “She thought I’d gone for good,” he says. But on his release he joined the Central Pool of Artists and created the two-hour touring show Stars on Strings. After his demob in 1946, they developed a more practical two-handed act. With Frank making all the puppets, hand-carving their wooden heads, their glamorous, fast-paced act was born. “The puppets we’d been using were fine for small theatres. They were about 18” high with seven-foot strings, but to play a place like Hackney Empire, they needed to be bigger, about two feet tall. I designed a bigger head and scaled the body down and it worked.”

image


They played the Moss Empires’ circuit, top London nightclubs – including Edmundo Ros’ Coconut Grove – and variety shows and cabarets around the world. From the Moulin Rouge to the Casino de Paris, and from the London Palladium to the Sporting Club in Monte Carlo, the Mumfords’ speciality act was there. Before a show the puppets had to be groomed and mechanically set. Roughly nine were used in a music hall or nightclub spot but between 12 and 30 might be needed for plays. Each of their four cabaret spots lasted about 15 minutes, “depending on the applause”, but the shows ran to an hour and 45 minutes.

Ideally the puppets had to be seen from about ten or 15 feet away. The lighting had to exclude the puppeteers’ hands and had to be very powerful, but Frank says proudly: “We had theatre craft, so people didn’t look at us. They applauded the puppets.” He worked constantly on improvements and even changed his shoes to black suede, to eliminate reflections.

image


A typical cabaret programme would include scenes of different pairs of puppets: two hippos doing a routine, two skeletons doing another, a bullfight, with a bull and a matador, a belly dancer with a man at her feet, Javanese dancers… and then there would be the delectable Zizi, their undoubted star. Introduced in 1947, Mademoiselle Zizi – modelled on Lana Turner and Gypsy Rose Lee – was an instant success. The diminutive chanteuse was always immaculate, with dresses – one designed by Schiaparelli and lined with her trademark shocking pink – made by Frank, who also made her jewellery. Her delicately carved fingers had painted red nails. “After a show in Juans les Pins, her measurements were given in a write-up as 36, 28, 36 and she was named ‘Miss Venus of the Cote d’Azur’,” Frank remembers fondly. But she was also labelled ‘Sex Appeal on Strings’ by the Manchester Herald, and later banned for kissing men in the audience at the Birmingham Hippodrome. Such was the allure of the Mumford puppets!

image


Indeed, those who fell under Zizi’s spell included another glamorous couple; the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Frank cites a private party for the Duke’s birthday given by socialite Margaret Thompson Biddle in Paris as their most prestigious date. “Our agent said, ‘We’ve got a booking and we can’t send just anybody. We want someone with style’. She had a beautiful old house on the Left Bank and we did the show in the garden. Afterwards, out of the darkness, the Duke’s equerry emerged and said, ‘The Duke wants to see Zizi again’, so we had to unpack her. The Duke always looked haggard in photos but face-to-face he looked fantastic. He was about 50. Mrs Simpson appeared, too, in a Balmain dress. She wasn’t going to be left out.” The Duke rebooked them six months later for a party he gave in the same house for the Norwegian ambassador.

image


And at Christmas 1961 they did shows for the royal family, their friends and municipal workers in Monaco. “We arrived on le Train Bleu at 8am and were met by a chauffeur in a Mercedes saloon, which was ours for the week. They had a bijou throne room at the palace. Princess Grace hardly spoke, but Prince Rainier was absolutely easy to chat to. He was the one I had to go to for Zizi to kiss but after about ten shows he got fed up with it.” Later someone asked what Zizi thought of Princess Grace? The answer came: “Well, she’s kissed a prince but I’ve kissed kings.”

I, however, was not the first to unearth the Mumfords’ glittering past. The award-winning film maker Richard Butchins was introduced to Frank by a mutual friend, and finding that he still had all the puppets in his attic – where they’d lain lifelessly for years – and roll upon roll of archive film of their shows and TV appearances, decided to make a documentary. He hopes to finish it by September, depending on finance – the money has come via crowdfunding campaigns on indiegogo – but it hasn’t been easy. Butchins says: “All of their performances on British TV have gone because nothing was archived until the 70s. Basically, the late 40s, 50s and 60s is the part I’m particularly in love with but I’m looking for stuff from Spanish TV in the 50s, and German and Japanese TV in the 70s. I discovered about 20 minutes of film in the French national archives from the late 40s or early 50s, this beautiful black and white film, but they want an absolute fortune to use it.”

image


Frank describes this as a “smidgen” of their story, which he is documenting in a book, and is determined Maisie should not be forgotten. “It’s come about that it’s all about me, but Maisie contributed an enormous amount. During the bad times you get in showbusiness she was always terribly supportive. She was very beautiful and had charisma in bucketfuls. She had a wonderful personality, like sunshine. We spent 24 hours of every day together and fortunately we were very good friends.”

