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A Late Night Visit From Christopher Plummer
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The Sound of Music star’s rich new memoir, and the author’s encounter with him through a peephole many years ago.
The best way to introduce Christopher Plummer’s memoir, In Spite of Myself, is with a theatrical story: many years ago, when I was teenager, I once spent a summer on a yacht in the company of Vivien Leigh and a number of other famous theater people, guests of my Uncle Alex. Apart from falling in calf sick love with Vivien Leigh, the cruise through the Mediterranean sticks in my mind most because when we anchored and went on shore at Calvi, in Corsica, we sat down to lunch at a waterfront café, a large, noisy, glamorous party of at least ten people, all drinking lots of wine. I seem to remember that it included, apart from Vivien, Lillian Hellman, Carol Reed, and his wife, the actress Penelope Dudley-Ward. A pair of elderly English ladies at an adjoining table stared at us disapprovingly. When Vivien had had a few drinks, she not only told bawdy theatrical stories at the top of her voice, but had a laugh which could be heard from one side of the harbor (not just Calvi, but any harbor) to the other, and one of the elderly ladies clearly complained about it to the other. “Pay no attention, dear,” her companion said, glaring at Vivien. “They’re only theatricals.”
John Gielgud, in a moment of mild rebuke, greeted Plummer by saying, “Ah, Christopher, and how are you, in your own small way?”
Well, “theatricals” could very well have been the title of Christopher Plummer’s splendid, lively memoir, and for that matter a fair description of his life and personality. Plummer has written an immensely satisfying memoir, of rare grace, good humor, and unapologetic self-honesty.
Being the son of one British actress (Gertrude Musgrove) and the nephew of two others (Merle Oberon and Joan Gardner), I have always had a taste for theatrical memoirs, and published many a one in my day, including two by Vivien Leigh’s ex-husband, Laurence Olivier. The smell of grease paint, stories about a youth spent in theatrical boarding houses on tour, anecdotes about other actors, famous, infamous, or not famous at all, but beloved by other actors, have always appealed to me, and despite the best efforts of Dick Snyder, then the boss of Simon and Schuster, and the entire Simon and Schuster sales force, I was seldom able to resist a good theater memoir.
If Sonny Mehta, at Knopf, had not been quicker off the mark, I might have published Christopher Plummer’s memoir, which, as rich as a Christmas pudding, fairly drips wonderful theatrical nostalgia and anecdotes, familiar names and memorable performances. Also, like Larry Olivier, the man clearly wrote the book himself, without the help of a ghost, or indeed of any censorious editor to say, “Cut this bit out, nobody has ever heard of these people.” Plummer’s book is chockablock with a lifetime’s worth of good stories, interesting people and memorable performances, the distillation of a great career, and, I would guess, a great life. In tact and generosity of spirit, it is the very model of what a memoir should be.
Some people might say that the first 83 pages devoted to Plummer’s family, childhood and youth, in Canada, could have been cut a bit (in fact my wife Margaret said exactly that). But this was balanced out for me by the mention of such thespians, great and small, some of whom I knew, but all of them no longer great names to the modern public: Edward Everett Horton, Hume Cronyn (whose memoir I published), Kit Cornell, Judith Anderson, Eileen Herlie, Donald Wolfit, Eva Leonard-Boyne, Margery Maude, and, well, I could go on and on.
Nobody tells a better theatrical story, or more of them, than Plummer (well, almost nobody, John Gielgud was in a class by himself, and Plummer has three great Gielgud stories). A good example from the hundreds in this book is the one about John Emerey, the actor who was married to Tallulah Bankhead, who at one point informed him in the marital bed, “I don’t go down anymore, dahling; it gives me claustrophobia,” and sometimes showed her indifference to his amorous advances by singeing the tips of her pubic hairs with a lighted match.
