Sir John Gielgud directed the play of Twelfth Night which starred Vivien Leigh and her husband Laurence Olivier.
Leigh was a manic depressive but Gielgud didn’t know how to work with that. Here’s something he wrote in his diary about entering the job of director of the play
Perhaps I will still make a good thing of that divine play, especially if he will let me pull her little ladyship (who is brainier than he but not a born actress) out of her timidity and safeness. He dares too confidently … but she hardly dares at all and is terrified of overreaching her technique and doing anything that she has not killed the spontaneity of by overpractice.
Maybe her OCD lead her to that terrible sin of overpractice?
Since when is being prepared – or in this case over-prepared a bad thing?
When it infringes on the magical moments when freestyling and improvising, even when rocking the eternal words of The Bard.
As I approach my 560th birthday i have been thinking about writing an autobiography, a memoir of sorts.
I feel like I’ve finally lived enough of a life to have some interesting tales to tell and I’ve learned a few valuable lessons.
But the thing that keeps holding me back are the thoughts I have about some of the influential people of my life.
Gielgud’s criticism of the two-time Oscar winner is fantastic. Who knew people thought that way, especially about her? But we’d never have that realization, especially today, if he hadn’t thrown her under the bus, in a way and wrote honestly in his own autobio.
Any good bio has heavy doses of sex drugs and rock n roll and my first inclination is to write it and tuck it away somewhere until my death when it will be unearthed.
But the problem with that is what if it’s misunderstood? Who would be around to set the record straight?
What if it became a hit? Who would go on the book tour?
Maybe I’m just as troubled as poor Scarlet. Doubt it. Maybe I should just wait to bust with it when I’m 600 and say fuck it here it is.