Reviewed: Fanny & Stella - The Young Men in Women’s Clothes

Neil McKenna’s book revisits one of Victorian Britain’s most explosive trials.

 

The Charge of Personating Women

Yesterday afternoon the Bow-street Police-court and its approaches were literally besieged by the public, owing to the re-examination of the two young men, Ernest Boulton aged 22 of 43, Shirland-road, Paddington, and Frederick William Park, aged 23, of 13, Bruton-street, Berkeley-square, under remand upon the charge of wearing women’s clothes, at the Strand Theatre … for a supposed felonious purpose.

The prisoners appeared in male apparel on this occasion, much to the disappointment, apparently, of the crowds assembled to see them. The case excited unusual interest, probably owing to the notoriety acquired by certain young men who, for years past, have been in the habit of visiting places of public resort in female attire, and who have occasionally been turned out or compelled to retire to avoid the consequences of the public indignation excited by their presence when detected.

The Times, Saturday 7 May 1870

 

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Neil McKenna’s book Fanny and Stella: The Young Men Who Shocked Victorian England  (Faber & Faber, 416pp) documents the arrest and trial of Ernest “Stella” Boulton and Frederick “Fanny” Park,  in one of the greatest scandals in 19th century Britain. A pivotal event in the legal treatment of sexual diversity and gender variance, Fanny and Stella’s six-day trial, postponed for a year after their arrest in May 1870, was a farce, collapsing after a jury took just 52 minutes to find them not guilty of “conspiring to incite others to commit unnatural offences”.

McKenna presents less a social history, more a biography of Fanny and Stella – young men with “respectable” professions (both clerks, in stockbroking and law) who played female roles on and off stage. They did so with little regard for “common decency” at a time when the sexual and moral hygiene of the bourgeoisie mattered deeply to the British authorities, who needed them to uphold domestic industry and the Empire it supported.

Fanny and Stella mixed with male and female sex workers in London’s “seedy” sexual underworld, generally not being made welcome by either group. At the same time, Stella presented herself as the wife of former Liberal MP Lord Arthur Clinton, part of an aristocracy seen as increasingly corrosive. Stella in particular was a well-known entertainer who profited from the craze for farces and melodramas, and was regarded as a genuine beauty; the rise of mass media and printed photographs carried the “sensational” images of her and Fanny to a world never previously would have encountered them.

Organisations such as the Society of the Suppression of Vice  believed London to be the new Sodom; after the Metropolitan Police was established in 1829, its officers began to patrol the boundaries of gender and sexuality, bringing men who dressed as women to court, usually charged with soliciting or public order offences. Mostly, defendants claimed this behaviour to be "a lark" and escaped with a fine, but as details emerged about Fanny and Stella’s lives, it became clear that theirs was no individual aberration. It seemed, explosively, that a cross-class sodomite ring was about to be broken.

The vital new factor was the Metropolitan Police’s decision to subject Fanny and Stella to a medical examination, conducted by Dr Paul, to find out if they had engaged in anal sex. Although McKenna provides less than authors such as H G Cocks on how this trial differed from those that preceded it, he is strong on the cultural and legal history of sodomy, and especially on the absurdities of Victorian attempts to establish scientific criteria for it. This is often tragi-comic: one of Dr Paul’s authorities claimed that “the dimensions of the penis of active pederasts were excessive in one way or another” and “pointed and moulded to the funnel shape of the passive anus”.

This transgression soon became public knowledge, through the Daily Telegraph and The Times’ extensive reporting (although McKenna neglects that the Pall Mall Gazette, for one, refused to cover the story for fear of corrupting readers through its very mention). One reason that it took a year to bring Fanny and Stella to court was that their lawyers immediately contested Dr Paul, conducting counter-examinations that found no evidence of same-sex activity. As the charges shifted from “unnatural offences” to “conspiracy”, it became clear that Fanny and Stella’s gender and sexuality – indeed, their entire being – were on trial, rather than any specific incident: as McKenna skilfully points out, convicting them for thought rather than deed would have set a highly dangerous (not to mention unworkable) precedent.

