In Spite of Myself

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“For anyone who loves, loves, loves the theater, not to mention the vanished New York of the 1950s and ‘60s. . . a finely observed, deeply felt (and deeply dishy) time-traveling escape worthy of a long stormy weekend. Just grab a quilt and a stack of pillows. No need for a delectable assortment of bonbons. They’re in the book. . . In spite of himself–his relentlessly high artistic principles; his penchant for playing the underdog, even when he was the star; his keen ear equally attuned to the precision of Elizabethan verse and to what passes as truth across a whiskey at 5 a.m. . . . this man has experienced a life rich in textures, and he is able to give most of them glorious voice. His is a life in the theater lived hard and true, in the grand tradition of those distinguished players who went before, whom he surely made proud. Good sir! I raise my glass to you.”

—Alex Witchel, The New York Times Book Review

“A staggering parade of theater-world luminaries struts, swaggers and, yes, occasionally staggers through this compulsively readable memoir. . . Mr. Plummer seems to have worked with just about everyone imaginable–Ruth Chatterton and Katherine Cornell, Jason Robards and Laurence Olivier, Julie Harris and Judith Anderson, Tyrone Guthrie and Edward Everett Horton (!) – and he has a tasty anecdote about onstage, backstage or drinking-hole doings about every single one of them.”

—Charles Isherwood, The New York Times

“ [A] splendid, lively memoir, and for that matter a fair description of his life and personality… An immensely satisfying memoir, of rare grace, good humor, and unapologetic self-honesty…. as rich as a Christmas pudding… 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….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)…Plummer is above all a great storyteller…always deliciously indiscrete, and often very funny…I read every page of his book with interest, pleasure, an occasional tear, and many rich guffaws: it is, frankly, a treat, not only for its theatrical stories, but also because Plummer is that rarest of actors, intelligent, thoughtful, hard-working, talented, imaginative, generous, dedicated to his craft, and occasionally struck by spark of thespian genius. . . Anyone who still loves the theater will love every page of it.”

—Michael Korda, The Daily Beast

“[A] fascinating memoir…The book records so many trysts, pratfalls, drunken evenings–and afternoons–that it’s amazing he has survived… amply shows how Mr. Plummer has managed a long, successful career in spite of himself...”

—The Wall Street Journal

“An enjoyable read, packed with anecdotes and amusing stories…this belongs on any library’s film or theater shelves.”

—Booklist

“A veteran actor of stage and screen rehearses his long personal and professional life, often with humor, rarely with rancor…revealing and charming.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“An enchanting observer of the showbiz cavalcade, drawing vivid thumbnails of everyone from Laurence Olivier to Lenny Bruce and tossing off witty anecdotes like the most effortless ad libs. The result - a sparkling star turn from a born raconteur for whom all the world is indeed a stage.”

—Publishers Weekly

作者簡介

Christopher Plummer was born in Toronto, Ontario. He has acted in more than a hundred feature films, and, in addition to performing leading roles with the Royal Shakespeare Company, he has starred in Great Britain’s National Theatre, the Stratford Festival of Canada, and sixteen Broadway plays. He has been nominated for seven Tony Awards and won twice for Best Actor for Barrymore and Cyrano. He lives in Connecticut.

文摘

CHAPTER ONE

I was brought up by an Airedale. I won’t deny it, ’tis the truth and nothing but, Your Honour—a bumbling, oversized shaggy great Airedale. The earliest memory I have of anything resembling a pater familia, bouncer, male-nurse or God is that dear slobbering old Airedale. My sword, my lance, my shield, he never failed to stand at the ready to rescue me from all my early Moriarties! Wherever I happened to be—on the floor, in my bath or on the potty, there— looming above me, panting heavily, one large, drooling Airedale reporting for duty, sir! If I went for a ride in my little cart, I would look away and pretend there was no one there at all and then when I did look back, of course he was there. He was always there padding along beside me—how could I miss him? He was my only horizon— he filled the sky. Like Romulus or Remus, I was his cub and he was my Wolf of Rome. His name was Byng.

He was christened after another shaggy old Airedale, Field Marshal Lord Byng of Vimy, whom my grandparents had known when he was governor general; and also for the very good reason that if any of our household showed guts enough to sit down to tea or play a hand at bridge, the day’s calm would invariably become a stormy séance as tables, taking on a life of their own, began to shake violently and with one quick loud explosion, Bing! they would catapult themselves ceiling-ward as teapots, cups, toast, crumpets, cards and markers flew madly across the room! My canine patron had, quite simply, decided to rise.

But I like Byng, my dog, because

He doesn’t know how to behave

So Byng’s the same as the First Friend was

And I am the Man in the Cave

(Apologies to Kipling)

Nothing ever came between us—Your Honour—nothing—he was my world; I knew no other. Until one day, one sobering day, the spell was broken when a meddling family friend pointed out to me that the nice tall lady pushing my pram was my mother.

Mummies and dogs! You can beat ’em, kick ’em, treat ’em as shabbily as you like—they will eternally forgive you and still come back for more. Such degree of devotion is as hard to grasp as it is unshakable. Being a child, I had no comprehension of it. It embarrassed me. I regularly ran away from it; in fact, I still do.

I didn’t throw myself into the struggle for life—

I threw my mother into it.

—g. b. shaw

I came into the world that monster of infant monsters, who can clear a room more swiftly than a Sherman tank; that very monster which causes fear, dread, revulsion to seal the lips of those that dare to speak its name—The Only Child! And being an only child I was more than frequently left on my own. Can you blame ’em?! A little boy’s mind can play some pretty macabre tricks on itself. I was so damned terrified of the dark that Mother had to sing me to sleep, snatches of old French songs she particularly loved.

