The Real Life of Laurence Olivier

Rating:
Summary: Uneven
Review: This is a better book than Lewis's biograpy of Peter Sellers, if only because it is much, much shorter. But the some of excesses that marred the prior book are here, too. Lewis suffers from foodnote-itis; they can go on for pages and break up the rhythym of reading the book terribly. Either he should integrate the material into the text or he should use notes at the end of the book. He still can't resist inserting himself into the book and making snide and tedious wisecracks, though compared to the Sellers book, he has definitely toned this element down. But the out-of-left-field rhetorical question habit is worse here. My absolute favourite: When discussing the film of Olivier's "Hamlet", he says, "Finally, am I alone in thinking the curtains of Gertrude's bed are spead like the lips of a giant vagina?" Doh! I rather think you are, pal. Either the aforementioned comment is a put-on, or the editor was asleep at the--forgive me--swatch. Speaking of sex, Lewis doesn't like to speak of it, at least directly. He gives it a series of coy, creepy nicknames: "rumpy-pumpy", " and (another favourite) "the bedspring Sonata". What is it with the British, anyway? (That rhetorical question thing is catching).(P) It is also a bad sign that Lewis can't immediately let go of Sellers, and the first part of the book is loaded with references to him and comparisons to Olivier. Apples and mangoes, friends. (P) But studded throughout these excesses, like jewels in *&%!, is some brilliant writing on Olivier's preformances and what excited him about acting. You will just have to hold your nose to enjoy them. (P) And Olivier was great. He was an indifferent father, a poor husband, a jealous colleague, and a manipulative friend, as Lewis makes clear. His love, his energies, his reality went to acting. He was not one of these modern actors who feel obliged to give dumb interviews about the whorishness of the acting profession, and how it is not really suited to a man. Olivier loved and respected his profession, and this book rightly celebrates his triumphs in unlikely ("The Betsy"), small (his wonderfully hostile and whiney Morarity in "The Seven-Per-Cent Solution"), classical ('Richard III'); modern ('The Entertainer') and comedy ("Moscow Nights"). My favourite Olivier performance is none of the above, however. When I was a teenager, I stumbled upon a television showing of William Wyler's "Carrie" (an adaptation of Dreiser's "Sister Carrie." This is an early fifties movie that was a terrible flop when released and was almost immediately forgotten. Olivier is cast as Hurstwood. His fate is horrifying, but such is the power of the performance Olivier gives, you watch until the very last frame. Sometimes this book can convey in words--fleetingly--what Olivier did on the screen. So, in spite of the author's self-indulgences, I recommend it.