The Rebel

This one is a long-time favourite for its great one-liners, its wit, its bright colours and the sheer joy of its performances. George Sanders plays the creepy critic with the same finesse he'd done many times before, Hancock as the leader of the Infantile school of painting is so preposterous its hysterical, even a very young Oliver Reed appears briefly in the cafe scene. The writing of Galton and Simpson is as sharp as ever but gets to take more detours and turns than it ever could in the Half-Hours ... a brilliant film. I particularly love the pathetic painting of the foot which crops up at the art exhibition and that hideous sculpture. Excellent.

Despite the fact that it's written by Tony himself with Galaton and Simpson's assitance, and that it's beginning and ending are set at the hotel where Hancock resided in the last season, this film feels quite different from "Hancock's Half hour".

However it overcomes it's shortcomings, has a good number of laughs with snappy one-liners and makes me look foward to seeing "The Punch and Judy man" ( another Hancock film ).

7.5/10

( Rated G/U due to the absence of offensive content )

An often overlooked and underrated Hancock vehicle as the Lad from East Cheam inadvertently becomes the toast of the art world when his flatmate's paintings are accidentally attributed to him instead of his own primitive childish daubs.

Great ensemble cast with John Le Mesurier as his boss, the sublime Irene Handl as his landlady Mrs Cravat and George Sanders as his pompous artistic agent.

At the films' centre is a sharp and nicely played critique of the hypocrisy and snobbishness of the art world with the usual taut Galton and Simpson script full of smart one liners.

"What's that?" asks Mrs Cravat looking at a bright pink picture of a man in a beret. "It's a self portrait" replies Hancock. "Who of?" counters Mrs Cravat.

Look out for a very young Nanette Newman as an Existentialist acolyte in the party scene and also Oliver Reed as a cafe artist.

8/10

For anybody with a love for Handcock this film is a must see. For those who really know Handcock it is also a farewell as in many ways it could be seen as his last true work? Coming at a time when Handcock was desperately trying to re-invent himself and re mould his style whilst fighting off the blackness of depression the film is a mixture of hope and sadness. If you look behind the laughter and mirth you can see Hancock as he really is - a one of genius never to be repeated. Hancock plays a struggling artist who leaves his London office job to seek his fame and fortune in Paris. Look for the great line between himself and his Landlady Mrs Cravat when Hancock exclaims "Its a self portrait" Mrs Cravat looks and him and asks "Of who?" Handcock is at the end of his line "Who do you think Laurel and Hardy" Lol The film has the usuall Galton and Simpson tight story line and the action is very funny. In my opinion a film which in ever way is on a par with the carry on style genre. Enjoy you wont see the likes of Tony again!

Tony Hancock was the biggest British comedian of the late 50s and early 60s. Viewing his two (not entirely representative) films and watching (and listening) to his "Half-Hour" comedy shows (running separately, if concurrently, on BBC television and radio), young people (those under 35 or so) will probably find this fact baffling unless they are extraordinarily well-informed about social conditions in immediately postwar Britain. There also seems to be a kind of gender barrier. Women of my acquaintance, even those that satisfy the fairly stringent criteria I detail in my previous sentence, seem to have found Hancock uniformly unfunny.

Hancock's humour, it must be said, was unconventional. It is entirely driven by the dialectic, if you will, between character and situation. Hancock loathed gags, and forbade his scriptwriters (usually the brilliant duo of Ray Galton and Alan Simpson) to indulge in them. It is also exceptionally restricted in time (late 50s), social class ("shabby-genteel" lower-middle) and place (the south-east of England). Yet Hancock, who bestrode Britain like a colossus in his heyday, nurtured the powerful delusion that he could succeed in America.

It would take an amazing act of empathy on the part of an American to penetrate Hancock's humour as displayed in his radio and TV shows. As a technician he was flawless, possessing a sense of comic timing unequalled by anybody in Britain except the probably equally unexportable Kenneth Williams (perhaps best known outside the UK because of his strong involvement in the "Carry-On" series of films). Needless to say, Hancock and Williams, the two greatest British comedians of all time, loathed and vilified each other.

"The Rebel" (pointedly re-christened "Call Me Genius" in the America Hancock was desperate to impress) was released to great disappointment in 1961. In hindsight it has gained in favour, its initial cool reception a matter of some puzzlement.

Hancock, in the film, is an office drudge who harbours artistic ambitions way beyond his hopelessly limited technical skills. However, he jettisons his boring day-job to share an artistic garret in Paris (only 200 or so miles from London) with a frustrated, but genuinely talented, young artist (Paul Massie). Hancock's infantile daubs are hailed as works of genius in the pretentious circles he inhabits. Galton and Simpson's screenplay wastes no opportunity to satirise the credulity of the modern-art world, and its unfailing capacity to court lucrative charlatans.

Can those outside the British Isles understand this film? I hope so. The office environment and lodgings Hancock occupies are stultifying, but the artistic world of Paris is shown to be as corrupt and foolish in its own way (NB. the identically uniformed "Existentialists", indistinguishable, in a sense, from their bowler-hatted counterparts with whom Hancock works in central London). Art does get a slightly better press in this film than commerce, since the possibility of genuine artistic talent (i.e. Paul's (Hancock's young flatmate and protégé)) is acknowledged. Nevertheless, the presence of trend-hungry buffoons within the artistic world (e.g. George Sanders' art dealer) indicates the interpenetration of the commercial and artistic worlds. Is art-dealing George Sanders any less a despicable entrepreneur than Hancock's erstwhile manager in his City of London counting-house, John le Mesurier?

Although we speak essentially the same language (I think the differences are often over-stated), cultural barriers remain between the UK and the US. However, Americans would do well to look closely at Tony Hancock, partly for his intrinsic value, and partly for the huge influence, conscious and unconscious, he has wielded over the British psyche (here I controversially include Ireland, which remains culturally close to the UK). His second feature-film ("The Punch And Judy Man"), while telling in its own way, is less valuable overall, both inside the UK (and its satellites) and beyond.