The renewed interest in their work has, for example, given Frank the chance to see old films he shot for the BBC for the first time. He says: “It’s fantastic, but tiring having to deal with my Beethoven effect.” His hearing may be lost but, thanks to Butchins, Frank and Maisie’s important contribution to the UK’s variety heritage never will be.


Mademoiselle Zizi and Fyodor are on display in the Theatre and Performance Galleries at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London

Sadly, Frank died in 2014, and here’s his obituary in The Sunday Telegraph, also by Liz Arratoon

Pictures: Courtesy of the Frank Mumford Archive

This feature first appeared in The Stage in 2012

Archive feature: Jake Messham, Messham’s Wall of Death – 2012

Following our recent interview with child motorbike stunt rider Dangerous Steve, in which I pointed out, ahem… that I had ridden a Wall of Death and he hadn’t, we decided to post my archive feature with Jake Messham, star rider with Messham’s Wall of Death.

By Liz Arratoon

image


Any performance with ‘death’ in the title is bound to cause a stir. The Wall of Death, the Wheel of Death and the Globe of Death mix thrills with terror, but what gives the wall an extra frisson is the close proximity of the riders to the audience. James Messham presents and operates Europe’s oldest motorcycle show on the “smallest and steepest track” in the world. But it’s more than steep, it’s vertical! Just 21, his son Jake Messham is a fourth-generation Wall of Death trick rider and the show’s star. His brothers Nathan and Junior also ride. It was their granddad’s brother, Jake Messham Snr, who was the first in the family to ride the wall.

Jake says: “He worked on the fair with [showman] Pat Collins and when the Americans brought it over to English funfairs in 1929, the riders taught him to ride. In the mid-30s he bought his own Wall of Death.” Back then it was the biggest thing on fairgrounds and Jake Snr wanted a part of the high money-earner. But Jake is keen to point out: “You’re not there just to go round. People stand out at the front and think, ‘Oh, it’s just riding motorbikes around’, but you’re there to put a show on and entertain people. You want to make them laugh and clap and make sure they enjoy it. If I drove round not looking at people or smiling, it wouldn’t be the same.”

The audience climbs a flight of open wooden steps to the viewing gallery. Separated from the riders by a simple steel cable and asked to keep their hands away from the edge, they find out why when the riders circle the 20ft-high wall within touching distance, sometimes not holding on. It’s an astounding sight.

image


There are four elements to Messham’s show. Mick O’Malley might start with high-speed riding before front man Charles Winter demonstrates the ‘dips and dives of death’. Jake performs ‘trick and fancy’ riding – similar to bareback skills – before he is joined by Winter for the Australian Pursuit, during which they chase and undertake each other, and finish circling the wall one above the other. They look as if they’re having the time of their lives, smiling and saluting the crowd. But it is Jake’s sequence of stunts that brings gasps of disbelief and cheers of appreciation for the man’s sheer nerve.

Impressively, the Brighton-based daredevil was just 11 when he started learning to ride. Winter, who has been riding with Messham’s for 30 years, played a vital part in passing the knowledge on. The tricks are first learnt on a rolling road, where the bike is positioned on rollers. It’s stationery but has the feeling of movement, and Jake “doesn’t exactly know” how they graduate to doing them on the wall. “It’s just of those things,” he says. “You get in there and do it. The first trick you learn is to let you hands away from the handlebars and at first it does feel really weird. The force pushes against your body. Once you can move across the bike you can do anything you want, really. When I’m going round I’ve got total control. Before I start, I look up. I can see the people and spot exactly where I’m going to put the bike.”

The straight riding is done on Hondas but the fancy tricks are performed on a 1923 Indian Scout – a machine with wide handlebars and generous leather seat – which has always possessed an international reputation for power and reliability. “It’s all about speed,” Jake explains. “If you go too fast when you’re on the Indian doing tricks, you won’t be able to move across the bike. The blood will rush from your head to your feet and you’ll pass out. The slower you go, the better the tricks look and it’s easier to move across the bike. But if you go too slow, you’ll just fall off.”

image


The centrifugal force pulls the human flies to the wall, but Jake reveals: “What actually keeps you on the wall is the friction on the tyres. They are standard road tyres. We go between 15 and 20mph. You see a lot of riders go too fast but then they can’t move across the bike.”

