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The Richard Burton Diaries

26/6/2013

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I've just spent the last two months working my way through The Richard Burton Diaries - edited by Chris Williams, Yale University Press. I was ever a fan. We Welsh are tribal when it comes to our own, exercising a sense of proletarian kinship that makes us view our most famous sons and daughters as sort of distant cousins still to be met. In my early life I probably admired him for a good number of the wrong reasons; for his renowned heavy drinking and bad behaviour, as much if not more than for his great presence and skill as an actor. He possessed one of the most memorable voices, and he still remains in my view one of the finest speakers of verse I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. He died as a result of a cerebral haemorrhage on 5 August 1984 at his home in Céligny, Switzerland. He was just fifty-eight years of age (the age I shall be in a little over a month's time). He was born on 10 November 1925 at the Jenkins' family home (Jenkins being his real name) in Pontrhydyfen in the Afan valley, South Wales.

I am not by any stretch of the imagination the sort of reader whose passion is ignited at the thought of reading someone's diaries - not even a hero's diaries! So, after receiving this very large book for Christmas I wasn't altogether certain it would turn out to be an experience I'd entirely enjoy. However I am pleased to announce that I was totally wrong about this. The diaries are a delight! Burton had several articles that he'd written for various magazines published during his lifetime, and it remained an unfulfilled ambition of his to write a novel. He often rages against the shallowness of the acting profession and sometimes rails against his own reliance upon it for his income. His lifelong abiding pleasure was reading, and he appears to have enjoyed nothing better than being marooned for several weeks on end in his well-stocked beloved library at Gstaad (Switzerland), the home that he shared with his second (and third) wife, Elizabeth Taylor.

The first diary was written by RB at the age of fifteen in 1940, and although he makes regular entries these are generally short and amount to little more than a catalogue of the things that he did or interested him as a boy. It would be during the following year (sadly not recorded) that he formed the life-changing alliance with his school teacher and mentor, Philip Burton, the man whose surname he took as a stage name. The next diary was written in 1960, while he was still married to his first wife Sybil. Once again it is little more than a series of notes and what there is fizzles out by early July. It is the period 1965 to 1972, when married to Elizabeth Taylor, that the diaries really pick up momentum and become a fascinating read. And I don't mean in any kind of creepy voyeuristic sense, although it's certainly interesting to read about Burton and Taylor during the decade when they were probably the most famous couple in the world and were courted by the great and the good of European society. I suppose some will read these diaries mainly to glean what they can about Elizabeth Taylor, but for myself it was Burton's voice underlining the narrative that kept me going. Some of the entries are as long as chapters of a novel and are beautifully written. The writing becomes noticeably finer whenever Burton isn't drinking, and the diaries give an interesting insight into the often fear-driven mind of an alcoholic. After months of not drinking, after being warned off by his physicians, Burton, like any self-deluding alcoholic, writes in his diary that he has drinking under his belt. It was sad to witness, after pages of nicely turned-out prose to find just the word 'Booze' repeated for days in a row and to read on helplessly as the entries dwindle to scraps of information about places, and who visited on such and such a day and at such and such a time. The diaries continue fairly scrappily until 1983 and apart from a few months in 1980 never regain their impetus.

Burton is often indiscreet about those he knew. He is sometimes quite rude about people who are temporarily not in his good books; occasionally he enters into a bitter rant and is regularly quite insulting about his enemies. Yet for all his faults, of which he is well aware of and regularly berates himself for, he remains fiercely loyal to friends, family and those he cares about. Others, certainly his wives, were privy to the diaries, so it's possible that these accounts are not always a hundred percent honest. Who knows! However, I am certain the diaries give the keenest insight into the man that we are ever likely to get.

I started reading these diaries as a lifelong fan of the screen persona, but when I finally closed the book, I came away filled with a renewed admiration for the man. And not 'the man he might have been, if only he hadn't...' said in that mean and mealy-mouthed way people often adopt with fallen idols, but truly full of admiration and respect for the warm, loving, flawed, brilliant human being Richard Burton was.