The other thing is that Plummer’s childhood—he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth in Canada—is very interesting. I liked the bits about upper-crust Canada (whoever knew there was such a thing as an upper-crust Canada?), and the revelation that so many of the theater names that we think of as American are in fact Canadian. Whether about his own family or others, Plummer is above all a great storyteller. Again and again, his stories bring tears of recognition to my eyes, whether it is the legless British air ace Douglas Bader who, while Plummer was working on the film The Battle of Britain, stove in Plummer’s Mercedes with his metal crutches, shouting, “Get the filthy Kraut car out of here!”, or his care in London at the hands of the gifted and eccentric Dr. Tibor Csato, our family doctor, a Hungarian who always had the most beautiful nurses who cooked his lunch for him in the sterilizing trays. Plummer is discreet about his marriages, but that’s not a bad thing—I don’t like memoirs in which the writer uses the book to get his or her own back against ex-spouses. However, he is always deliciously indiscreet, and often very funny, about everyone in show business. He can tell a good story against himself, too, my favorite being that of John Gielgud, in a moment of mild rebuke, greeting him by saying, “Ah, Christopher, and how are you, in your own small way?”
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Lloyd Grove is editor at large for The Daily Beast. He is also a frequent contributor to New York magazine and was a contributing editor for Condé Nast Portfolio. He wrote a gossip column for the New York Daily News from 2003 to 2006. Prior to that, he wrote the Reliable Source column for the Washington Post, where he spent 23 years covering politics, the media, and other subjects.
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My God....the author of this article talks more about himeself than his subject! Talk about a narcissist. Who cares about his childhood and 'connections' via family to the actors mentioned or what books he published? Does he feel this makes him more qualified to review Plummer's book? It doesn't. Plummer's career and memories are more than enough to make this a read many will want to partake of.
Mr. Korda,
In spite of yourself, it seems you managed to mention in your "review" that Christopher Plummer has penned a memoir. Though it also appeared that you were attempting to out-memoir him in doing so. You might have saved yourself a good deal of effort if you'd just written "Chris Plummer (as I've always known him) has written a book. Now, let's talk about me..."
I couldn't agree more. This bit - "I may have been on leave from the R. A. F. or on vacation from Oxford" - actually made me laugh out loud. It's narcissism at its most comical. I love Christopher Plummer and was looking forward to reading this review until I realized it was a puff piece (filled with information that couldn't be less interesting or relevant) by Korda FOR Korda. Embarassing.
I respectfully disagree. A publisher is relating his reaction to a memoir by one of my favorite actors in the last half of the twentieth century into the first decade of the next. I knew nothing of the man Plummer until I read this piece. Thank you for this. Calling this Insightful is not hyperbole.
I read with fascination the passage "being the son of one British actress (Gertrude Musgrove) and the nephew of two others..." since I thought I had learned something about Christopher Plummer. Certainly, it would make sense if Plummer had a provenance of British actresses since the man has always excelled at Shakespeare. This fascination on my part was only fleeting however since I quickly realized that Mr. Korda was talking about himself, again. In fact, he was only warming up the self-aggrandizement express, fine-tuning his pomposity. As with all narcissists, Korda is most certainly reading these comments to see what others say of him and so to Mr. Korda, who may "respectfully disagree", I say that Christopher Plummer is an international superstar and you sir are not so perhaps your review should reflect as much.
Actually, I found Michael Korda's connection to the actors, including Plummer, quite fascinating... of course, I love all biographies and autobiographies, as much as for what the DON'T say, as for what they do say... now, I must go to Wikipedia and read Mr Korda's biography!
Mr Korda: One more comment: wow, you have had quite an amazing life, haven't you! I read the Wikipedia bio, and now, I have to look at all YOUR books! Glad to hear you survived cancer (me too, only non-hodgkins lymphoma... almost dying puts life in perspective, doesn't it?)... Your son involved with the bizarre Church of Euthanasia? Oh well, kids are what they are (my five-- four boys and one girl-- have become decent adults, though I take no credit). And death? After one faces one's own death, then life becomes beautiful and amazing and precious... I know it's a cliche, but so true: "Every day is a gift". regards to you and your family, jeff zekas, susanville, california usa.......
