Book Review: Archie Leach by Cary Grant, pt 2



 

Well, I finished it, the story of a boy called Archie. It didn’t take me long, either – I couldn’t put it down – but I’ve been procrastinating about writing the review.

I enjoyed it so much. The voice is so unique: wry, self-deprecating, sometimes insecure and cynical. Full of warm, keen human insight. The distinctive tone: lively, thoughtful, poignant, mixed with sunshine and goofy wordplay.  

One of the things that struck me was the storyline – unusual for a biography, it’s written in such a non-linear fashion. He recalls a scene from his childhood, then relates it to some recent event, then goes off on a philosophical tangent. And then says ‘let’s see, where were we’. It’s like sitting beside someone listening to them free-associate about their life. It’s charming and refreshingly different.

Remarkably missing are any anecdotes from the film set. None whatsoever. No “when I was on [insert famous film], [insert famous director] did this or that funny thing”. It’s a personal biography, and he seems to have put his work on films in a completely different category. His daughter said that when she grew up he never referred to his film career, never talked about it, no funny stories of “I remember when”. This has the same feel. It’s the inner life of the man.

His childhood and younger years as a ragtag vaudevillian takes up a lot of space. He recalls it in detail, and it’s something you couldn’t make up – the astounding rags-to-riches-ness of it – how Hollywood’s leading man spent his first summer in America on the edge of destitution, eking out a living as a stilt-walker, and before that, in a miserable, Dickensian childhood in working-class Bristol. And running through every line, at every juncture there is the gritty self-reliance and grim determination of a lonely kid determined to make his half-formed dream a reality. Inspiring stuff.

(Incidentally, it’s interesting how English writers associate their memories of a miserable childhood with the cold and the damp. As if it’s a metaphysical chill that they spend their whole lives trying to shake off.)
Remarkably frank, Grant talks about his first three marriages and why they went wrong. His succinct phrases often contain love and bitterness in equal measure. His third wife, Betsy Drake, with whom he had ten happy years before things went south, is “the dear wife who recently divorced me”. 

He discusses his use of LSD combined with psychotherapy. Here is where he lost me a bit – he’s effusive about the benefits of this wonder drug. But the next time I see my shrink I’m not going to ask her to give me LSD to speed up the process.

On the other hand, it worked for him. And he concludes that part of the autobiography with some genuinely profound and beautiful thoughts. One that especially touched me was “In life there is no end to getting well”. Whether that’s applied to physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual health, it’s a beautiful and deeply hopeful thought. 

As I’ve probably hinted, I have a deep love and appreciation for Cary Grant and his art. His films have made me laugh through many, many a miserable day. And so I feel privileged to have read this autobiography. I’m glad he chose to share these thoughts with the world.

Well, I could go on all night but I want to publish this and if I go on much longer I’ll be too effusive for my own good. So just go on and read it already. Here’s the link. Leave a comment and tell me if you enjoyed it.

I took notes as I was reading, and at the end of the page I’ve jotted down, “I would so love to have known this person!!!!” And that sums it up, really.


The first part of this review is here.
For all Cary Grant posts, click here, and to see all Old Hollywood posts, here.

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