(A word of warning - this book is big! The E-version might be a good idea if you plan reading on your daily commute to work)


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Fathers, Sons and Family Ties

18/6/2013

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PictureFather/Son 1981 and 2011
I try to keep this blog on its toes and do my best to keep the pieces focused and varied; avoiding too many rambles, rants and nostalgia pieces. I suppose this one would probably get classified under the latter heading out of that group - but Father's Day having just passed in a week that finds me again heading for Wales and yet another family funeral can do that to a person!
 
Despite having lived elsewhere for the lion's portion of my life, Wales remains the  place I think of as my spiritual home. My son Tom recently showed a blog I'd written about my late mother to an acquaintance of his who also comes from my town of origin, ie Aberdare in the Cynon Valley. This person went on to show the piece to an old family friend of hers who still continues to live there. Some days later, Tom enthusiastically reported back to me that this elderly gentleman could recall playing football with my father. Dad was thirty-three years old by the time I was born, so his footballing days were already behind him. Being a man of quiet modesty, it was in fact only through the testimonies of others that I found out what a truly superb footballer he'd been. You know how it is, as a teenager when someone whispers in your ear about how talented your father is, you tend to instantly discount it as being nothing more than the ramblings of old men. However, when every single contemporary of your father's goes on for the next forty or so years telling you how fantastically well he played; how, if he'd been born into a different age they have no doubt he'd have given the footballing heroes of later generations, the Bests and Beckhams a good run for their money - I guess you finally start paying
attention!
 
Unfortunately whatever aspirations Dad may have had in the sporting line were disastrously hampered (like a lot of careers for men and women of that generation) by unwanted interference from 'A' list despotic madman, Adolf Hitler. My grandfather had fought in the First World War, while my other Grandad was busy cutting coal underground, and my father joined up for the second because he felt he ought to. However, he wasn't the sort of man who would have gone along with it arbitrarily; he had strong religious convictions and serious doubts about killing his fellow man. Dad's personal opinion of war: "A complete waste of time". I don't think by this that he meant that either of these wars had been necessarily avoidable, just literally that - a waste of time - and of human life of course!
 
My father was always spoken of with great respect by those who knew him best, the  men and women of his own generation. When Dad and his 'gang' had gone off to  war, Mr Morse, the minister at their chapel Ebenezer in Trecynon, who I recall with a faint memory and a warm glow, wouldn't allow anyone for the duration of the war to sit in the upstairs pew where they habitually sat, which remained vacant throughout. If anyone attempted to sit there, Mr Morse would explain, "I'm very sorry but you can't sit there because that's where the boys sit". This line was maintained until the boys came back; and they all did.
 
For a man who left school at fourteen my father was remarkably well-read. He was  naturally sharp-witted and tended to apply a natural psychology when it came to  dealing with his fellow man. Nobody else in the chapel understood why Danny  Johnson's Sunday school class comprising of several of the 'naughtiest boys' was always at full capacity and the best-behaved of all the groups. Years later it was confessed that only the first half of Dad's Sunday school class was devoted to the Bible, the second half being entirely dedicated to football. I can picture the compliance of more than a dozen small boys awaiting that delicious moment when they could give Jeroboam and Nebuchadnezzar the boot, get out their Players' cigarette football cards, arrange them with careful fastidiousness along the communion wine shelf at the back of the pew and get down to some serious business.
 
The chapel, Ebenezer, a place I recently heard described as having been in its  heyday a formidable force in the lives of the people of Trecynon, Aberdare,
is now sadly derelict and up for sale. The funeral service I'm attending this week will be held in what was once its vestry, and which has in recent years become the main place of worship for a dwindling congregation. Dad's cousin Pat (Patricia) had not long turned eighty when she died after a short illness. We called to see her in January and she seemed as fit as a fiddle, and the likelihood of returning for such a purpose seemed many years off. It will fill me with what we Welsh call 'hiraeth' (sort of 'longing' and 'sadness' combined) to attend this funeral.


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Norman Lewis

12/6/2013

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PictureNaples '44 by Norman Lewis
One of the great constants throughout my life has been settling down with a book at bedtime. I occasionally get to gulp down the odd page or two during the day or early evening, but it's generally only at the day's end whilst resting in my bed that allows enough space for any proper literary digestion. As a teenager I'd quite regularly read all night, or drop off to sleep with a book still in my hand - and occasionally I still do (fall asleep with the book that is - if I read all night these days I'd be doing far too accurate an impersonation of a ghost for the next week!). Of course, I'm rarely alone as I partake of this nightly pleasure; alongside me is my life's companion and best reading chum, Judith. Our reading tastes have always differed in many ways, but as a rule, when it comes down to what we both consider to be great writing, we almost always agree.