Chante, rossignol, chante,

Toi qui as le coeur gai

Il y a longtemps que je t’aime,

Jamais, je ne t’oublierai.

But the terror never left. It stayed through all the early years. Because of books, which Mother insisted I read, my imagination began to take over, and the long winters gave one so much time to dream up horrors. My grandparents’ tall, forbidding house in the city could be pretty ominous, full of dark corners to jump out of and scare yourself to death. Every time I tried to rob my grandfather’s overcoat pocket of change so I could sneak downtown to Ben’s delicatessen for a smoked-meat sandwich and a Coke, some sudden sound would force me to drop everything and run like hell. My room was on the very top floor and in the middle of the night I would steal from my bed and sit shivering on the uppermost step, clinging tight to old Byng, staring down into the center of the long circular staircase, down into that black hole, that bottomless pit, and wait—wait for “them,” whoever “they” were, to climb up and get us.

Every spring we moved to the country. Lingering in the city after school, I generally took one of the late-night trains. As they never knew when I’d arrive, there was no family car to meet me and I was obliged to walk the long way home. When finally I reached our gate, I was tired and hungry but there was still some distance to go. Our driveway from the gate to the house was at least a half-mile long—it was always dark—no streetlamps lit the way. The first portion of the drive was long and straight but suddenly it dipped precipitously and turned a sharp corner. It was next to impossible to see. I could only feel my way and would invariably slip and fall on the loose gravel.

The drive resumed, snaking along by a deep swamp to my left near the edge of the lake. The dense woods which made the darkness even more impenetrable gave out a dank fenlike smell. I kept glancing behind as I hurried along but there was never anyone following me. To gain confidence I tried singing, but the sound of my voice was more sinister than the darkness itself, so I quickly gave up. A faint light glowed from the fields to my right and more than once I was sure that I saw, lit by a young moon, a still, solitary figure standing there. I bolted the rest of the way up the hill and it wasn’t till I reached the top and could see, through the eight tall poplars the lights from the house beyond, that my heart stopped pounding.

Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,

And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;

And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—

He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear.

—RUDYARD KIPLING

More than once in the mountains north of the city, snowshoeing in the woods, I would lose my way. Night fell and I’d stop and stand dead still listening to the wind. The ice-bound trees cracked and rattled like the bones of skeletons. I was sure I would freeze to death. I started to cry and the tears froze against my face—little icicles hanging from my eyelids. The wind was stronger now and began to moan and howl through the tops of the pines, a sad and terrifying sound. I was certain at any moment I would be snatched up by that Spirit that hovers high above the trees the half-breeds talk of—that carries you away into the sky at such frightening speed that you burn alive. And so the energy that imagination generates warmed me, and at last, I could concentrate and find my bearings.

In the snow-covered city, I would ski from the top of Mount Royal down its winding trails past the great stone wall surrounding an estate called Raven’scrag and onto our street, Pine Avenue. Often Mother would join me on her skis, but she also loved taking walks up those same trails. Frequently alone, as her selfish wayward son had less and less time for Mummy, she very seldom wore an overcoat even on the most frigid day, just a heavy tweed suit, thick brogues and flowing scarf. Very thirties, very smart, very brave! One late afternoon as I whirled down the hill full speed along by Raven’scrag’s wall, I saw her coming up toward me on foot. I waved at her as I whisked past and out of the corner of my eye I saw her wave back. When I reached the bottom I looked around, but to my astonishment there was no one there, just an empty hill. I climbed up the trail again on my skis; how could she have disappeared so quickly? Was she behind the wall? But there was no door, hole or space into which she could have vanished. Had my eyes deceived me? Had I seen her at all? I kept still and listened for footsteps on the hard crust—there was nothing but silence. The sun dipped behind the mountain and a chill set my teeth chattering. I turned and skied the rest of the way home faster than I had ever made it before.

AS A FAMILY we were knee-deep in dogs—Canines Unlimited. That was all right by me. I adored them all. But to one in particular, a long- suffering cocker spaniel called Scampy, I am ashamed to say I was rather cruel. We played “power games” together, instigated by me, of course, and I caused him to suffer a bit, I’m afraid—just the sort of tricks a lonely, spoiled-brat child with too much time on his hands might play. Until one day I saw something that made me swear that I would never ever hurt an animal of any kind again.

It was dead winter in Montreal, an uncomfortable cold, the roads treacherous, icy—almost impassable—no traffic to speak of. I was staring out of our living room bay window onto the streets below. The familiar little horse-drawn cart carrying coal came clattering with difficulty up the steep hill. The same horse, the same old man that had made this trip together winter after winter since time began. The ancient horse, now almost all bones, was faithfully struggling to reach the summit—the old man urging him on with his whip. But the hooves could not get a grip on the ice. The horse bravely kept up the struggle, slipping backwards as he went. The old man, beside himself, gave the poor nag a severe lashing—but in vain—the horse stopped. He could move no longer. One last lash of the whip proved too much. His heart cracked as he sagged to the ground between the halters. It began to snow. Something heaved inside me—I ran from the window to hide and when I returned I looked down and the old man, his livelihood gone forever, was sitting in the middle of the road cradling the horse’s head in his arms—rocking back and forth in silent grief as the big gentle flakes began to cover everything beneath them in a warm soft blessing.

There’s an island deep down in my sleep

A lost land I long to find

But I wake ’ere I reach the island

So it must only live i...

In Spite of Myself

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