It’s our final day of Christmas, and finally we come to the book that everyone seems to agree is a Book of the Year. The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian and the Sunday Times have all praised to the skies, but why trust them when you can hear it from the editor himself, Paul Engles. (Or skip to the bottom for limited edition signed copies!)
OLIVIER by Philip Ziegler
I’ve never been particularly keen on biographies but working on Philip’s book has undoubtedly been the most enjoyable experience of my professional life. For two reasons. The first is that Olivier is – and this adjective is overused – a colossally inspirational figure. A man who wished to be a great actor and, though blessed with great talent, was willing to work and work and work until his status as such was undisputed. Who turned his hand to directing and produced three of the finest Shakespearean films ever committed to celluloid. Who cherished the notion of a British national theatre and worked tirelessly to make it a reality, and whose star power and personal magnetism was a major draw, at least in the early years. He was certainly not the only great actor of his generation, but it is the sheer range of his achievements that astounds – he had an insatiable appetite for new challenges, and he invariably rose to meet them.
And the second? Although Philip has claimed in public appearances that it is impossible to feel you really know Olivier (“The fact is that I don’t know who I am,” Olivier admitted, “I’ve played all these parts and I don’t know who I am. I’m a hollow man.”), his book certainly gives you a fighting chance. Philip had access to more than fifty hours of taped interviews that were recorded in preparation for a ghosted autobiography that became an unghosted one – Olivier decided in the end that he would write it himself. This is the unguarded, candid Olivier, speaking freely and at ease, and Philip laces his book with his frank abuse and acerbic wit. It’s a biography, but one into which the subject’s authentic voice is seamlessly interwoven.
Simon Callow has commented in the Guardian that, whereas most biographies of Olivier lose steam as he gets older, this one gains momentum. Philip’s depiction of Olivier’s years as Director of the National Theatre is breathtakingly compelling. Kenneth Tynan, who started out as a critic and became the National’s mercurial, mischievous dramaturge, comes close to stealing the show here. We get a sense of Olivier both as a control freak who wished to determine every detail and as a benevolent patriarch who strove to be the captain of a happy ship.
But by then Olivier was declining physically. He had always kept himself very fit and had always included feats of athleticism in his performances. But as he grew older, body and mind began to fail him – he was laid low by a rare and debilitating illness and began to experience paralysing stage fright for the first time in his career. You get the sense in this book that he had worked himself into ill health – that all the hours put in, the constant Olympian effort to improve himself were at last taking their heavy toll. These last sections are incredibly poignant – though Libby Purves in The Times seemed the only critic reviewing the book to notice: “So engrossed was I in the portrait, so gripped by wonder, pity and affection for a man who made his failings into glories, that the account of his decline was hard to read. But it is, like all of this tremendous book, done with understanding and dignity.”
On a couple of occasions during while working on this book I have found myself drunkenly ranting at strangers on buses or in bars about Olivier’s life and achievements – so caught up in it I was. Reading it, you get the sense that Olivier was more than an actor, more than a director, more than a philanderer, though he excelled in all these areas. He was at once an icon and a statesman, whose limitless energy helped establish one of our best-loved institutions. He was also a bit of a bastard – domineering, jealous, petty and at his wittiest when on the attack. Philip doesn’t attempt to airbrush the less loveable sides to his character – in fact he rather revels in them, quoting judiciously and juicily from Olivier’s most vitriolic rants. “Don’t you realise what a c**t I am?” he asked when he was first offered the directorship of the National. “Well, you’ll find out now!” And so will anyone who reads this book – though they may also concede that he was also a bit of a legend.
Paul Engles, Editor
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