For the past ten days I've been listening to her chirp and coo like a contented bird on her perch beside me. She has been reading I Came, I Saw, an autobiography of the British writer Norman Lewis. Lewis is probably best remembered these days as a travel writer, however over his long lifetime he also wrote thirteen novels. I've personally never read any of his fictional works, in fact I'm not quite certain any are still in print, but I daresay you'd be able to find them second-hand, and I reckon they would still be worth the effort. Lewis wrote prose with such blinding ease and elegance that he makes you forget you're actually reading. His sentences, free of any surplus fat, are lean but satisfying. I think the best way I could describe his skill is to say that his words somehow always carry backbone and musculature. Cyril Connolly once said of him that he could make a lorry interesting. And the distinguished author Graham Greene had no hesitation in describing him as, "One of the best writers, not of any particular decade, but of our century."

I first discovered him in 2006 when a friend of my son's gave me a copy of what is widely considered to be his finest work, Naples '44, for my birthday. Southern Italy was our holiday destination that year and Naples was somewhere we planned to visit. For an account of the suffering encountered by a starving population in a heavily bombed and devastated city in war-torn Europe, this book takes some beating. Since then I've gone on to read a number of his other works including The Honoured Society (1964), which was serialised in The New Yorker and highly regarded in its day as being the first book to offer any real insight into the Sicilian Mafia. Both these titles and many more are published by Eland.

Norman Lewis was born in 1908 in Enfield, North London. His parents were both Welsh, and Lewis was naturally a shy type. Because of bullying encountered at his Enfield Grammar school, he was sent off to stay with three completely nutty Welsh aunts in Carmarthenshire for a while. He spent much time travelling around the world, and lived for extended periods in various countries. An article of his written for the Sunday Times in 1968, Genocide in Brazil, caused great public outcry and led in turn to the creation of Survival International, dedicated to protecting the rights of 'first peoples'. Norman Lewis died at the age of 95 at his home in Essex in 2003.

Take my word for it, this man is really worth reading.


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The Lift

5/6/2013

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I can't remember whether I've ever mentioned my old college days friend Alessandro before on these pages. He had been studying at UCL while I was just across the road and round the corner at RADA. His family lived then as they probably do now in the city of Palermo, Sicily. I'm not one hundred percent certain exactly how or where we first met. At the pub I think is the most likely location, although it may equally well have been at one of those student parties. It doesn't really matter how it came about; we got on like a house on fire and for the next few terms we were pretty much inseparable. There were of course other friends within our group too, it wasn't an exclusive friendship, but Alessandro and I generally tended to be at the centre of things. This was probably because we shared the same interests: girls, alcohol, girls, theatre, girls, rock music, girls, movies, girls, literature and oh yes, did I mention this - we spent a lot of time thinking about girls!
 
But as inevitably happens, time moves on: I completed my course at RADA and began looking for work as an actor. We kept in contact with each other for a while but it was never quite the same. Eventually we lost touch altogether. A while later, I heard from a friend that Alessandro had returned home to Sicily. Of course, being Sicilian in the seventies, just a few years on from 'The Godfather' movie, had provided his pals with rich pastures for some good natured ribbing. And which Alessandro, fair play to him, always took in his stride. He could give as good as he got in this area and often referred to me as the 'Welsh pit pony'. I must say, I did occasionally wonder how he always had money in his pocket. Like most students by the end of each term I was pretty much skint, subsisting on white sliced bread and peanut butter. However, Alessandro never seemed to 'run dry' as it were. He would come round to see me and when I said I couldn't go out because I had no money, he'd exclaim, "No problem, pit pony, I will buy you a drink!" He rarely talked about his background and I only recall him confiding in me just the once when we were both a little worse for wear about his family. He claimed to be the son of a Sicilian prince, a fact I swallowed (drunk at the time as I was) with a very large pinch
of salt.
 
