Halfway up St. Martin’s Lane is The Salisbury: a crystal and mahogany Victorian confection, a gleaming temple to the conviviality of drinking. The Salisbury was one of Ian Nairn’s favourite pubs and gets lovingly referenced in Nairn’s London: ‘as much sparkle as a brandy and soda’. (Sadly, one imagines that The Salisbury might have glimpsed the great architectural critic’s alcoholic decline, a process managed with a sea of pub Guinness.) It was once a well-known gay pub, extensively referenced as such in the 1961 Dirk Bogarde film Victim – a dated but enjoyable thriller wherein Dirk, coiffed and clenched in Savile Row threads, tackles insolent, Vespa-riding, leather-clad blackmailer Derren Nesbitt. (Whatever happened to him? Did his fleshy lips wither and go out of fashion?)
Victim is a landmark in British cinema, as it was the first film to tackle male homosexuality in a sympathetic manner in a contemporary setting. Attitudes were changing: the previous year, saw the release of not one but two British films about the fall of Oscar Wilde (one starred Robert Morley, but Peter Finch’s Oscar is the clear winner). In Victim, Bogarde’s smooth, successful but uptight barrister stumbles across an extortion racket targeting gay men; in the process he has to face awkward truths about his own closeted sexuality, and the tragic consequences of his rejection of romantic rough trade Peter McEnery. On its own terms it remains very entertaining and was seen as highly daring at a time when homosexual acts between males was against the law, a law that wasn’t repealed until 1967. Bogarde took a big risk with his matinee idol image to make this film. A gay man adored by straight women, Victim suggested that he would be prepared to come out when the time was right; but for some reason he never did.
Some moments in the film retain real power, especially an excellent scene when Bogarde admits the truth about himself to his wife; but it betrays its age at the end, when it’s clear that Dirk and the lovely Sylvia Sims are going to stick it out together. By this point, Dirk has succeeded in exposing the blackmail ring, which operated out of a bookshop in nearby Cecil Court. (Incidentally, a Cecil Court bookshop is also used for furtive purposes in The Human Factor, wherein a spy uses a book-based system to communicate with his Soviet handler.) It’s hugely enjoyable on many levels: as social history, for its London locations, and – for this viewer – those moments where the film-makers’ good intentions collide with bathetic camp: I particularly like the bluff, burly detective who seems to want to ask Dirk out on a date. But it is sobering to reflect that it was protesting against the same law that sent Oscar Wilde to prison.
The Salisbury also features in a dark episode in the life of gay London: as a cruising spot for the serial killer Dennis Nilsen. An authentic urban bogeyman, Nilsen’s grim story is well know and has been much picked over by writers (notably Brian Masters in Killing for Company) seeking to examine the nature of evil and the way London, like any big city, swallows the vulnerable. The police hadn’t been looking for a serial killer until Dennis’s neighbours in Muswell Hill called in Dyno-Rod to investigate a blocked drain – and found human remains. He’d been killing pick-ups in his attic flat but had had trouble getting rid of the bodies; so he tried boiling body parts on his stove and flushing the residue down the toilet. The official body count was twelve, all men, mostly runaways and vagrants that he encountered in the West End, four of whom remain unidentified. Nielsen is currency in a good many bar-room stories. Nilsen’s work colleagues at the job centre in Denmark Street – he was popular – mention helping him move house between Cricklewood and Muswell Hill (‘What have you got in here, Dennis? Bodies!’ ‘Yeah’). A man living adjacent to Nilsen’s Cricklewood house who was plagued by ghoulish treasure hunters. The woman who went to look at an ‘amazingly cheap’ flat in Muswell Hill and was about to make an offer when a work colleague asked if it was a top floor flat in Cranley Gardens? The flat finally sold to a foreign couple who moved out when they discovered its history … I have met people who have given me these accounts – although they didn’t actually happen to them, but someone they knew. Nilsen has become as much a part of London folklore as Sweeney Todd – except that we know that the latter never existed as anything other than a Penny Dreadful ballad. Nilsen was the real thing: Death as a friendly chap propping the bar, buying a stranger a drink and offering him a bed for the night.
Postscript: I feel obliged to note here that in 1963 a woman who worked in an antique shop at 23 Cecil Court was stabbed in a botched robbery. Her killer was caught after his Identikit profile was circulated, the first time the technique is credited with catching a criminal of any kind.
… a further postscript: the estimable Miles Richardson has pointed out (see his comment below) that the pub was a favourite with Sir John Gielgud, who might well have availed himself of all its facilities. (In Victim one of the blackmailed is a noted theatrical star, played by Dennis Price.) Here is a nice photo, taken by the great portrait photographer Arnold Newman, of Gielgud in the Salisbury; he is talking, I think, to Kenneth Tynan. Also in the comments, Dale Rapley’s poignant anecdote about working with Dirk Bogarde in the twilight of Dirk’s career is worth a moment of anyone’s time.
6 thoughts on “Dirk and Dennis at The Salisbury”
Derren Nesbitt lived for many years with Harry Andrews. In fact the last film Harry made about Marshal Pétain, Derren played, somewhat implausibly, General DeGaulle. John Gielgud used to pick up trade in the Sailsbury as well.
Thank you Miles. Derren Nesbitt living with Harry Andrews is not as big a stretch as Derren playing De Gaulle: it’s as implausible as Peter Wyngarde playing Colonel Nasser. (I think you might have mentioned some of this to me before, but it’s possible that I was too drunk to remember.)
I worked on a radio production of ‘The Forsyte Chronicles’, when I was a member of the BBC Radio Drama Company in 1990, which was narrated by Dirk Bogarde. It was a wonderful cast and I had rather a good part. Alan Howard played my uncle and, at the age of 27, I was already completely star-struck. None of us met Dirk during the recording of the 23 hour long episodes, as he recorded all of his narration separately. However, at the end of it all, we had a radio ‘wrap’ party at which he was present and, naturally, surrounded by adoring fans. As a now considerably ageing British movie star, he was already a bit of a hero of mine, primarily for the boldness of his career choices, including Victim, of course, but also Death in Venice and The Servant, and a part of me was slightly wary of meeting him in the flesh. “Never meet your heroes”, goes the adage. They are bound to disappoint. So I held back. In any case, I’d heard he was already drunk and I didn’t quite know how to muscle in. The opportunity arose, however, when I decided to cross the room to get another drink and suddenly saw that he was walking straight towards me. Right, I thought, now’s my chance. “Hello”, I said rather timidly, “my name’s Dale Rapley and I played Val Dartie.” He looked, for a brief moment, into my bespectacled young face, shook his head, somewhat bewildered, and with a limp gesture of the hand, reached out and replied, “I always imagined Val to be a bit more…”, and clearly unable to articulate what it was exactly that I had to be ‘more of’, let his hand drop in a dismissive fashion, and walked right on by. I was mortified. The rumours were clearly true. Closeted homosexual or not, intelligent and bold actor though he undoubtedly was, he was clearly the cantankerous old bastard that everyone had said he was. To this day, I still regret that I wasn’t able to make more of an impact in that moment. There’s something about that deeply complex, consciously guarded persona he presented to the world that continues to intrigue.
Thank you for that Dale: that story is one of the most poignant ‘never meet your heroes’ anecdotes that I have ever heard. I’m inclined to think that one way of seizing the moment would have been to pour your drink over Dirk’s head, but that might not have played well at the Beeb.
It would have been quite funny though.