Toujours la politesse
Nigel Nicolson
MY NAME ESCAPES ME: THE DIARY OF A RETIRING ACTOR by Alec Guinness Hamish Hamilton, £16, pp. 214 Alec Guinness tells us that he has kept a sort of diary for over 30 years, and has instructed his heirs to destroy it. But this one he has kept for only 18 months, ending in June this year, leaving us breathless for more. He intended it for publication. So one must expect explanations like 'Ed Herrmann (American actor friend)' and lapheth (labrador type)' which a diarist does not make for himself, and he is extraordinarily polite, especially about other actors, never witnessing a bad play or a poor performance. When nothing much is happening, he can reminisce about the past with the excuse, 'On this day three (or forty) years ago, I remember. . . ', all per- fectly legitimate. A diarist's privilege is to hop from twig to twig. We do not demand a logical narrative.
It is always interesting to intrude, by invitation, on the private life of a famous man, and to discover that his daily routine differs little from other people's. We all miss trains, we all catch colds, our dogs die, we get wrong numbers on the telephone, our taps leak. Samples of these minor incidents and mishaps are certainly needed to round out a diary, but they should be rationed. Sir Alec gives us a little too much. He should have sieved the diary more, as he did when reading parts of it for Radio 4, and been a little less discreet. I would like to have known more about Jack Profumo's conversation when they stayed together for a week on Lake Como. I missed any explanation of why he convert- ed to Roman Catholicism. Although he tells us much about his love of music and the novels of John Updike, there is little about his reaction to other arts, or about such topics as sport, youth, Americans, war. I wanted more reflections on his past and his present. He must have many.
He may be reticent on these subjects because, at 82, he is still having a very good time, and has no wish to sit back and con- template. He is in good health. He has lost the sight of one eye and has trouble with his hearing, but as he has toothache, he must have teeth. He is 'retiring', as the sub-title says, but not retired. He likes being offered small parts, but apart from voice-overs, refuses them, as he distrusts ability to remember lines. His social life is still very active. He and his wife are in great demand as guests. He lunches much, dines often, takes weekends off to stay in marine hotels, goes abroad. His character is self-revealing. However diverse his roles have been on stage and film, he plays only one role now, himself. No actor has ever been less of an actor off- stage. Modest but without self-pity or self- reproach, his book needs John Le Carre's preface to remind us of things that no diarist or autobiographer cares to say of himself: that he is excellently mannered and expects good manners in others, that his acting skills amounted to genius, that he is very self-disciplined. He abuses only politicians (Edward Heath and Madam Speaker excepted), and thinks that of all the actors he has ever listened to the finest voice belongs to the Pope. His manner is invariably courteous, faintly old- fashioned, euphemistic. He calls a pretty girl 'a personable young lady', and can write, 'Dr Alzheimer looks as if he may be extending a welcome to me.'
I do hope not. For this is a man who has extracted enormous pleasure from giving pleasure. His triumphs belong to everyone. It is typical of him that when he won an Oscar for The Bridge on the River Kwai, his joy was tarnished by a headline next day, `Deborah Kerr fails for the third time'. That people should be generous is one of his constant themes, and his diary is proof of how well he has lived up to it him- self.
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