McKenna tells us that “Their life was a performance’ with ‘London [as] their stage”, with Bow Street court as the biggest show of all. With little more evidence than an underwhelming set of camp letters, the prosecution focused on how frequently Boulton dressed as Stella, assuming gender variance and sexual diversity to be inherently linked, and whether or not s/he tried to deceive men into sex through this feminine presentation. To the disappointment of the baying crowds, the defendants took the dock in suits, as prosecution witnesses explained that they knew about Fanny and Stella’s birth sex, and “begged” Boulton to grow a moustache and give up drag, or “swing their arms more” so they appeared more masculine.

The defence emphasised Fanny and Stella’s youthful “foolishness”, extending the “lark” cliché into the suggestion that they were engaged in some sort of proto-performance art or method acting. ‘Drag’ had a long tradition, and Fanny and Stella merely took their (widely recognised) theatrical personas into the wider world. Gradually, opinion turned towards them: Mary Ann Boulton, Stella’s mother, offered testimony that normalised her son’s behaviour, but more importantly, it emerged that the Metropolitan Police had tracked them for years, with Dr Paul already primed to examine them, and a key witness speaking of "getting up evidence". There was a conspiracy, it appeared: against Fanny and Stella.

The refusal to openly discuss sodomy made it impossible to convict Fanny and Stella – for the court to do so would have meant admitting that it understood the innuendo in the letters. It would also implicate the aristocracy, through Lord Clinton. McKenna convincingly contests Clinton’s apparent death of scarlet fever in June 1870, speculating that, knowing too much about the proclivities of the upper classes, may have absconded (under pressure or not). With this in mind, the defence argued that a guilty verdict would shame the nation – a tactic successfully repeated in Manchester when 24 men were tried for their part in a drag ball in 1880.

Tantalisingly, magistrate Mr Flowers said after Fanny and Stella’s first court appearance that “I was in hopes that the defence would be that they were women”. It is tempting to consider how this might have worked: as the judge lamented in summing up, grudgingly conceding that Fanny and Stella could not be convicted, there were no specific laws against cross-dressing. Had the question of how “man” and “woman” were defined been raised in such a loaded forum at this time, the history of gender and sexuality may have looked very different.

More on this summing up would have been interesting: the judge said that Fanny and Stella’s gender was “an outrage upon public decency” and “not to be tolerated even when it is done as a mere frolic and amusement; it … deserves summary and severe punishment … And if the law as it is cannot reach it, then it ought to be the subject of legislation.” Clearly, the acquittal infuriated powerful elements of Victorian society, and fed into Labouchere’s amendment to the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885,  which made "gross indecency", even between consenting men in private, a crime.

McKenna takes 19th century social conservatism as read, but offers some fascinating insights into Fanny and Stella’s place as outsiders not just in “respectable” society, but also within the underworld to which their gender non-conformity led them. Without delineating gender variance and sexual diversity (something which came with 20th century sexology) or transposing modern terms onto the Victorian era, McKenna evokes the differences between Fanny and her brother Harry, who had sex with men without dressing in "female attire". The author respects Fanny and Stella’s gender presentations, using female pronouns as default, and engages well with the language of their time: occasionally this makes Fanny & Stella feel a little over-written, but the affection of McKenna for his subjects, his comprehensive knowledge of Victorian sexuality and the quality of his research easily outweighs this.

The postscript is fascinating, showing how certain players in Fanny and Stella’s trial were implicated in the Dublin Castle affair of 1884 and the Cleveland Street scandal of 1889, both of which raised concerns about how the aristocracy corrupted the working classes, as Britain’s imperial campaigns in Africa required ever greater numbers. Meanwhile, Fanny fell to syphilis – an epidemic which ravaged the Victorian queer subculture, and which the press and politicians preferred not to discuss. So too did Stella, but not before she had gone to New York, rebranded herself as Ernest Byne and re-established herself as a glamorous drag star: until her end in 1904, outliving Queen Victoria by two years, Stella refused to bow to moral convention and created her own rules of gender.

