THE cult credentials of Geoffrey Bayldon, who died on May 10 aged 93, were seriously impressive. To an entire generation of TV-obsessed kids like me who grew up glued to the box in the 70s he was Catweazle, that lovable but clueless 11th century magician who was transported to the modern day where such devilry as 'elec-trickery' and the dreaded 'telling-bone', into which people would babble bizarrely, were the source of unending wonder and laughs.
That sweet ITV series and the eccentric star turn that Bayldon provided in it are only part of his story, however. As a Shakespearian actor he learnt his craft treading the boards of provincial theatres before the lure of TV came in the late 50s. He was that most traditional of British acting figures a 'character actor', the kind of reliable member of the cast who could deliver drama and comedy with equal skill and style.
As a solid supporting figure, he graced all manner of classic British TV in the 60s, from Z Cars to The Avengers. His quirky features and oddball demeanour saw him offered the role of Doctor Who twice – firstly for the position taken by the original TV time traveller William Hartnell and then before Patrick Troughton got the post second time out.
He turned down the offer on both occasions, fearing he would get typecast for playing old men when he was actually relatively young, but would go on to appear in the series when Tom Baker was at the helm. He also got to finally play the Doctor himself when he starred in a couple of radio plays in the early 2000s.
The weird Doctor Who connection continued when he appeared alongside the third Doctor, Jon Pertwee, in Worzel Gummidge, which ran for four series on ITV from 1979 to 1981. His role as The Crowman, the slightly sinister creator of old Worzel, burnt itself deep into the minds of the kids watching, just like Catweazle had the previous decade.
Watch some of the scenes he played together with Pertwee on Youtube and it’s hard not to be moved by the level of actorly skill on show. Bayldon never talked down to or patronised his audience. He always performed as if he was still in Shakespeare.
He graced numerous horror films, ranging from the game changing (he’s in Hammer’s startling reboot of Dracula from 1958) to the more cultish (he’s got small but perfectly formed parts in the Amicus anthologies The House That Dripped Blood and Asylum). My favourite big-screen role of his remains that of the pompous Governor in the underrated 1979 film adaptation of Ronnie Barker’s comic masterpiece Porridge. Aloof and idiotic, his performance is comedy gold.
He also showed up alongside Marc Bolan in his Born to Boogie film (Marc was a huge fan apparently) and he continued to turn up regularly on prime time TV shows like All Creatures Great And Small and Casualty right up until ill health made him retire.
His passing has robbed us of a true comedy great.
