"What other life could there be but that of an actor?"
Nothing compares to the keen, absorbing pleasure of good writing. I’m in the middle of reading Cary Grant’s autobiography, and I’m riveted. It’s even better that I thought it would be.
I’ve had the promise of this reading pleasure sitting in the back of my mind for months now, like the last carefully hoarded Christmas sweet. For a huge CG fan like me this is important, as it’s the only real document that a very private man left about himself. He rarely gave interviews, on TV or in print; rarely spoke about his private life, never appeared on What’s My Line; he guarded his privacy so carefully that many biographers have been only too keen to fill in the blanks with salacious conjecture (Marc Eliot, I’m looking at you).
So when I came across '"Archie Leach" by Cary Grant', I first thought it must be a very clever fake. People do strange things when stars are concerned. And it was originally published in The Ladies' Home Journal?? Surely not! But then I started reading and it is unmistakeably authentic: his distinctive voice, the trans-atlantic quality, the peculiar cadence, comes across as clearly in print as it does on film. There’s a huge sense of deja-vu when reading it, and yet at the same time it’s strangely unfamiliar – it’s the voice of the person, not the icon. And he writes almost as well as he acts, and just as uniquely. Descriptions are clear and poignant; turns of phrase are both so English and so very idiosyncratic. He reveals a memory’s eye for cinematic detail; evocative, keenly felt; and with apparently very little pretense: it’s not hard to hear the lively, thoughtful, insecure, curious man beneath.
Note: Grant is famous for saying he would never write an autobiography. This isn’t a full-length one: it’s under thirty thousand words, about the length of a short novella; neither does it cover his whole life – he wrote it when he was about fifty-nine. And since it was originally published in The Ladies' Home Journal I’m guessing it wasn’t meant to be the authoritative volume on his life. I’m just surprised it exists at all. And it’s obviously straight from Grant’s typewriter, imperfections and all – I’m glad no editor got their hands on it.
It was written at or shortly after an important point in his life, apparently – its tone is surprisingly introspective and has the attitude of a person who has only recently started to look inward, to examine unconscious motivations; someone who looks at the apparent contradictions of his life and is starting to see how they make sense. This quiet exhilaration of self-knowledge comes through clearly and this turning point in his life is, I’m guessing, one of the reasons why the memoir exists.
And I’m so glad this does exist; it allows the man to speak for himself, beyond the conjecture and the rumours; to say what he wanted to say and leave unsaid what he wished.
I’m enthralled. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a piece of writing so much. I have a special appreciation for writing styles that communicate a distinctive, unique, even idiosyncratic personality. And boy, this one does. It’s a pure joy to read. It’s the kind of writing that makes me want to write, too. In other words, the best kind.
I stayed up late last night (or early, really) reading. I’ve just got to the point where the sixteen-year-old Archie leaves his miserable childhood in Bristol and sails for New York City. I can’t wait to get back to reading, but since I’m forgoing procrastination, I’m writing this first.
Okay, now I’m done. And I’m back to reading.
[Edit: to read the second part of this review, click here].
For all photos and posts about Cary Grant, click here.