Fanny and Stella.

Juliet Jacques is a freelance journalist and writer who covers gender, sexuality, literature, film, art and football. Her writing can be found on her blog at and she can be contacted on Twitter @julietjacques.

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Celluloid Dreams: are film scores the next area of serious musical scholarship?

John Wilson has little time for people who don't see the genius at work in so-called "light music".

When John Wilson walks out on to the stage at the Royal Albert Hall in London, there is a roar from the audience that would be more fitting in a football stadium. Before he even steps on to the conductor’s podium, people whistle and cheer, thumping and clapping. The members of his orchestra grin as he turns to acknowledge the applause. Many soloists reaching the end of a triumphant concerto performance receive less ecstatic praise. Even if you had never heard of Wilson before, the rock-star reception would tip you off that you were about to hear something special.

There is a moment of silence as Wilson holds the whole hall, audience and orchestra alike, in stasis, his baton raised expectantly. Then it slices down and the orchestra bursts into a tightly controlled mass of sound, complete with swirling strings and blowsy brass. You are instantly transported: this is the music to which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced, the music of George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, which reverberated around the cauldron of creativity that was Hollywood of the early 20th century, when composers were as sought after as film directors.

Wilson’s shows are tremendously popular. Since he presented the MGM musicals programme at the Proms in 2009, which was watched by 3.5 million people on TV and is still selling on DVD, his concerts have been among the first to sell out in every Proms season. There are international tours and popular CDs, too. But a great deal of behind-the-scenes work goes into bringing this music – much of which had been lost to history – back to life. There are familiar tunes among the complex arrangements that he and his orchestra play, to be sure, but the music sounds fresher and sharper than it ever does on old records or in movies. Whether you’re a film fan or not, you will find something about the irrepressible energy of these tunes that lifts the spirits.

Sitting in an armchair in the conductor’s room beneath the Henry Wood Hall in south London, Wilson looks anything but energetic. “Excuse my yawning, but I’ve been up since three o’clock this morning,” he says. This is a short break in a hectic rehearsal schedule, as he puts his orchestra through its paces in the lead-up to its appearance at the 2016 Proms. Watching him at work before we sat down to talk, I saw a conductor who was far from sluggish. Bobbing on the balls of his feet, he pushed his players to consider every detail of their sound, often stopping the musicians to adjust the tone of a single note or phrase. At times, his whole body was tense with the effort of communicating the tone he required.

The programme that Wilson and his orchestra are obsessing over at the moment is a celebration of George and Ira Gershwin, the American songwriting partnership that produced such immortal songs as “I Got Rhythm”, “’S Wonderful” and “Funny Face”, as well as the 1934 opera Porgy and Bess. Though it might all sound effortless when everyone finally appears in white tie, huge amounts of preparation go into a John Wilson concert and they start long before the orchestra begins to rehearse.

“Coming up with the idea is the first step,” he says. “Then you put a programme together, which takes a great deal of time and thought and revision. You can go through 40 drafts until you get it right. I was still fiddling with the running order two weeks ago. It’s like a three-dimensional game of chess – one thing changes and the whole lot comes down.”

Wilson, 44, who also conducts the more conventional classical repertoire, says that his interest in so-called light music came early on. “When you’re a kid, you don’t know that you shouldn’t like the Beatles, or you shouldn’t like Fred Astaire, or whatever,” he says. “You just like anything that’s good. So I grew up loving Beethoven and Brahms and Ravel and Frank Sinatra and the Beatles.” At home in Gateshead – he still has the Geordie accent – the only music in the house was “what was on the radio and telly”, and the young boy acquired his taste from what he encountered playing with local brass bands and amateur orchestras.