From time to time over the years I'd thought about him and wondered what he was up to, then last year, due to the marvel of the internet and social media, he sent me a tweet from his Twitter account to mine: 'Bon Giorno, pit pony! I enjoyed Niedermayer & Hart. Ciao!' it said. I knew who it was at once without bothering to analyse his Twitter name. Anyway, to cut a long story short we were back in touch again. We became friends on Facebook and have started to
tweet at each other regularly. Then about a month ago I received a rather opulent looking envelope through the post that bore a lot of unneccessary gold, swirly lettering and with a large ornate crest of some kind on the back. It was an invitation to a cocktail party at a suite at the Ritz hotel in London. The invitation was from Don Alessandro Giuseppe di Corbera. 'Blimey!' I thought, 'It was all the truth!'
 
So  last week I went to visit my old chum. My wife Judith wasn't able to join me unfortunately because she had a very heavy head cold. I took a copy of my new book Roadrage as a gift for Alessandro. The man at reception directed me to the lift and told me which floor to get off  at and how to reach Senor di Corbera's suite from there. I must admit to being very excited at this point. I entered the lift clutching my book under my arm. There was already a passenger in the
lift, a woman but I was so eager to see my friend that I paid her no attention. The doors closed and we started to ascend rapidly only to come to an unusually abrupt and quite shocking stop with a sudden jolt. It wasn't the way I'd imagined the lift at one of London's finest hotels might operate.
 
We seemed to be dangling in mid air for a moment, then the lights went out, but fortunately after a few seconds we were rescued from complete darkness. It was only then, as the light returned, that I noticed my companion was the famous chat show host Oprah Winfrey.
 
"This ever happen to you before?" she asked.
 
"Sorry?" I replied, feeling a bit flummoxed by her remark and rather disorientated by her presence.
 
"Ever been trapped in an elevator before?" she elucidated.
 
"No never," I replied.
 
"That's good to know," she smiled, "If I knew I was stuck in an elevator with some kind of Jonah, I'd consider panicking."
 
Just then the telephone rang. Still flummoxed, I looked all round trying to locate the thing. Miss Winfrey pointed out the small steel door in the lift wall right next to my shoulder marked 'Telephone'. "Ah, yes, I see," I said sheepishly.
 
I listened as the nice man from reception assured me they would be getting their maintenance team onto the problem right away. However it might possibly take half an hour.
 
When I explained what I'd just been told, Miss Winfrey casually slid down the smooth lift wall and sat on the floor,"May as well get comfortable," she said.
 
I parked myself on the floor alongside her.
 
"What's that you're holding?" she asked.
 
"It's a book ... Roadrage ... for a friend," I said.
 
"Any good?" she asked.
 
"I hope so!" I said.
 
"Why, you write the thing or something?" she asked.
 
I nodded.
 
"Say, you didn't sabotage the elevator, like Cathy Bates in that Stephen King book?"
 
I was horrified by the suggestion and shook my head vigorously, "Er, no. 'Course not."
 
"Mind if I take a look?" she chuckled.
 
"Er, no, not at all, " I said, immediately handing over the copy.
 
The man from reception rang about twenty minutes later, and Oprah Winfrey barely looked up when I relayed the bad news and conveyed his profuse apologies that the problem might possibly take a couple of hours to resolve. From then on he tended to ring every half an hour or so to give us little updates on any  progress that had been made in securing our release.
 
At first Miss Winfrey looked only a little annoyed by his interruptions to her reading, but as she neared the book's denouement she waved the back of her hand irritably at the phone when it rang and said, "Tell that guy to stop annoying people!"
 
Shortly after this, and roughly three hours after we'd first been trapped together, Miss Winfrey closed the book and smiled, "Congratulations," she said, before adding, "Say, do you know that back home I run a book club?"
 
I nodded and answered with some diffidence that I did.
 
"Well when I get back home this book is going to be my b...."
 
I wondered why her words faded at that moment and her voice was suddenly replaced by my wife's, "Oh, Mart, that cup of tea I left on your desk has gone cold!"
 
"Huh?" I looked around confusedly.
 
"What on earth have you been doing? Staring out the window, letting cups of tea go cold! I thought you were writing a letter to the bank?
 
"Oh yes, the letter to the bank ..."
 
"You were far away ... what were you thinking about anyhow?"
 
"Oh, oh, nothing," I fibbed.
 
Tapocketa ... Tapocketa ... Tapocketa ....

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