Derek Sculthorpe

Portrait of a unique music hall artiste.

Orphaned at thirteen, Malcolm Scott rose to become a leading female impersonator of the Edwardian era. A true eccentric, he first made his name at the Palace and Pavilion theatres in London attired as a female figure of history where he entertained audiences with his highly individual satirical act as 'The Woman Who Knows'. An acerbic wit, with a surrealist humour, he was in many ways a man ahead of his time.

Besides being an actor, he was the doyen of Pierrot shows, and widely acknowledged as one of the finest pantomime dames ever known. In addition, he made several successful world tours and became an early radio personality before his untimely death. With a discography and substantial inventory of credits including all known sheet music and many rare photographs, this extensively-researched monograph is the first ever written about a forgotten great of British entertainment.

First published: Wednesday 12th January 2022

A word from Derek Sculthorpe

I discovered Malcolm Scott purely by chance when I came across a record in a charity shop about 30 years ago. Of all the artists on the record, Scott stood out because he was doing entirely his own thing - totally unconventional, and well ahead of his time. It was both his appearance and material that intrigued me. His patter was very much in the English tradition of nonsense, obviously heightened by an expressive face and it was never explained why he was dressed as Catherine Parr or Elizabeth I. It's a special kind of absurdism that has been a crucial part of the comic tradition in Britain from the beginning.

Scott had by all accounts a sharp wit, he could be rather vinegary, and did not suffer fools. He was unpredictable, and highly satiric; he often made incisive political and social comment, but he got away with it, perhaps largely because of his appearance in women's dress. The nearest modern comparison would be Barry Humphries in his Dame Edna persona, who could say outrageous things to famous people and was loved the world over. Incidentally, Scott did play in Melbourne, but they found him a bit too blue, so he has that in common with Humphries.

Having accumulated a lot of research about Scott, I was keen to try and publish something about him. I realised that if I put him with all the others in The Lost World of Music Hall it might make it a bit lopsided. I therefore hoped to publish the Scott volume separately.

Ben Ohmart, the editor of Bear Manor Media, was supportive of the idea and so it went ahead. He is a great encourager, and has to be commended for taking the chance on something like this. Scott is almost totally unknown to modern audiences. He made one film, which appears to be lost, and a handful of recordings. Only two have been reissued. He had no living relatives who I could contact, and even photographs are rare; after all, he died over 90 years ago. Nothing dates like humour, so how is it possible to bring him to life after all this time? These are some of the challenges of writing about forgotten performers. And yet there is something satisfying about being the first to do it, and I feel I am adding to the existing literature by bringing attention to someone who has been overlooked but who I think deserves attention as a comedy pioneer.