He had the opposite of the hothoused, pressured childhood that we often associate with professional musicians. “Mine were just nice, lovely, normal parents! As long as I wore clean underwear and finished my tea, then they were happy,” he recalls. “I was never forced into doing music. My parents used to have to sometimes say, ‘Look, you’ve played the piano enough today; go out and get some fresh air’ – things like that.” Indeed, he received barely any formal musical education until he went to the Royal College of Music at the age of 18, after doing his A-levels at Newcastle College.

The title of the concert he conducted at this year’s Proms was “George and Ira Gershwin Rediscovered”, which hints at the full scale of Wilson’s work. Not only does he select his music from the surviving repertoire of 20th-century Hollywood: in many cases, he unearths scores that weren’t considered worth keeping at the time and resurrects the music into a playable state. At times, there is no written trace at all and he must reconstruct a score by ear from a ­recording or the soundtrack of a film.

For most other musicians, even experts, it would be an impossible task. Wilson smiles ruefully when I ask how he goes about it. “There are 18 pieces in this concert. Only six of them exist in full scores. So you track down whatever materials survive, whether they be piano or conductors’ scores or recordings, and then my colleagues and I – there are four of us – sit down with the scores.” There is no hard and fast rule for how to do this kind of reconstruction, he says, as it depends entirely on what there is left to work with. “It’s like putting together a jigsaw, or a kind of archaeology. You find whatever bits you can get your hands on. But the recording is always the final word: that’s the ur-text. That is what you aim to replicate, because that represents the composer’s and lyricist’s final thoughts.” There is a purpose to all this effort that goes beyond putting on a great show, though that is a big part of why Wilson does it. “I just want everyone to leave with the thrill of having experienced the sound of a live orchestra,” he says earnestly. “I tell the orchestra, ‘Never lose sight of the fact that people have bought tickets, left the house, got on the bus/Tube, come to the concert. Give them their money’s worth. Play every last quaver with your lifeblood.’”

Besides holding to a commitment to entertain, Wilson believes there is an academic justification for the music. “These composers were working with expert ­arrangers, players and singers . . . It’s a wonderful period of music. I think it’s the next major area of serious musical scholarship.”

These compositions sit in a strange, in-between place. Classical purists deride them as “light” and thus not worthy of attention, while jazz diehards find the catchy syncopations tame and conventional. But he has little time for anyone who doesn’t recognise the genius at work here. “They’re art songs, is what they are. The songs of Gershwin and Porter and [Jerome] Kern are as important to their period as the songs of Schubert . . . People who are sniffy about this material don’t really know it, as far as I’m concerned, because I’ve never met a musician of any worth who’s sniffy about this.

Selecting the right performers is another way in which Wilson ensures that his rediscovered scores will get the best possible presentation. He formed the John Wilson Orchestra in 1994, while he was still studying at the Royal College of Music, with the intention of imitating the old Hollywood studio orchestras that originally performed this repertoire. Many of the players he works with are stars of other European orchestras – in a sense, it is a supergroup. The ensemble looks a bit like a symphony orchestra with a big band nestled in the middle – saxophones next to French horns and a drum kit in the centre. The right string sound, in particular, is essential.

At the rehearsal for the Gershwin programme, I heard Wilson describing to the first violins exactly what he wanted: “Give me the hottest sound you’ve made since your first concerto at college.” Rather than the blended tone that much of the classical repertoire calls for, this music demands throbbing, emotive, swooping strings. Or, as Wilson put it: “Use so much vibrato that people’s family photos will shuffle across the top of their TVs and fall off.”

His conducting work spans much more than his Hollywood musical reconstruction projects. Wilson is a principal conductor with the Royal Northern Sinfonia and has performed or recorded with most of the major ensembles in Britain. And his great passion is for English music: the romanticism of Elgar, Vaughan Williams and Delius needs advocates, too, he says. He insists that these two strands of his career are of equivalent importance. “I make no separation between my activities conducting classical music and [film scores]. They’re just all different rooms in the same house.” 

The John Wilson Orchestra’s “Gershwin in Hollywood” (Warner Classics) is out now

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser