The Beatles might not have been The Beatles without a little help from their friends.
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The Fab Four had a gifted team around them, including producer George Martin and manager Brian Epstein , and they cleverly chose their collaborators. Yellow Submarine might not have been Yellow Submarine.
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Only a Northern Song. George Harrison.
Yellow Submarine | Film | The Guardian
All Together Now. Hey Bulldog. It's All Too Much. Item two, alternatively, is the almost Wellsian hint of the late-Victorian scientific romance that hangs over the interiors of the submarine, with its gadgets and buttons, edging — once things begin to go wrong — into the world of the Heath Robinson contraption, all tangled wires, mysterious levers and cack-handed menace.
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We could make up all the culture around it and collect all our heroes in one place. A year later, these influences are still going strong.
Not that McCartney would have come up with this line himself — like much of the heavily accented Scouse backchat it was doubtless written by the uncredited Mersey poet Roger McGough. But the strongest twitch on the historical thread comes at the moment when the film fetches up on Merseyside.
Factory chimneys, bare, rising streets, ancient cast-iron lamp posts, tenement buildings and disused viaducts offer a backdrop to solitary human figures — a man jabbering desperately in a telephone kiosk; a figure perched on the arched upper storey of a derelict building; a flock of city-suited businessmen in bowler hats perched beneath umbrellas on snow-covered rooftops. Outside, the slopes are patrolled by tommy gun-wielding Meanies while packs of guard-dogs yelp and searchlights roam back and forth: this is the atmosphere of a Second World War film, into which four amiable Liverpudlians in strange costumes seem mysteriously to have strayed.