Old gold
Robert Gore-Langton talks to Warren Mitchell about his health, his career and his prejudices Warren Mitchell is lying on an air mattress in rehearsals. He's 81 and in constant pain, made worse by a recent operation. He looks very tired, very old and I wondered, hauling him up off the floor by his wrists, whether he'd make it through our interview, let alone a ten-week tour. Why on earth isn't he at home with his feet up instead of rehearsing all day long? Doesn't his wife object? He says, slowly and with effort, 'Yes, my wife does object; she says, "You're not fit enough, you should retire, you're mad!"' I didn't get the impression that the theatre management has got anyone else lined up in case he seizes up on the road. 'They have been very tolerant with me. They should have sent for Harry Taub ages ago,' he jokes, referring to another actor who'd be good casting. Mitchell is one of those actors who when they first come on stage always get a round of applause. Is that ripple of affectionate recognition something he still can't live without? 'No. It's very embarrassing. I hate it. I think, "Oh, f*** off." ' Jeff Baron's amazingly durable two-hander, Visiting Mr Green, has been done over 300 times in 37 countries. Mitchell plays an ancient widower who is hit by a car; as restitution the young motorist is made to visit him once a week, catering and cleaning his way into Mr Green's crusted heart. 'It's a very simple, moving and unpretentious play,' he says, 'which is why Lyn Gardner [a theatre critic] in the Guardian will undoubtedly attack it. She's accused me in the past of overacting.'
Oddly enough, I saw Mitchell in this charming play a few years ago in Leeds and remember him overacting too, but in exactly the way that you would want him to. Mitchell does a terrific line in geriatric Jews. He was a nonogenarian furniture dealer in Arthur Miller's The Price a few years ago — shrugging, palms up, caterpillar eyebrows bristling — and got a much deserved Olivier award for his fruity performance.
It's rather surprising to discover that the East-ender 'Mick' Misell (he now regrets changing his Russian Jewish name to Mitchell) went to Oxford University, where he read physical chemistry and became a friend of Richard Burton. Burton once introduced Elizabeth Taylor to Warren's father. 'Have you met my little Jewish girlfriend, Mr Misell?' They sank a lot of pints and later joined the RAF together. He watched Burton set aflutter the Canadian Air Force girls with his manly airbase Shakespearean recitals. 'That great wonderful sonorous voice rang out and all these women stood there goggled-eyed and I thought I wouldn't mind having a bit of that.'
He never finished his degree and acting became his career. Fame came with the notorious Sixties telly sitcom Till Death Us Do Part, in which he played Alf Garnett, the Tory-voting royal-worshipping West Hamsupporting bigot. Mitchell was quite magnificent, as was Dandy Nichols as his silly moo of a wife, who would sit there occasionally saying 'pig'. The magnificent show, written by the late Johnny Speight, has never since been matched for political incorrectness.
I reminded him of Alf's lovely line about Hitler (granted, he had his faults') but Mitchell has his own favourite. 'The line I've always cherished is "bloody Gandhi wouldn't eat his dinner, so they gave him India."' Mitchell off-stage was a progressive leftie and veteran of the socialist Unity Theatre. He hated the bigots who loved Alf. 'A bloke came up to me at Tottenham one day and said, "Ere, Alf, I love that show of yours, the way you have a go at the coons." I said, "Actually, I'm having a go at c**** like you."' In the show, Alf Garnett's son-in-law (the randy scouse git') was played by Cherie Blair's father, the actor Tony Booth, an unreconstructed Old Labourite who was such a wonderful embarrassment to Tony Blair throughout his premiership. 'Tony was perfect for the part except that he was a lazy bugger and wouldn't learn his lines,' recalls Mitchell. 'He thought he could ad-lib it all. It was the time of what I called Peter O'Toolitis. Everyone thought they could drink and be on stage and do a rough approximation of the lines. Johnny [Speight] was too good a writer to deserve that.'
Warren's businessman father was a tricky customer, a bit like Alf. 'I loved my father very much but he was a bad role model. I remember him saying to me, when someone spilt a drop of petrol while filling up his car, "Anti-Semitic bastard." I said, "Dad, he doesn't even know you're Jewish." He said, "They know, they know."
Mitchell himself is certainly not immune from prejudice. He can't stand waiters who say 'not a problem', he hates Kenwood House's outdoor concerts, which, as a local resident, he helped kybosh, and he doesn't like the Germans. 'We had one of these Kindertransport children living with my family so we had first-hand knowledge of the brutality of the Germans, which left me rather prejudiced.' Is that why he joined the RAF? 'Yes, I wanted to bomb them. I can't forget what they did. But it was a long time ago and I dare say they'll manage without my love.'
He is visibly wilting. So I cheer him up by asking him what he plans to do if he thinks he's going to die during a performance? 'Wait for the laughs and carry on with the act,' he says deadpan. 'I don't mind dying, really. I don't particularly want to die in my own bed.'
The company is very protective of him Patrick Garland, the show's experienced director, thinks Mitchell has got terrific courage in doing this tour at all. The old boy will hear none of it. 'I'm just old-fashioned, I like to work and I have only ever missed one performance in my entire career.' He also believes deep down that 'Dr Theatre' will help him get through it physically.
Before he goes, I ask him if his acclaimed performance as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, back in 1979, was perhaps his greatest hour on stage. 'It's not for me to say. During the run I was working in the garden laying paving stones and a bloke, a stonemason, said, "Ere, Alf, you're doing that all wrong, mate.' He showed me how and saved me hours of work. So I said, "I'm doing this play at the National Theatre, would you like to see it?" He came along and at the end I asked him what he thought of it. He eventually said, "It's a bit hard on the bum." I told Arthur Miller that. I said, "That's the verdict on your masterpiece, Arthur. It's a bit hard on the bum."' I can't help feeling that this latest venture will be the last chance to see this old actor in harness, as he is wheeled out of the rehearsal room. `Zank zank you, darlink,' he says doing his Jewish routine as he is trundled to a waiting cab — Ah, a German car just for me!' — and off home for a long snooze.
Visiting Mr Green is at the Mercury Theatre, Colchester, and then goes on tour Details on 01323 411044.
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