Orson Welles and the unbridled Joy of Frozen Peas
“We know a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Mrs. Buckley lives…”
Without any doubt, Orson Welles was a superbly talented actor. His performances manage to combine two distinct and wonderful aspects — the first being his gorgeous, textured and expressive voice and the second being his skills at affecting the other players.
My acting teacher and mentor told me that there are two kinds of actor. The amateur actor, who nevertheless may still become a megastar, acts inwards. They portray their character’s feelings, whether that be happy; sad; grumpy or vengeful. The professional actor acts outwards and they try to affect the other characters. This means instead of being “happy”, the professional actor may choose to “amuse” or “congratulate”. Instead of “grumpy”, they may choose to “diminish” or “repel”. Professional actors think in verbs to act on another character.
Orson was masterful as a professional actor, always looking to affect both the other characters and the audience. This was true on stage, in his films and on television.
Sadly for the late Mr. Welles, he was not only very good but also knew he was good, and wasn’t shy about telling others when they got things wrong. Without a doubt he had tremendous skills behind the camera, just as in front, and in his own productions he was a control freak who was involved with every aspect of the movie-making process. It all needed to be done to his exacting specifications: it was his way or no way.
So excellent, however, was both Welles and his work, that he soon got his big chance.
His magnum opus, Citizen Kane (1941), a pseudo-biopic of the life of newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst, was Welles loosed upon the world. The studio left him to his own devices, to create the film in whatever way the Wünderkind saw fit. The resulting movie was a critical smash, and is widely regarded as one of the best films ever made because of its acting; stylish and groundbreaking directing; its atmosphere; its avant-garde structure and Welles’ innovative use of special camera effects.
It was also a box office disaster, failing to recoup its production costs and contributing to a massive decline in the fortunes of RKO.
This wasn’t the end of Orson, not by a long shot, but it was the moment that big studios decided that he would never take the helm of a ship like that again. Studios exist to make money, not to make art. The talented Mr. Welles wasn’t black-balled, but he was put at arms length and — coupled with his demanding style and controlling nature — the actor had a hard time ever getting that level of recognition or opportunity again.
Despite other film roles, television gigs and theatre turns, Orson Welles, by the 1970s, was filling the gaps in his wallet with side-hustles for advertisers. His resonant, church-organ-like tones and his still bankable name leant themselves well to commercials.
In the USA, Welles became known as the spokesperson for Paul Masson, perfectly delivering their iconic tagline “we will sell no wine before its time”. Orson was known in Japan, where ad men delight in getting big Western stars to front their campaigns, as a whiskey connoisseur. And, in the UK, he was the voice of Findus’ Birdseye range of frozen foods.
As Krusty the Clown noted, “the pie in the face gag is only funny when the sap’s got dignity!”. For a situation to be truly funny, you can’t go wrong with a straight-man who is either appalled by, or oblivious to, the foolishness around him. Think of Leslie Nielsen in Airplane! (1980), Peter Sellers in The Pink Panther (1963), Mack Swain in Chaplin’s The Gold Rush (1925) and Margaret Dumont in Duck Soup (1933).
Here are Irish comedian Dylan Moran and scene partner Steve Bowditch, demonstrating exactly dignity in the face of absurdity:
It’s the pathos of the scene that makes it work so faultlessly. Neither Bernard (Moran) nor the fast-food worker (Bowditch) wants to be there. They both hate the situation. They both think it soul-destroying and demeaning. And yet, they have no choice — they’re both stuck there, running through this charade of a man trying to buy some food, which he can barely bring himself to name “hunky-dunky dippers in hunky-dunky dipping sauce”, without any money.
The more dignity, the more ignominy, the more innate hilarity ensues.
Suppose, then, one were to take an American actor. A great actor. The man who created a film regularly hailed, and not without cause, as one of the greatest ever put to screen. A man who is famously outspoken and not shy with his opinions. Suppose we took that very man, if we could find such a person, and drop them into a similar situation.
Let us further suppose we had, as a foil, two stuffy British ad men trying to put a commercial together for — oh I don’t know — Birdseye frozen peas. They’re used to directing actors and voiceover artists to get the sound they want, and they think they’re pretty good at it.
This is the basis for the infamous “Frozen Peas” outtakes, also known as “Yes, Always” and “Every July”. Orson is at his irascible best, utterly unimpressed with both the copy and the direction, and the two directors are just trying to record a little commercial and get on with their day.
Nobody wants to be there. Everyone hates the situation. It is pure, unadulterated comedy perfection:
This snip of audio has gone on to become very well known, amongst a certain cadre of actors and comedians. John Candy, on SCTV (Second City Television), based his characterisation of Welles on this clip quite heavily. Voiceover legend Maurice LaMarche, famed for his impersonation of the late actor, uses “Frozen Peas” as part of his vocal warmups and has even performed it in-character as The Brain on an episode of Animaniacs (episode 52, 1994).
Candy’s SCTV sketches and LaMarche’s Animaniacs “Yes, always” segment are available on YouTube and well-worth a couple of minutes of anyone’s time.
I’ve seen some comments that very much side with Orson: that the directors are foolish and Welles is, rightly, correcting them. As an actress who’s been in that situation, reading copy and trying to imbue it with life and character whilst being directed to “energise” or “hit” certain beats, I personally find Welles’ pomposity hilarious.
The directors are schnooks, don’t get me wrong, but Orson is also being a most precious little bitch. Recording ads takes time, involves trying a bunch of stuff and is a co-operative process: the director and other creatives work with the artist to try stuff out and, together, clarify and rarify ideas into something that the client wants. It’s not for the actor to take over. If that’s unacceptable, then the Hobson’s Choice is clear: don’t do commercials.
But that’s what makes it work so very well. The dignity! The pathos! The ignominy!
Orson Welles will, rightly, always be remembered as a once-in-a-generation acting and directing talent. He’ll always be remembered for Citizen Kane. He’ll even be remembered, in some quarters, as the planet-eating demon Unicron.
But those of us in-the-know — which, oh best beloved, now includes you — will also remember him for Frozen Peas.
“There’s no known way of saying an English sentence in which you begin a sentence with “in” and emphasise it. Get me a jury and show me how you can say “in July” and I’ll… go down on you. That’s just idiotic, if you’ll forgive me by saying so… there’s too much directing going on around here!”
