Between them, they were to become the great symbol of the Marx Brothers, loved by low-brows and high-brows alike. Instead, it is a painting of a moustache – ceci n’est pas une moustache – that he first daubed on his face with greasepaint in 1921, having arrived late for a performance, with no time to glue on his artificial whiskers. It is both a moustache, and not a moustache. Groucho’s most visible characteristic is itself a sort of pun. And as for Julius, he carried a small drawstring bag known as a “grouch”. Groucho was born Julius he only transformed into Groucho in a break between shows, when a fellow comedian allotted nicknames to each of the Marx Brothers: Milton wore rubber boots, hence Gummo Leonard chased women, or “chicks”, hence Chico, and Adolph played the harp, hence Harpo. His father was called Simon, not Sam, and Marrix, not Marx his mother’s real name was Miene Schönberg, but her stage name was Minnie Palmer. If that’s too soon, you can leave in a minute and a huff.” These quick-fire speeches have a topsy-turvy logic all their own, each word changing its meaning the moment it is uttered.Įverything about Groucho was a pun. If you can’t leave in a taxi you can leave in a huff. The more Mrs Teasdale coos, the more he undermines her with his crazed wordplay. The moment he enters, the puns come thick and punishingly fast, with no letup. Finally, he is greeted – “I welcome you with open arms” – by a clearly besotted Mrs Teasdale. All eyes are on the entrance when Groucho Marx finally lollops in from the side, unseen. The minutes tick by, and the ceremony keeps on stopping and starting as His Excellency fails to appear. In 1933, when Duck Soup was first released, this deadbeat song with its patriotic lyrics would have brought to mind the forced jubilations of Stalin’s Soviet Union or Hitler’s Germany even today, it remains the prototypical song for countries such as Azerbaijan and North Korea, speaking of order and shared purpose, of a population pointing in the same direction. After various formal introductions, a troupe of ballerinas enters, scattering flowers along his projected walkway. It is the reception for His Excellency Rufus T Firefly, who has yet to arrive. Instead, the scene switches to an absurdly lavish ballroom, its vast staircase flanked by overly plumed guards and trumpeters with exceedingly long trumpets. “A progressive, fearless fighter, a man like … Rufus T Firefly!”įirefly is, of course, Groucho Marx, but we have still not had a glimpse of him. “In a crisis like this, I feel Freedonia needs a new leader,” declares Mrs Teasdale. You almost feel that, if you looked very hard, you could spot George Osborne or Vince Cable in the background, beavering away. Instead, the language of negotiation fills the air: this could be any political film, at any time, dealing with the usual problems of borrowing, taxing and spending. It is already a minute in, and there is still no pun in sight.
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