It’s said that trick riders have to be as fit as fighter pilots to withstand the increased G-force. “Riding does keep you fit. You’re pulling about six or seven Gs going round. It’s about three times your body weight.” But that’s not all that keeps Jake fit. It takes him and four others roughly seven hours to set up the drum and maybe four to take it down. With more than 780 parts, it’s no picnic. The wall – constructed from 15 tons of Oregon pine – forms a circular wooden drum, 30ft in diameter. It is a faithful reconstruction of a traditional American design, built to specifications passed on by the famous rider Speedy Babbs. A red boundary line runs round high up the wall, but tyre marks show that the riders do stray beyond it.

So just how dangerous is it? Jake acknowledges the risks: “You can always have accidents. I had a couple last year. The tyre can blow up, you can have a puncture or the engine can seize up; you never know. It’s just one of those things. The first time I ever fell off I broke my ankle in three places and had a metal plate and nine pins put in. I was in a cast for seven months, so when I got out of that I was a bit wary. I was only 12, so it took a little while to get back on the wall. It is dangerous but more people have been killed setting it up or taking it down than riding it.”

image


Messham’s worldwide reputation still doesn’t make it an easy ride. “Years ago, you’d walk on to fairgrounds and there’d be two Walls of Death. You’d start the bike up on the front and people would just come at you. Now it’s hard to get people in. The older generation recognise it but my generation doesn’t know what it is. They think it’s a wall that people stick to. In the old days on fairs, there’d be a show row with loads of different shows, but people are not educated about what shows are these days. It’s all fair rides.”

Anna Carter, who owns and runs Carter’s Steam Fair, where Jake performs, is trying to address that. Recently at Pinkney’s Green, Maidenhead, she recreated an old-style show line with Voltini’s authentic Victorian sideshow, Jon Marshall’s Headless Lady illusion, Colin Thorpe’s Siamese Twins exhibit and his Mirror Show. She says: “With so few shows on fairs now, it’s very exciting to have Messham’s with us. People absolutely love it. If you go to modern fairs, all the shows have just disappeared but everything about Carter’s is about the past.”

The past resonates with Jake, too. He regards the wall as his life’s work; a vocation even. “I love the history and keeping the family tradition going. It is hard work and sometimes the weather is bad and we take no money, but if there are two or three people waiting you still have to put on a show. You can’t be in it for the money. We’re never going to be millionaires, but when you’ve had a really good day, it’s worth it. I love doing it. It’s in my blood.”

Messham’s website

Picture credit: Messham’s Archive

1. Jake Messham – trick and fancy riding (The Crucifix)

2. Margy Dare (top) and Jake Messham Snr present The Hell Drivers Race, Morecambe 1940s

3. Old continental Wall of Death front from 1930s – Jake Messham Snr on left

4. Jake Messham Snr – trick and fancy riding 1930s.

Liz adds: After doing the interview at Carter’s Steam Fair, Jake took me for a ride and, ha ha, everyone at Carter’s was incredulous that I’d done it!

When this feature first appeared in The Stage in 2012, a rather over-zealous sub-editor decided that he knew more about it than I did and changed a lot of things and made them wrong. I was especially furious that he’d added the word ‘pleaded’ to my sidebar about riding the wall and said I’d pleaded with Jake to “stay down low”. For the record, I did not plead. I might have been stupid to do it without a helmet, and wearing my glasses, but I wasn’t at all scared!

The Unsuspecting Volunteer

“You’re not going to have a go, then?” Mick said, when I went inside the drum after interviewing Jake. I’m no daredevil but, for some unknown reason, I said: “Can I?” Sitting over the handlebars of his Indian, Jake told me: “No leaning. Keep your hands on your thighs.” No holding on, no helmet, either. “Just stay down low,” I said. A couple of circuits flashed by with no real sensation of being on a vertical wall until… we started to climb. “Oh, you’re taking me up,” I said. Yikes! No leaning, no holding on. Better not freak out. Round once, twice, three times, in a blur. Coming down was fine until we slowed and then I really felt I’d fall off. But I didn’t. I was OK. I’d ridden the Wall of Death and survived!