I was dumbstruck. We were returning from a game of golf – a circumstance in and of itself as improbable as what was about to follow – when the unthinkable was thought and, even worse, said aloud. My friends, our clubs and I were crammed into my 1982 puke-green Daihatsu Charade and travelling along Coolart Road at a pace that rendered the speed limit largely aspirational. This was clearly too much for the car travelling immediately behind us. With my shoulders hunched over the wheel, their faces seemed to be pressed up against the rearview mirror. As I slowed to turn into the driveway, the impatient car pulled up alongside, a passenger wound down the window and yelled, ‘Out of the way, Gene Wilder!’
I was dumbstruck. We were returning from a game of golf – a circumstance in and of itself as improbable as what was about to follow – when the unthinkable was thought and, even worse, said aloud. My friends, our clubs and I were crammed into my 1982 puke-green Daihatsu Charade and travelling along Coolart Road at a pace that rendered the speed limit largely aspirational. This was clearly too much for the car travelling immediately behind us. With my shoulders hunched over the wheel, their faces seemed to be pressed up against the rearview mirror. As I slowed to turn into the driveway, the impatient car pulled up alongside, a passenger wound down the window and yelled, ‘Out of the way, Gene Wilder!’
It was the ultimate drive-by taunt. No sooner was the insult hurled in my direction than they were gone, presumably in search of other drivers to attack by reference to reclusive comedic screen actors. I could only pity the next person who might find himself on the wrong end of a Buster Keaton or Stan Laurel-based sledge. But as the car hurtled past, I struggle to come to terms with having just been the victim of a drive-by insult.
My humiliation was not helped by the fact that my friends thought it hilarious. Rather than rushing to my defence or even offering to pursue the other car on foot to wreak some kind of bloody revenge, they instead applauded the heckler for saying out loud what they had obviously been thinking for some time. I was dumbstruck. It was as though the veil had suddenly been lifted. Clearly there was no going back. Once that Pandora’s worm was loosed upon the world, it could never be coaxed back into its box. The brutal truth was as simple as it was shocking: in my late teenage years, I was a Gene Wilder lookalike.
It would not be the last time I would be compared to someone famous, but without exception these comparisons have been of an unflattering nature. Not once has my name been used in a sentence including George Clooney, Brad Pitt or anyone else that might be considered conventionally handsome. Instead, I get compared to Nicholas Cage, the odd looking guy that befriends ‘Chunk’ in Goonies and, somewhat unfairly, ‘Slingblade’. There have, of course, been consequences. A friend once swore blind that I was the spitting image of Anthony Michael Hall in the film Weird Science and, to this day, I have been too afraid to watch the movie.
Let me be clear: I think Gene Wilder is fantastic. I guess you could argue that some of his films are better than others, but there’s so much to enjoy that any criticism seems petty. No one could play Leo Bloom in The Producers as well as Wilder, a fact borne out by the remake in 2005. His performance in Blazing Saddles may well be genius. While the rest of the cast is busy mugging for the camera with vaudevillian extravagance, Gene steals the movie by being perfectly understated. And then, of course, there’s Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
With a perfect blend of charm and menace, Wilder makes an unlovable character seem, if not lovable then at least not loathsome. Indeed, he makes you forget that, apparently on a whim, he shut down an entire factory and made everyone redundant before importing a colony of Oompa Loompas – presumably on 457 visas – offering only board and lodging in lieu of a wage. He has cavalier approach to safety and a commitment to food hygiene that might best be described a flat-out shonky. But despite these flaws, Gene imbues the inhuman with humanity. The film was so successful that it single-handedly skewed any conception I had of what it was like to work in the manufacturing industry.
I’ve only ever been to one chocolate factory. I was twelve or so at the time. In my mind, I imagined those responsible for making such wonderful things would be the happiest people on earth. The lady giving the tour emphasized that the workers were all entitled to eat as much chocolate coming off the conveyor belt as they wished. As we stepped onto the factory floor, those at the machines and conveyor belts weren’t high-fiving each other or singing. In fact, not a single soul was smiling, probably worried that their jobs might be outsourced to Oompa Loompas.
I walked and watched as creamy chocolates travelled along the belt under the watchful eyes of the employees. As I passed, one of them looked up. She was a lady of ample proportions with a brown ring around her mouth and who had clearly taken the ‘eat what you like’ policy of the company as a personal challenge. She raised a stubby finger in my direction and in a voice that could guide ships through fog declared, ‘Don’t look now but there’s a miniature Gene Wilder over by the soft centres.’ Startled, I turned around hoping to see someone standing nearby before realizing she was referring to me. Every eye in the factory suddenly swung in my direction and I wished that I was as invisible as a great glass elevator. There are, I suppose, worse people to be compared to. It’s just that I can’t see the resemblance. I guess some things can’t be avoided. It must be in my Genes.