Whether you like the review or not...the memoir itself is indeed wonderful. I happened to stumble onto it a few days ago, am almost done reading it and wish it were longer. I'm a voracious reader of theatrical memoirs, though most of them are not terribly well written. Plummer's is swift, witty, generous-spirited, smart and hugely entertaining.
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As a 14-year-old schoolgirl, I laughed, I cried, and was generally all-shook-up watching Christopher Plummer in the Boston run of the Broadway musical Cyrano (with a smart book and amazing lyrics by Anthony Burgess). Having seen the great Jose Ferrer film on TV, I thought that I'd already done Cyrano, but the tickets were a gift, so I went.
Of course, Plummer was beyond incredible -- just a heartfelt go-for-broke romantic performance. From his swordfighting to his wonderful talk-singing, he played the be-jesus out of Cyrano. Just this shimmering curtain of wordplay, style, and emotion. Big nose bedammed, he had me longing to step on that stage, and dope slap Roxanne.
When the Cyrano cast album came out, I tracked it down and played it until the LP was just too worn from use 20-plus years later. I can still hear his dying gasp as Cyrano in my head...."my great white plume....my PANACHE ." Hope that show is on film or DVD somewhere -- I'd so love to see it again -- along with Plummer's astonishing, slithering performance as the Inca god-emperor-alien in Royal Hunt of the Sun.
Definitely doing a Barnes & Noble run tomorrow to get Plummer's book -- it really sounds terrific. I also enjoyed Korda's take -- and that quick peephole view.
Korda's memoirs about Plummer's memoirs were wonderful. Sounds like a great read and a good gift!
After all these years in publishing, how is it that the distinguished Mr. Korda has not learned how to spell "discreet" and "indiscreet"?
Korda should know the difference between discreet and discrete. Once is an oversight. Twice is ignorance. Ditto to the editor of this site.
Someone snuck in and wrote a satire of Korda's most stuffed-shirt prolixity, about his mother (please!), his aunts, his pedigree, his college, his wife, his ignorance about Canada, his own dull theatrical stories that one assumes Plummer tops in every way: why was this review published, other than that Korda's a pal of Tina Brown? We seem to have too many of these dull space-wasters at The Beast. It's already getting tired, with these retreads. Written for and by a very, very small circle of narcissists. This site won't last long if it keeps going in the same vein.
What a lovely piece. My brush with Plummer was not nearly so close to home, but was at least indicative of the manner and deportment of we Canadians.
Some years ago, at Kennedy Airport, waiting for baggage from a British Airways flight from London, the BA greeter, who I had come to know, mentioned that Plummer was on the same flight, also waiting for his bags and would I Iike to meet him? I said that would be nice, but I really wouldn't want to disturb him. Whereupon the BA man collapsed with laughter.
"what's so funny says I?"
"You Canadians," he said," Do you know what Plummer said when I asked him if he'd like to meet you? He said: "that would be nice, but I wouldn't want to disturb him"
Years later when we actually met, he recalled the incident with great over-the-top thespian excess, that we northern blokes use to cover our introvert nature.
He is a magnificent actor, His 'Barrymore' was a remarkable one-man performance and his Iago made one wonder why Shakespeare didn't call his play Iago. Poor James Earl Jones was a victim of Grand Theft...Othello was reduced to an extra..
Keep up the good work for The Beast and your other multifarious endeavors.
Best, Morley Safer
Another Canadian heard from.... Why would Mr. Korda be surprised that there is a Canadian "upper crust?" Doesn't every country have one?
I have admired Christpher Plummer over the years and look forward to reading his book. I was not at all offended by Michael Korda's personal stories-- having enjoyed a number of his lively memoirs. This private slant is part of what makes "The Daily Beast" so rewarding.
Thank you.
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