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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